Hi Donna,
This is a sample of a work still in process. It is currently my work translating from imagery to book spreads and then working some of the book spreads back into diptychs or they could single images in sequence..still working that out. I am showing you both the book and print imagery because it gives you a more profound sense of the project overall. (Obviously, not all the images in a book would be on exhibition….just too many.)
Also, the two people that I mentioned to you are people who have bodies of work in the same vein as this…about working through a period where life handed you lemons and you have no choice but to find your way to the other side.
The first, Nicole Campanello, is based in Houston. She and I have talked about doing proposals for a show together with these specific bodies of work. Hers is located here: https://www.nicolecampanello.com/interim
The second, Alexandra Defurio, is a CA photographer I met when I did reviews for LACP in Sept. Her two series, January and Fault Line, are in the same vein. She and I have never talked about exhibiting together. She was on my mind because I just wrote about her work for The Female Gaze at Frames this week. That article is here: https://readframes.com/the-female-gaze-alexandra-defurio-trusting-the-process-by-diana-nicholette-jeon/ and the work is here- January:
STATEMENT:
I did not intend to return so soon to this moana kupikipiki’o
that place of saltwater bruises
(if spring were a dream, it would be snowing here by now)
where nowhere is your voice whispering
(so i cry out your name)
I fall again at the edge of the green salt abyss
looking out into nothing
I no longer chase my cellophane illusions
and there is no air to breathe left in the universe
I hold my face in my hands
(as if i were a fruit, ready to slice open)
your voice ravages scarlet words upon my brain
(the silence of everlasting noise)
it cuts through my sweet mango flesh
(it bled when you said that final “goodbye”)
the clouds in the turgid sky
(pecking at a sun that can never warm me again)
coagulate at the sadness of my imploring voice
(not silent like the rain)
and once again i begin counting the raindrops that flow from my face
the gods hear my cries at night
my shimmering tears answered by their own silent mist
(i was afraid of nothing before)
but then your red sky screamed “who?” in a lightning voice
(i am afraid of everything now)
i returned to the safe water harbor
where i watched as the hibiscus blooms gushed from my soul
(death is the end and the beginning of life)
trees still dance in the nostalgic wood
(for unlike me, they have not been abandoned)
These images depict a poignant visual odyssey of a life shattered by a husband's profound and unexpected betrayal; one that destroys the intricate web of self-assurance and emotional equilibrium. Amidst the shadows of isolation, time becomes endless, and smothering.
For a season of 860 days, my husband left–me, our son, our home–for another woman. I felt as if I was sitting on the banks of Acheron, the River of Lost Souls, awaiting my healing and my husband's 'return from the underworld.'
Suddenly, I was steeped in the palpable unknowability of a new normal that was entirely abnormal. Shielding my child from the turbulent aftermath while navigating terrain akin to a rollercoaster ride that I had never stood in line for seemed impossible. The void in my life was as debilitating as an unexpected amputation, equally impossible to ignore.
Harsh breakaways followed moments of seeming reunion; the ride left me feeling I was hanging off the back of the coaster by my fingernails. I felt utterly alone, that no one understood, that the pain would never stop. There was no beginning, middle, or end; there just 'was.'
Elliott Erwin said, "To me, photography is an art of observation. It's about finding something interesting in an ordinary place... I've found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them." For me, it's about the way I experience things and, how I translate my experiences into an image.
Consciously reliving this experience to make this work is both difficult and cathartic—a profound journey of a harrowing past, a bittersweet act of peeling back layers of pain, and an avenue for solace and communion. Through this work, I heal my fractured self and extend a lifeline to those navigating parallel paths of debilitating and unexpected sorrow, whispering that they are not alone in their anguish.
