“In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.” ~ Carl Jung
Photographs I made in 2003, using the Ansel Adams grayscale.
Don’t you wanna touch?
Her soul’s intricate web of lace.
Her crushed velvet skin.
She’s been on fire for centuries.
Every birth, born with cinder eyes.
Past deaths so violent;
Left violet raised marks
In the next skin,
Every sin a tender shame.
Provoked to pinch and pull at her flesh.
A pattern maimed.
A timid frame.
Before, behind closed doors,
Leaped in camera’s eye.
Until out the window,
She layed in crimson snow.
Now in this life, her 22nd urgency,
Has faded in a winter’s remorse.
And she floats on into the age of 34.
In zenith, no more.
Poem & Art: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt
I know these words are somewhere
down inside me.
Some I held as a child.
Sisters spoke in endless streams
to flood a river.
No room to pour out, no echo to rattle in their ears.
Locked up for years.
My mouth felt like the arroya split.
Until we met near the December pines.
You pushed me out into that frozen lake.
My mouth filled up in frost.
When I spoke, my words emerged slowly, like icy swirling ghosts.
You were the miracles in those days.
The founder of my blue heart.
The day you left Vincent,
was the day I lost my voice again.
I long for my rattle,
To speak endlessly, while you smile back at me.
Photograph: Talking to Vince, Francesca Woodman