Petticoats

A photographic study of body language.... 

and innocence...

and sensuality.

Waiting for your return

The spaces in between light and shadow

The waltz of my wandering imagination

Discretion?

We have the ability to communicate so much, while saying so little.

I notice that I am typically drawn to the same themes again and again in my work.  Perhaps you have noticed that too (I am sure you have, perceptive reader).  Body language, particularly the way we speak with our legs fascinates me.  Typically one thinks of legs in terms of the actions they perform, walking, running, climbing stairs, dancing, crossing and uncrossing as we sit, stretching out as we lie down.  In each of these movements, in the way they are executed, in the deliberate movements and pauses, in the contracting of muscles, in the angles of the body, there is communication.  Sometimes we express a need for movement, a need for space, a need to get something done.  Other times, we express a need to be touched, a need for tenderness, a need for connection in the form of gentle invitation.

These photos also explore an innocent material, white cotton lace, and play up the sensuality of this timeless, ultimately feminine material against bare skin.  And legs, with their long lines, their musculature, their graceful curves, are inherently sensual.  Both sexes fall a pair of lovely legs.  In these photos, deliberate use of light and shadow along with processing in black and white, heavily vignetted and contrasted, serve to reinforce the femininity and the sensuality of the poses, while adding a little dose of mystery.

Sometimes the most effective way to communicate is to simply say nothing at all. 

Until next time...

Anne

 

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When Angels Fall

 Perhaps it is the time of the year.  The grey skies, the rainy days, the leaves blowing across the landscape... Autumn always puts me into a reflective, introspective mood.  October 31 is also the birthday of my son, who died eight years ago, and so inevitably this time of year, my thoughts turn a little more somber.

Last week I began creating a new series entitled, "When Angels Fall."  I wanted to convey some emotions I have relating to life and death, change and rebirth, grief.  There are, as always in my more intimate photos, bits of vulnerability and love thrown into the mix as well.  There are things we hold onto, things we cling to desperately when change is forced upon us.  We resist what is happening, for it is simply too much to bear.  This resistance is natural for a time, and is what grief is really all about.  In the process of grieving, we move through this resistance, and finally we come to acceptance.  These photos provide tiny glimpses of that process. 

Eight years later, many losses and changes later, I am still making sense of it all.  I have come to accept what has happened and learned to live with them, incorporating them into my being, but I notice that the way I relate to these losses now is very different than it was in the beginning.  We grieve at so many levels, and our relationship to grief over time.  The things that were prominent or very important at the beginning become diminished later on, and new things come to the fore.  

Fortunately I have photography to help me continue to make sense of my experiences.

You were here... Once

Fallen

Vestiges

Vestiges II

The sleep of angels

Sam Beam, songwriter and frontman for the band Iron and Wine is someone whose writing I find to be gripping, compelling, profoundly moving. in his song "Over the Mountain."  He writes, "Mother, remember when I breathed through your body..."  Yes, I do remember.

As the series develops further, I will be sharing more of the photos here.

Until next time...

Anne

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Vulnerability and Surrender

A lot has been written about vulnerability and the strength it requires to allow oneself to be open, exposed, vulnerable.  Researcher Brené Brown has an excellent TED talk on the subject.  The older I get, the more this resonates with me.  When I was in my twenties, striking out as a young adult, a young wife, a mother of two, an undergraduate and then graduate student in social work, a volunteer for a women's crisis center.... all of those things seemed to me to require a certain stoic strength of me.  It was hard to admit when the world was too much to bear, though there were definitely moments when those feelings arose.  I never had a hard time allowing myself to cry, but I did so mostly when watching movies or listening to music that stirred my soul.  I had hardened myself to a certain extent, as a form of self-protection.  Early experiences had taught me that the world was not exactly a safe place, and so I was often guarded and unsure of others at first.  It took me awhile to let others in.    

Twenty years later, I have certainly learned a lot!  I have known losses and loves, joys and sorrows, that cracked me wide open, shaking me to the core of my being.  Sometimes in this life there are things that happen to us over which we have no control.  Losing my son was one of those things.  These losses make us vulnerable, and there is no escape from the intensity of feeling.

Surrender

 

 I now see that as a good thing.  Rumi said, "The wound is the place where the light enters you." When I allowed myself to be vulnerable, I allowed that crack to burst wide open, and the light came flowing in, bringing with it a deeper capacity for love, love of self and love of others.  

To Lay Me Down

Perimenopause, a state which I now find myself to be in, brings a new and different level of vulnerability to the table.  Waves of emotions can arise from nowhere and bowl us over.  It also forces us to confront that we are growing older, to ponder questions about our femininity, our desirability.  It is a time of dramatic change for a woman, one which leaves us exposed to the forces of nature.  Irish singer-songwriter Damien Rice said, "Time is contagious; everybody's getting older."  So true, Damien.  Sometimes we are more aware of that fact than others.

Being an artist requires a certain level of vulnerability too.  It requires of us to embrace the risks that people won't like what we do, that they won't understand what we do.  We risk judgment, criticism, and in the worst cases, contempt.  

Driven by the need to express emotions, dreams, impressions, bits of self, I continue to make art.  And in doing so, I continue to embrace my vulnerability.  It's not always comfortable, not is it always easy, but it is authentic and honest.  To me, that is far more important.  Making art helps me traverse these strange waters, it is my lifejacket when they seem to want to overtake me.

Thank you for being there to help me through this process.  If you feel inclined, please drop me a note, letting me know how you navigate this territory.  Together, we can help and perhaps inspire each other. 

Until next time...

Anne

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The Unbearable....

lightness of being a woman.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Woman

Taken with a 50mm lens, at f/1.8, the focus here is on the bouquet of dried roses, with the body of a woman in the blur.  The image speaks of the process of aging, of staying vital and beautiful as the years mount.  There is such pressure on women to look a certain way, to conform to a certain standard of beauty.  And even though we age, the arbitrary standard never does.  It is always young and firm, bouncy and round, supple and sinuous.   

Unlike a good wine, with humans, aging is complicated.  We continue to get better in certain ways, and yet we decline in others.  There is a give and take that occurs.  What we gain in wisdom, we lose in elasticity.  I had a friend who was in her 90's and she said that when she randomly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she wondered for a second who that old woman was, the one looking back at her.  When asked how old she felt on the inside, she said, "I feel about 25, maybe 30."  And then she smiled, and I could see her as the ten year old girl she had once been.  Her eyes still had that twinkle, that spark, even though her face bore the marks of the passing of the years.   There was a lightness in her spirit. 

My friend was a lot like this bouquet of flowers.  When I look at them, they are dried, wrinkled, crispy, and yet I see beauty there in the creases, evidence of having lived.  I see perfection in their imperfections.  I keep them around because of the memories associated with them.  They remind me of one of the happiest occasions of my life.  I see beyond the dessication.     

There are other photos in this series, which I will be sharing and writing about soon.  Please stay tuned for more.

Until next time...

Anne 

Les souvenirs...

Les souvenirs de ton toucher s'attardent toujours....

L'amour est comme ça.  On se perd délicieusement dans les moments de la passion. Le temps disparaît, le monde extérieur se fane.  Il n'y a que deux êtres seuls qui existent.  Toi et moi.   Et puis après, c'est là où on s'y retrouve dans nos pensées, dans nos rêveries, les souvenirs d'une nuit blanche, qu'on a passé embrouillé dans les draps blancs et nos bras et jambes, l'un et l'autre.  Tes baisers restent sur mes lèvres, la chaleur de ta main sur mon ventre, la douceur de ton souffle dans mon oreille....

 

Memories of your touch linger still.

Love is like that.  We lose ourselves deliciously in moments of passion.  Time disappears, the outside world fades away.  There are only two beings who exist.... you and me.  And afterwards, it is there where we find ourselves there again in our thoughts, in our daydreams, memories of a white night spent in a tangle of limbs and white sheets.  Your kisses remain on my lips, the heat of hand on my belly, the softness of your breath in my ear...

À la prochaine....  (Until next time...)

Anne

Everything is illuminated

Sometimes the world feels heavy.  The news on the television is too much to take with my morning coffee and toasted fig bread.  Today was one of those days.  There is so much violence in the world, so much hatred and misunderstanding... and fear.  It's hard to not allow the fear to overtake us.  If we don't fight against it, it will swallow us whole, and there will be nothing left of who or what we once were.  

These times feel epic, cinematic, where forces of darkness stand against forces of light, a classic battle of good and evil.  But there is no superhero who will swoop down from on high to save the planet from destroying itself.  Our only weapons are compassion and love, peace and understanding.    

We need to scatter them like seeds across the landscape and in the hearts of those whom we touch in our daily lives.  Love is the antidote, compassion and understanding, the treatment for what ails the human race.  

Illuminé

Art is a way of healing individuals and the world.  It reaches people in a way that words cannot, going deeper.  In words, in deeds, in images.... I hope that I am doing my part to make the world a more loving place.  And I encourage you to do the same.  Peace.  Namasté.  

Until next time....

Anne

Parisian Windows

Eyes may be windows to the soul; but windows are the eyes and soul of a building.  The character of the architecture is defined largely by the type and style of windows that are used in its construction.  Paris is a city of filled with wonderful windows, French windows as they are called in English, where the frames swing inward, allowing one to pass through to a balcony suspended above the tree tops, allowing in light and breezes to refresh interior spaces.  

Windows permit one to see into the heart of a building, to glimpse what is going on beyond the panes of glass, hinting at the lives lived behind the walls.  And they permit one to see out, to view the world and all its happenings through a frame of glass and wood.   Windows allow for an exchange of elements and energy, giving life and vitality to a space.  Uncovered windows are welcoming, inviting.  They draw us in.  And they draw out.   

In homage to my love of windows, I have created a series of photos, "Parisian Windows," exploiting the notion of a frame within the frame.  The photos are inherently voyeuristic.  They invite the viewer to look, to examine, unabashedly, shamelessly.  They reveal different moods, each one inviting the viewer to imagine a back story.  

An archive of longing

Recognition

Anticipation

In light and in shadow

Desolée

There she goes

Perhaps

With reflections upon the glass and the play of light and shadow, the photos are soft, dream-like, contemplative, evoking the same feelings an an autumn rain or a classical nocturne, poetry borne of glass and wood.    

Until next time...

Anne

Memories of Paris

Fifteen days in Paris....  

There is something about Paris that has pulled at the strings of my heart since I was a young girl.  It whispered to me in my dreams, this mythical capital of culture and love, luring me with promises of romance and grand architecture, of accordians and cafés, of promenades through winding streets, of parks and gardens, of its iconic structures and hidden gems, of freshly-baked baguettes and glasses of wine, of flower markets and bistros, of fashionably attired men and women, of the most amazing light I had ever seen.  Like so many others before me, Paris loomed large in my psyche, and for more than thirty years, my desire be there intensified with each passing year. 

Champs de Mars

In February, I spent fifteen days in Paris.  She was everything I had expected and more.  All of the things one might associate with Paris were even more magical in person; there was nothing cliché about them.  The Eiffel Tower, for example, is truly awe-inspiring.  The intricately woven iron girders seem almost delicate and lacy.   The first story of the structure is decorated with the gilded names of those involved in the construction of the tower.  When the sun is at the right angle, their names glow in remembrance and pay hommage to their skill.  The presence of la grande dame is felt in the city, as if she were a guardian watching over us all, illuminating the darkness and calling us home.

Sacré Coeur

Sacré Coeur, the basicillica, which presides over Montmartre is also a marvel.  There was a stillness inside this grand edifice, despite the throngs of visitors.  A thousand tiny, red prayer candles illuminated the alcoves, a thousand whispered wishes and gestures of gratitude from a multitude of souls, some lost, some wounded, some found.  Soft light spilled in through the stained glass windows, each one a mastepiece in and of itself, bathed the pews in an otherworldly glow.  We sat in reverence, holding hands in this sacred space.

Notre Dame (rear view)

My last afternoon in Paris was the day we visited Notre Dame.  It was a grey day, typical of that time of year, and yet there was a luminosity that added to the mystery and timelessness of the grand structures near the cathedral. Notre Dame is situated on an island (Île de la Cité) in the middle of the Seine, the grand river that runs through Paris, and traverses northern France to terminate at the Atlantic Ocean.

le Pont d'Archeveche

Notre Dame was incredibly crowded that day, and we were unable to visit the inside of the cathedral.  We strolled around the exterior and through the little garden behind the church.  We traversed the pont d'archeveche (the lover's bridge) strewn with locks, symbols of love and promises.  

Scène de la Rue:  Île de la Cité

A typical Parisian street scene.  The ever-present Seine is at the far right of the photo.

La Seine

The buildings lining the streets of Paris exude a charm I have never seen in the US.  As one who is partial to grey and shades of cream, I immdeiately felt at home here.  I am drawn to their stone façades, their intiricate ironwork, their tall windows.  

Serenade

As we headed back to the car that day, back across the bridge, we were serenaded by an accordian.  Strains of music drifted across the bridges and down the streets, floated above the Seine, and now linger in the halls of my memory.

Until next time...

À bientôt...

Anne

 

 

 

Like Every Grain of Sand...

How many billion tiny moments constitute a life?  

Each one perfectly formed; each one unique.

Some overlooked, some taken for granted; others held in highest reverence.  

Elusive, they slip through our fingers, cascading like a waterfall.

Trying to hold onto a single one is like trying to preserve the first flake of new-fallen snow

or the first bite of a freshly picked strawberry,

or the scent of a line-dried sheet.

I cradle the sweetest moments, of both memory and dream, in the remote forests of my mind.

There they lie, safely encased in a coffin of glass, awaiting true love's kiss to animate them once more.

Like time, we are ever-moving, ever-changing, with this push toward the eternal.

What was once comfortable becomes threadbare.  What used to fit no longer feels right.

We shed our skins and our inhibitions;

we shed our fears.

Like dunes on the beach, we shift with the prevailing winds and tides,

becoming ripples across the sands of time.

Like Every Grain of Sand

Until next time...

Anne