They lay conjured on the ground - blue and yellow envelopes, restaurant receipts with ink lightening into paper, and dusty polaroids. They lie patiently, like they were made for a vision, a ballad. My bedroom floor became a museum for the decade we made, and the things that made us.
Once upon a time, I looked out my window and saw a concrete building illuminated by the setting sun- golden and glowing. I wondered why the sun wasn't shining on me, promising myself I'd look past it by never looking into the past.
Some days my resentment is hot and molten, like an unforgiving Indian afternoon, but forgiveness learns to find its way to my tongue, even if all it does is make me quiet.
I recall my younger (till age 5 or 6 I guess) self never really looking at my mother as ‘my’ mother or ‘a mother’. She was simply an angel like creature, a vision, something akin to the fairies they’d tell you so profoundly about when you’re younger (why did they stop?).
When I lie- I am a calm, collected pool of thought and intellect; someone who cares not just about herself, but the whole world, someone photographable from every angle, living a life full of beautiful streets and privilege. When I lie, I am not the woman looking for the worst in others or vivid reasons to be sad.. When I lie, I am everything I aspired to: self-sufficiency, independence, the opposite of needy.
the body: a home for love is a photography series by Deun Ivory chronicling the narratives of black women (including the photographer) who have endured sexual assault. It is meant to be a visual storytelling of how pain and patriarchy manifest in the lives of young black girls.
I once loved a man who I suspected, had a substance abuse problem. He always had that ruptured logic at play - "I know myself, so I know I will get better".
In a series of oil canvas paintings, Lee Price examines the nature of compulsion and yearning through the lens of hyperrealism.
our mood board