Echoes

The importance of writing as a tool for learning more about our work

Last summer, I created a series of (analog) collages that were made from photo diptychs, some of which I ornamented with ink. I started the project on a whim, one of those “let’s see what happens if I do this…” kind-of-whims. These experiments can sometimes give rise to happy accidents, as I experienced in this case. The idea was just to pair photos of women with photos of natural environments or elements. Early on I was thinking about women over 50, myself included, who had posed for me a few years ago, and notions of ecology. I was interested in the early feminists who posited that women and the land are one, that in societies or among individual people, where we find violence and/or oppressive attitudes towards women, we find violence and exploitation of the earth. In the beginning, I thought that the project was about that, about how women voices, especially women of a certain age, are unheard or ignored, as is the voice of the land. I named the series “Echoes.” With an upcoming show in Paris in early November, I needed to write an artist’s statement about the series. I started to describe it as it related to eco-feminism. But something wasn’t right. The words weren’t flowing. It felt forced. I sat with it for a bit, and it was if there was a tiny pebble in my sock rubbing me raw every time I moved. My gut was telling me to dig deeper, to listen more closely. Our work has many things to tell us, things that we aren’t even aware that we know. Things we should be paying attention to. It reveals what’s important to us, and sometimes, it reveals why that’s the case. I leaned in and started over. The real significance of the project was emerging. What I had thought to be true was being thrown out the window. As I typed, it became evident that the work was in fact about my personal search for meaning and connection with the natural world. It’s about reclaiming my “wild self.” That self, that unadulterated, unfiltered, authentic self is the one I knew as a young girl. She is still present, though her voice had been muted by multiple traumatic events over the course of my life. Making art, writing, spending time in nature (lots and lots of time) and cultivating gardens has brought me in contact with her again, with this little girl who considered flowers to be her friends, who named butterflies, woh sang with the birds, who held hands with trees, who ate sour oxalis leaves and sucked nectar from wild columbine flowers, who walked barefoot through the backyard and dreamed of living in a tree house. I’m still that little girl, the one who loved her moss green dress and her knee-high boots. Who we were is who we are. It’s a notion that’s been coming up for me for the past several years.

I’m not the first one to suggest that we sit with the work, to give it time to percolate and then and ask it what it has to teach us. Many artists and teachers encourage that and some suggest, as I do here, that writing is essential for artists, even if what we write is kept to ourselves. Journaling is always beneficial. It allows us to express our thoughts, to make connections, and further develop our ideas. Writing for other eyes, while often difficult, is perhaps particularly helpful, as everything is carefully thought out and constructed. Ideas take shape. The how’s and the why’s become clearer. Though for some it can feel as challenging as giving birth, writing artist’s statements is excellent exercise. They force us to concisely articulate why we made the work, what it means to us, and why the public should care about it.

If you happen to be in Paris from November 2-10, 2024, I cordially invite you to the exhibition entitled "She Is Present/Elle Est Présente." I’m honored to be exhibiting with 11 other women photographers at the Alta Vista Gallery

Thanks so much for reading, and I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.

Until next time,

Anne