November 1, 2009
On being in an artistic rut.
I sincerely miss a lot of things about being fifteen. I was such an intolerable teenager, but I do remember that everything I made was intensely felt. Photography held such limitless possibilities. I saw the pictures in my head all day long. All I thought about was the next spare moment I would have to photograph. I used to feel breathless when I held a camera, when I heard the shutter release. There was a tightening of my chest that could only be likened to being in love.
I can't pinpoint when exactly a change started to occur, and I couldn't describe the breadth of the change if I tried. Many days, I cannot wait to graduate and undo everything I was ever taught in art school. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate my education immensely, and it has been a tremendous amount of fun. But for all the fun, and all the hours spent rattling away in critiques, I've lost some spirit. Or maybe it isn't school at all, maybe it's just this disheartening business of growing up. Like a slow paralyzation, former extravagant dreams are daily replaced with shiny new worries and whole new cans of worms. I do try not to fret so much, though. I look forward to a new era, one in which I'm afflicted with clammy palms, butterflies, and lumps in my throat all over again.