One story in a billion...

I normally believe portraits taken in black and white are more telling. I think they let you have a glimpse of the person's soul like color film does not. I don't profess to know why, and to be honest I don't have any solid theories to back this up at all, but for me colors are beautiful but distracting. When I see a photo with colors my eyes are looking at the tones; the way light plays upon the tones; the way saturation looks true to life or not. I notice whether or not the colors are real or fabricated; I notice and try to pick apart how the photographer created the effect. Once I've done that, I try to figure out why the photographer went with that effect - what message they were trying to convey. I think about the technical aspects; the light bounce; the aperture and focal length.

I think about just about everything besides the person in the photo.

I also think color portraiture highlight zits and color discrepancies in the skin; again distracting the easily distracted.

I love black and white photography.

But.. here is the problem with b&w photography. It's hard to mask pain. It's hard to smile without it looking fake. It's hard to make the muscles around the eyes tell a story other than one of reality. In this medium, it feels impossible to convince the eyes to lie.

I find it irritating and fascinating that every time I post a picture of myself people tell me I look angry, sad, pitiful, hurt, mad, or pissed off. I find it irritating because I'm not at that moment, on the exterior, any of those things. Most of the time I'm calmly playing with my camera and trying to learn photographic theory.

But then I think more deeply on it - and I wonder if that's completely true. I mean, why am I taking photos of myself in the first place? Am I really practicing portraiture or am I trying desperately to be seen? Am I fucking with my camera or am I screaming from the top of my lungs 'NOTICE ME, NOTICE ME, NOTICE MY PAIN AND WHO I AM AND WHY I AM AND PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE NOTICE ME'?

Without even trying I see the sad within myself... I see the hurt, mad and pissed off, and sometimes even angry. I see it, feel it, and live it. But I don't share all of that, all of the time. In fact, I try not to share it much at all. I try not to bother people with my tales of woe, or come across as someone who isn't completely resilient and strong.

When they say, with such conviction, how horribly devastated I look, it leads me to wonder if somehow they can actually see me. It fascinates me and fills me with joy, and makes my head hurt, and floods me with profound happiness and scares the fuck out of me to be seen like that - and to be that completely exposed.

But then I think maybe it's all in my head. How do I know for sure that they are not just noticing the wrinkles & the creases in my forehead that seem to have sprouted there over the past few years - aging me and adding a somewhat grizzled facade to my once docile face? I don't. How do I know it's not just the default assumption to make when someone isn't smiling? I don't.

I suppose it doesn't really matter - because it's one of those situations with undisputed simultaneous truths. I am trying to learn photographic theory. I am trying to learn about lighting and drama in the printed form. My face is changing from a young woman to an older woman. My wrinkles are making their debuts. My crease in my forehead is becoming more substantial. I am often trapped within a whirlwind of pain; including sadness, despair and hopelessness. I am trying to be seen and noticed. I am am screaming silently. I am showing off the way shy people do. I am exposing myself for reasons even I don't understand with absolute clarity. I am writing a book of myself for the world to read, and trying desperately to share my story.