Welcome to In the Flash, a reader-supported publication about intent and creativity in photography
My photography has never been personal. It has functioned as a shield to a cornucopia of goblins — obsessions, fears, and insecurities, all hiding behind a curious but detached exploration of the space around me. I have become a cultural voyeur, able to translate the behavioral and emotional nuances of strangers into visual stories. Everything that I photograph resonates in a personal way, but my photos have always served as a deflection rather than a confession. They have never been vulnerable.
The artist statement for Meatpacking, a series that I worked on for 3 years, describes it as an exploration of after-dark courtship rituals in the nightlife capital of New York City. But what propelled me to walk, night after night, behind groups of young women in stilettos, was the pervasive anxiety of entering my mid-30’s. I turned myself invisible as I sought out the rush of beautiful strangers being desired. Dressed down in army pants and sneakers, I would photograph men whose gazes were so focused on their target that I could stand just a few feet away without being noticed. Few traces of the masochistic self-therapy exist in the final images, but every one of my projects has been driven by a similar desire to get away from my most vicious goblins.
The wish to be more personal in my photography has haunted me for years. With writing, I finally found a loophole. Launching this newsletter, I noticed with great surprise, that the vulnerability eluding me in photography comes naturally in my writing. I am able to communicate the same intimate thoughts and emotions in a way that escapes me when I pick up the camera. But it wasn’t always this way.
My interest in photography started at 22, after I graduated from NYU with a degree in psychology and aspirations to be a doctor, only to realize that I didn’t want to go to med school. As I was wobbling around doing nothing, my mom gifted me my first camera, a digital Nikon with a feature that jumpstarted my interest in photography — it swiveled. I could turn both the lens and the screen towards myself in what was a perfect selfie design, way ahead of its time. I have spent all teenage years avoiding being photographed and hating every image taken of me. Suddenly, the swivel of the camera presented an opportunity. Over the next year, I took thousands of photos of myself, learning how to photograph in the process. In essence, my career in photography has been the byproduct of narcissism.
Those first portraits were both uninteresting and self-indulgent. But they were bold in their desire to tell personal stories. Getting good in photography came at a cost. When I made the transition from amateur to wannabe pro, my teenage self-consciousness made a triumphant comeback. A fear of being scrutinized and exposed made my work less and less personal. As I gained control over the camera, the narrative turned from self-revelation to a voyeuristic pursuit of exposing the behavior of others. The photos became foolproof, contained within rigid boundaries that prevented any leaks of vulnerability.
Though I have made my own work into a sealed piece of armor, I have always admired and secretly envied photographers like Elinor Carruci who are able to tackle intimate issues head-on and leave nothing off-limits. But getting back to that space felt impossible. The newsletter facilitated the first possibility of change. I began to write propelled by a quiet desperation of reaching an invisible dead-end with photography. Themes and photos started repeating themselves, moving further away from a place of uncertainty and excitement. In writing, I found it once again. A lack of fear with which I confront personal thoughts in this newsletter is coupled with a rush of adrenalin every time I press “send.” My aspiration is to do the same with photography and to untether the work from constraints of cynicism and detachment. The one romantic notion I hold about art is that the only way to move forward is to have one foot on the edge of a precipice.
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"Writing, however, is a space to confront rather than to distract."
I feel this in my bones.
One is lucky to have obsessions, fears, and insecurities, and I would add a desire for learning, as they are wonderful motivators! Thanks for another beautiful post!