Its a early hours in the morning kind of blog again. Bipolar kicks my arse and sometimes i let it… its nice to feel something other than medicatedly numb.
I was inspired to buy a camera because my heart got broke… I knew nothing of the damn thing, only the man who broke my heart had one. He captured images of me i was his subject and his muse. Then my heart was broke and he became my muse. Every image was haunted with him. Things i wanted to say or scream, things i wish he would see. Other things i just needed to release… find a part of me. With every self portrait i looked at the mens, like i did before when he held it. I gave the expression with my eyes. As a model you are not allowed to pull a expression with your face, no muscles must move within your face but you must pull your emotion through your eyes as if it were your soul, your heart. And you had it over to the camera. As soon as that shutter shuts, its captured a part of your soul. Anyone can pout, and anyone can smile, but to say it with your eyes… and let someone read your mind and soul is being naked.
It was through my images i met another man….. I thought my heart was broken and i had lost the love of my life. Then ‘this’ man strolled in. Well strolled is the wrong word, more like crashed. And for the first time in so long i actually ‘felt’ i felt something other than hollowness…. emptiness and anger. I felt love again. We went through so much from him leading a double life. From anger and rage, from both of us. From trust issues to lies. From prison and restraining orders and random stalking and phone calls. Theres always that pull. I think in loving him, i lost a piece of me. Every image over the last three years has some way been inspired by him. If it wasn’t through hurt, or anger, or betrayal. It was through despair it was through confusion. It was through painful aching love and worthlessness i felt. He was my inspiration. Every hurtful word he would say, would inspire me in some way. Every lovely gesture would inspire me. He is my portfolio, of my emotions, my journey. I think because of the bipolar i may feel alot deeper or react alot stronger to situations. Maybe its the writer in me? maybe its the melancholic soul i have? Maybe its because i’m a hopeless romantic? Maybe its because i don’t want to believe i fell in love with a monster and then he turned me into one. Theres alot of maybes and questions and ill probably never get them answered not really. Truth is i don’t want them answered as then i’m in a reality of the real. I have never been much fond of that. Maybe i read to many books and enjoy being tragically in love. Where is the fun in being happy? Its alien to me, it scares me, it panics me. It terrifies me. At least when things are wrong you know they can get any worse. But to be happy and then to fall…….. i know what that feels like. The happier you are the higher the height you fall from. So my advice ‘ never get to happy, enjoy it, but don’t think it will last. Trust me it never does’
Now for the worst confession of all time……. ‘Happiness writes white’ If i am happy no images appear, if I am happy no poems are written. I am inspired by heartbreak, by depression, by pain and by being hurt. I am a fucked up girl. Theres ‘life’ and ‘death’ and then there nothing but sadness in-between, thats what i capture…. thats what I release. Everyone can look at a pretty image, only those who know the colour of the depths of depression and pain can look at ones that aren’t pretty and see the beauty. I guess thats why i wont do pretty pictures…. I don’t want fame from my images or to be ‘well known’ I refuse commissions that aren’t my style and pass them on to someone else. I wont change my style or message to cater to the masses…. or the majority. I fit in with the minority. The people who have not only been to the edge … but know whats over it. But to do that i cant be happy. I look through my stream on flickr or 500px and i can tell you the month and reason and feeling and why that photo was created. When i go back to Oxford, my happy place, my safe place, my home. I never do a shoot or take a picture. I take my camera every time but i cant take a picture i’m too happy and safe…. Im too in awe at being peaceful and calm. I have to now torture myself with the insecurities i have, the questions and the hurt and suffer i sustained through my last relationship to still create images. For as long as i do that i’m never to move on…..
Would i prefer to be a tortured artist or a happy wife/girlfriend with mundane pictures?
Tortured artist every time. I don’t want to see the world as it is… I want to see it and the other worlds within it. I want to show people they aren’t alone…. everyone can relate to one of my images. When that stops happening i will sell my camera. I have decided however to challenge myself like only i can do….. I am going to do short fifteen second videos too. So now i need to learn how to edit videos. Because for the things i cannot capture in one shot ……. which is rare…. but maybe if i can maybe do video editing maybe it will help me overcome some of my inspirational block. Or maybe i just need to be with the person who breaks me best as thats the only time i feel inspired or alive.