Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Since the spring, I have been working with my older black and white photographs, trying to make strong images that have something more to them than just putting a transparent photo onto a painted ground. It's been difficult, not just because of technical problems, but because I'm not sure how to see these images. They are new to me, quieter and more minimal than my older pieces, truer to the photograph than ever before.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Monday, September 5, 2016
My love relationship with coyotes is based on the fact that they are wild, smart as hell, incredibly athletic, and just all around wonderful, surviving, like crows, by co-existing with their horrible neighbors, us humans. I like to think this coyote and I share some things in common: we both have the same expressions--wily, knowing, and calm; we are both pragmatic and sensible creatures; we both like to watch more than to be watched; and we both wear Dansko clogs on our shapely, muscular legs.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
I've found three recurrent themes that run through these photographs: the first reflects a kind of awkwardness, that moment when things are just that much out of kilter, wrong but not drastically so; the second is a sense of ominousness; and the third is, often times, one of sadness or worry. There are sweet images, ones of friends or family or pets, but they tend to be the minority, and not the ones I used. What I'm seeing now is that the altered, painted image distilled what the original photo was about and boosted it, underscoring the awkwardness or the fear or the loneliness.
I have a vague idea that is formulating about how to use these photographs once again, but I am and am not the person I was 20-30 years ago. This may be the start of a new visual journey for me, or it may be no more then looking back through the black and white scrap book of my life.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
I took this photograph and then painted with gouache over it. I subsequently gave the painted photo to my dealer as a gift, and she turned around and sold it soon after. I was hurt by her selling it so promptly. Of course, she might have just needed the money and/or not liked the image. I had kept no record of it, but I remember that I had loved the painting and had assumed she would do the same.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Nick is now 88 and living in assisted living. His mind is going fast, on a faster downhill slide than his body, which is still fairly healthy. We had great hopes for him in assisted living, a lovely place full of activities and active, interesting older people. But this has not happened. He is constantly in hot water with the establishment: sunbathing in his underpants in the large central courtyard, letting his little dog Koukla loose to poop and go after other dogs(that are on leashes), then forgetting and leaving her outside to roam and upset people. He gets lost on a regular basis, forgets his walker, and has alienated many of the female residents by his liberal use of the word "fuck". Koukla has been banned, and he is heartbroken. Cracks are beginning to appear between family members working to figure out what is best as we inch toward the possibility of Nick being booted out of his current home.
I emailed a friend whose ex-husband, a victim of Alzheimer's, died recently to ask her about his last accommodations, a place called the Retreat, here in Albuquerque. Her response was positive, but what she said at the end of her email is what stayed with me the most , "This whole process is so hard and so sad". And she is so right.
Sunday, June 26, 2016
*photo by Andrea WallaceIn 1998, while playing soccer, my face got in the way of the ball. The result was a black eye that lingered for about two weeks, going from black to purple to red, and finally fading away. Two weeks ago, our youngest daughter was mugged in a smash and grab by a young woman. The bruise is just now starting to fade away.
We are discovering that people are reacting very differently to Teal's black eye than they did to mine. While my eye was healing, I found that people wouldn't look at me, assuming that my black eye was the result of some kind of domestic abuse. This was not just in stores, but even at parties, and other places where I knew people. It seemed that if someone made eye contact with me then they would have to ask, very simply, "What happened to you?" and they just didn't want to go there. When I asked Teal how people were reacting to her black eye, and her story was quite different, "I'm getting tired of telling people what happened. I wish they wouldn't ask". She works as a server at a very nice restaurant and she said that about half of her customers ask what happened, the other half don't. I don't know if this difference is because she is younger than I was when I got my black eye(I was in my 40's), or if it's a sign that now, 18 years later, we are just more aware and sympathetic--less afraid to go to those dark places. I hope it's the latter.