[photos by Francesca Woodman]
Aimlessly browsing through my Tumblr feed this morning, I came across photos by the astonishingly talented Francesca Woodman. I dug deeper and tapped into a story of a tragic artist and dreamer, who did all her greatest work before the age of 22, which is when she committed suicide in a haze of heartbreak and confusion. Her photographs feature mostly herself in the nude, and in unusually beautiful poses and settings. I searched all over google and drowned myself in her images, the melancholy and sadness cutting through me like knives. And after watching her documentary, I had fallen in love with her story. In her diary she writes about her lover:
"I am happy
except when he treats me like vermin
or when he acts like my sexuality is a pain in the neck
and then at 2 in the morning
he looks up at my pictures
and says he doesn't see
what that has to do with art anyway."
How mindblowingly appropriate was it for me to find her at a time when my current state of being reflects exactly the things she expresses in her photographs. I am no stranger to the exquisite feeling of being forlorn and with time, crying has just become a routine way of cleansing my soul from all that brings it down. Sometimes we tap into the same pile of shit over and over again, hoping to walk off with clean soles. As human beings, we are almost guaranteed to be subjected to becoming habitual slaves to our desire to believe in the good. And when it doesn't work out, even if we knew to begin with that it wasn't going to, we are disappointed anyway. But I am glad still. Because even if I have to crawl on the floor picking up the the shambles of a shattered hope, my heart is still whole. My biggest fear in life is to live with regrets.. and regrets I do not have. I tried. I believed. But now I know..
“I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ.”