Dani’s Blog
The Scream
A stepping-stone on the path of self-understanding.
Revisiting some older self portraits and telling the story from my future self’s perspective. A sort of inventory on the occasion of having spent 20 years in France.
That white plaster mask was everything I was looking for that day, years ago. The discomfort of searching in the pregnant space between idea/feeling, and creating the thing/the art. I hadn’t had any therapy yet, and more parts of myself were hidden from my consciousness than they are today. Playing in front of the camera was the first place they started to come through.
I couldn’t look myself/the camera lens in the eye. Today, looking at this photo, that’s what I see first. I remember trying to look at the camera, and then looking away. Some part of me wanted to scream but the rest of me wouldn’t allow it, so I used a mask.
I could feel my discomfort reflected back at me when I looked directly at the camera. But what was it? And at who? At me? My family? The world? The neighbours? And why was I confronting myself with the camera, that recorded more than I knew I was expressing?
I was trying to express something I didn’t have words for, and was apprehensive about seeing. With a small amount of courage, in my studio as a resident at 59 Rivoli, I was playing artist. Feeling full-on imposter. Summoning inspiration. Using found objects to “test my light.” I couldn’t even say I was making self portraits until it became obvious. I’d say I was just testing the light on myself, before a portrait shoot.
I noticed the theme of voice/ sound/ silence/ auto-censorship was recurring. I continued to show up. There was something inside me pushing back at the creativity that urged to push forward. It was a vicious judge, and I didn’t yet know that I could tell it to get in the friggin back seat. So it’s like I was flooring it, trying to get onto the highway in second gear. I can still feel what that was like (and sometimes still is!), that made me want to scream exactly like that plaster face!
At the time, I judged this photo as not good enough. I didn’t like what I was wearing, I didn’t like the light, or my hair. I’d made it too fast, without thinking about all the details. I tried to re-make it later, but the mask was lost and I never found a replacement. So I accept it as it is. A stepping-stone on the path of self-understanding.
It flipped the switch
There’s something of a relief, like an open flowing of the natural energy of my role in the world.
We were at a friend’s daughter’s 5th birthday party last month. It was a beautiful hot day, in a beautiful setting. I hadn’t brought my camera but thought I’d take a few photos with my iPhone, like everyone else. It was a relaxing afternoon and then just before the cake was going to come out, the birthday girl’s mom asked if I could take photos.
That’s the click.
It flipped the switch, turned on the photographer in me. Not to compare myself to a dog, but it reminded me of a service dog who is happy to be doing his job. And it’s almost as if I see through different eyes afterwards. My story-teller switch is ON.
There’s something of a relief, like an open flowing of the natural energy of my role in the world. My goal becomes capturing the soul of that gathering of humans, the feeling of their relationships, the humorous interactions and reactions, the fun, the light, the fabric of it. It’s one of my main raisons d’être.
Anna & Amos
I love her curiosity, her determination. I feel reverence for how much time we spend, in childhood, to examine the details, to look in the cracks.
This photo prompted me to think about creating “poetry from the evidence” (see my about page for the reference), and the qualities that make you want to stay with a photograph, to keep looking at it. It’s pretty rare. I chose this photo to be the header of my blog for many reasons, which I’ve never articulated.
For me, the first thing my eye goes to is Anna’s finger, so strong, trying to dig into that space between the planks. I love her curiosity, her determination. I feel reverence for how much time we spend, in childhood, to examine the details, to look in the cracks.
Then I feel the wooden planks, their texture, and think of the possible splinters. This tension is immediately calmed by Amos, lazily lying there, watching me watching them. I think he’s telling me not to worry about the splinters, that he’s on duty as the guardian angel. He was a stray cat who spent his evenings in the forest and his days with my sister and her family. He’s the first cat I loved. He came right to my lap whenever I sat down, disarming the dog-lover that I am.
I notice the watering can behind Amos, also lying down. It reminds me of the joy of watering flowers for my mom when I was young, and had nothing more pressing to do. Taking pride in the responsibility.
Then I see Anna’s eyelashes, her chubby cheeks and chubby little arm and feel my heart simultaneously ache and delight in the sweet innocence of toddlerhood. It’s so fleeting. I’m grateful for this photograph, this teeny tiny moment, paused, so we can spend time with it. It might seem silly, or obvious, but I don’t think I’ve ever really said the words, I am so grateful for photography.
Me & sweet Amos, the first cat I ever held and cuddled.
“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time.”
A 3 year-old Gives you 15
The first shot was at 6:47pm, the last one at 7:02pm. Exactly 15 minutes.
In that time, I shot 116 photos in 2 lighting situations on 2 different backgrounds.
I selected 26 good ones, and 10 of them I’d call “wow.”
The first shot was at 6:47pm, the last one at 7:02pm. Exactly 15 minutes.
In that time, I shot 116 photos in 2 lighting situations on 2 different backgrounds.
I selected 26 good ones, and 10 of them I’d call “wow.”
Sometimes after a shoot, while everything is still set up, I manage to get my threenager daughter onto the set.
This is my daughter, Ever. She’s 3.5 years old and she moves very fast. If she’s not physically moving (jumping, twirling, rolling on the floor, doing random yoga poses, throwing her head back in wicked laughter), her face is moving (the grimaces, the tongue sticking out, her hands pushing and pulling at her cheeks, the sad face, happy face, scared face, angry face, etc). If I ask, “sweetie, can you look over there just a second?” it happens for much less than a second.
I’m hunting the great elusive shot I saw it zip by through her hair swirling and mischievous eye. I have an idea of the photo I want, but for each of my ideas I get 10 of hers. Nothing can really be anticipated. She’s going to give me something else and my job is to be ready, keep the focus, gently guide and watch the light falling on her face, while crawling on the ground at her level, both of us riding the spontaneity.
Outtakes. She takes child’s pose and reminds me, “mommy, this is your favorite pose!”
The photo that I originally was looking for, I printed in cyanotype, on paper and fabric. A Christmas present for the grand parents.
“All things in this world must be seen with youthful, hopeful eyes.”
carrying around a piece of my childhood
I adored this plastic keychain beyond all reason. I didn’t judge or even consider what it was made of. A flower held immobile and eternal in some transparent material that reminded me of water and ice cubes and glass, just dazzled me.
I’m fascinated how objects follow you through time. I moved from Chicago to France several years ago, and this keychain I never remembered packing has followed me.
I remember vividly the moment I first saw it. I was 5 years old. It was Christmas time and we were in one of the bedrooms at at my grandmother’s house. The walls were 70’s style dark-wood panelled and the beige carpet was soft and cushy on bare feet. We were sitting on the bed, trying hard not to bounce, as we’d been told repeatedly “no jumping!.” My aunt Sam brought my cousin Krista and me into the room because she had something for us.
She had two keychains, both shaped like hearts. One was big and smooth, with a bright red rose inside of it. The other was small, with scalloped edges, and a little yellow rose inside. We had to choose which one we wanted. I don’t remember who spoke first, but I do remember longing for that red one, and hoping my cousin longed for the yellow one in the same way. I felt such excitement at the prospect of having it be mine, and a fear that my cousin might want it too. In my memory, she chose first. The yellow one! I felt such relief! I could have that sweet red rose!
(After I post this, I’m going to email her to see if she has the same memory.)
I adored this plastic keychain beyond all reason. I didn’t judge or even consider what it was made of. A flower held immobile and eternal in some transparent material that reminded me of water and ice cubes and glass, just dazzled me. I remember being absolutely absorbed into it, noticing all the details, as children have the time to do. And almost 40 years later, I still know this keychain very intimately because of that time spent studying it.
I don’t recall putting it into a box or a suitcase. But here it still is, reminding me of where I came from, and transporting me back to that bedroom, to that house-full-of-family feeling, the joy and the giggles and the love.
Life source
Alone with a toddler in a very old house with a semi-neglected garden, I’ve started picking weeds and trimming branches.
My partner, Alex, is back in the city for work, so I’m the only playmate for Ever, our 3 year-old daughter. After playing in the dirt, making “snail soup with saucisson,” filling and re-filling containers with her, I get the itch to make things. I photograph her often, when it’s not too interruptive to our play and her concentration. Photographing her, I feel the most like myself, during this time of being in a parentheses of our lives. When many things are on hold, making pictures is a reassuring lifeline, one of the main roots at the center of who I am.
Today I started picking at a bush that the neighbours told me is seringas, or mock orange. Its flowers smell divine, but the bush is full of dead-looking branches, and I couldn’t resist pulling them out. When I dragged this long dry branch out and saw a gorgeous flower growing on what I perceived as dead, I stopped. My first thought was, “Shit! I didn’t know you were there! I just cut you off from your life source!”
But then I was simply in awe. It seemed a symbol for this time in our world. So much feels cut off from its life source, disconnected and very far from what nature intended. And yet. There’s this gorgeous flower perfuming the air, in a place that looks totally lifeless. It reminded me of possibility. It’s all possible. All the dreams, all the changes we want to see happen. All of it. You gotta believe it to see it.
Spring Blossoms and Snow
Winter and Spring coexisting beautifully.
On the corner of rue de la Lune & rue Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle, winter & spring co-existed.
I love the poetry of the translated street names: Good News Lady & the Moon.
Le vieux machin
“C’est joli. Ca me plait bien le vieux machin. Je vais faire une photo.”*
One woman to another, in front of the famous Shakespeare & Co. bookshop where, if you sit reading for any length of time, you will find yourself in souvenir photographs of people from all over the planet.
* It’s nice. I like this old thing. I’ll take a photo.
Le vent le portera
Walking out my door this morning,
the first words I hear on the street:
“Moi, je vais où le vent me porte.”*
12h37, rue Oberkampf.
* I’ll go where the wind takes me.