portrait

When you recede by Nasuna Stuart-Ulin

Today was a strange day, I think because last night I had trouble sleeping. I lay there, floating in and out of my body in that cottony space between waking and dreaming. The backs of my eyelids alive with traces of light, exploding from darkness like fish flitting quickly through bioluminescent depths. Part of me is terrified of that vibrant stillness, and part of me wants to remain there forever. It's like being back in the womb, I imagine, where there is no up or down; no close or far or big or small or heavy or light. Just you before you were a You.   And the world turning on its axis, hurtling through space as if to say Silly Baby you don't know anything - you still think I'm talking to you? Psych that was rhetorical. No really shut up you're missing the point.

Today was a strange day, I think because last night I had trouble sleeping. I lay there, floating in and out of my body in that cottony space between waking and dreaming. The backs of my eyelids alive with traces of light, exploding from darkness like fish flitting quickly through bioluminescent depths. Part of me is terrified of that vibrant stillness, and part of me wants to remain there forever. It's like being back in the womb, I imagine, where there is no up or down; no close or far or big or small or heavy or light. Just you before you were a You. 

And the world turning on its axis, hurtling through space as if to say Silly Baby you don't know anything - you still think I'm talking to you? Psych that was rhetorical. No really shut up you're missing the point.

Out of the Vault and Across the Bridge by Nasuna Stuart-Ulin

Out of the Vault and Across the Bridge ...

This one's from the vault.

I made this print when I was 13 and just getting interested in photography... back when I was using the real tangible stuff. To say I was rough with my negatives would be an understatement. I sliced them up and scratched designs into the emulsion. I left dust (the arch-nemesis of photographers and housewives alike) where it lay.

Despite this betrayal of the medium's integrity, I felt no remorse as I navigated a summer of experimentation. At that age, unacquainted with failure and brimming with a confidence inflated by chemical fumes in a light-tight room, I became a serial surrealist.

Who are these children split down the middle? If you were to shrink down and travel across their faces, you would be met with a fracture on nearly every plane - an abyss that would keep you searching and hopeless for miles, ever the stranger in a strange land. Eventually, though, you would reach the nose. That vast mountain of common ground. "How could I have missed this?" you'd say out loud (to no one in particular) and you'd proceed to carve "__________ WUZ HERE" into the ground before walking across the bridge.

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