in time— a stream of consciousness
Hello, hello, wherever you are. I’ve had this website up and running for some time now, but I let myself become busy with things that I am not terribly interested in rather than things that I am terribly interested in. So it goes.
I’m only two-ish months out from graduating college with a BFA in Fine Art Photography and I am finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I haven’t had the opportunity to focus my attention on a frivolous artistic pursuit since… ever? In fairness, by the time I started taking art seriously enough to merit an artistic pursuit of any kind, I was knee-deep in the throes of the scholastic art. This semester, I’ve been working on an independent study in Art History and putting my senior capstone project together. In just three weeks, I will get to fill a gallery — a milestone I’ve been looking forward to for the past four years.
This body of work is about transition— both in the short term and the long term. It is a collection of portraits of passersby, images of empty spaces littered with signs of life, and found phrases that I could have sworn came from a quiet place inside.
I began working on this project back in January; after eight months of ruminating and shooting and writing, I found myself intrigued by the idea of necessary leisure. Transition as it relates to day-to-day proceedings as well as transition in a broader sense, relating to stages of one’s life— both must be experienced with acceptance. It is something that you succumb to. For the better part of this year, I set out to capture and convey my point of view amid these cycles.
In my daily comings and goings, I began to move through the world with sharper awareness; I indulged my curiosity and really took noticing seriously. Before now, I’d felt such ownership over my experiences, emotions, and desires. It all felt wholly unique until I took a look around me. I saw phrases and fragments written on signs, on poles, on the sides of buildings, on busses, on doors— all over the world around me; everywhere I turned, I was confronted by words that mirrored thoughts of mine, both brand new as well as some that I had walked with for some time— raw pieces of myself seeping through messages left behind by perfect strangers. Surely I had been the only one to feel such longing. Such depravity. Such joy. Such sorrow.
How could anyone share the same soft spots?
What freedom it brings— feeling seen.
My plate has never been as full as it is now. I used to have all this time to sit around and think. Nowadays, the best I can do is shuffle through a few ideas on my drive to work, filing them away to be revisited on a rainy day. When I am awarded a few spare moments to exist in the in-between— traveling to or from— I can go on autopilot to sit with my thoughts; I can observe them in their fullness. Whether it is by way of internal monologue or active observation, our ideas materialize and manifest. It matters not whether I choose to spend that time sifting through all that is on my mind or reading every wall I walk past. Something will bubble to the surface either way.
Once I had ideas about this internal experience— my internal experience, anyway, I began to question the general conventions of this liminality. I thought of all that comes together, ebbing and flowing, filling space, enriching our yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows. I thought about all of the cycles and routines being carried out each day despite us not being privy to them; coffee shop regulars, a stranger at their usual train stop, opening shifts starting, etc. Somewhere in there, we fall in line with all that surrounds us. We drive to work or run an errand or what have you, operating in tandem with the rhythm of the mundane. Is it some sort of flow state? Are we clued into some sense of a collective consciousness? Who conducts this symphony? Tsk tsk.
Eleven months later, all that is left to do is print, mat, and mount. I am still sitting with these thoughts; I think I will for a while. Alas, this is what I have for now— I hope we will talk soon. There is so much more to say.
With all my love,
K.
