The politics of the past few months have made me feel like I am losing myself, as if my core values do not count. What I believe in seems to be disappearing. To deal with these feelings, I used a camera and a software program to create a self-portrait. I consciously allowed my flesh to be erased, and I pulled in smokey color on the left, alluding to old film negatives. Specks of me seem to be drifting into the clouds. As with all art, the image took on a life of its own and became more than the maker.
Another part of me remembers an Emily Dickinson poem, and I am comforted.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm – I’ve heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me.