It was 31 years to the exact day of her death, January 19th, that I stumbled upon the massive collection of photography by Francesca Woodsman. How haunting was that anniversary for I've never seen such breathtaking work and for that moment, all was still. She eviscerates herself in each portrait as silver gelatin bleeds existence into her story. Silent tones cast shadows as the outsider is drawn in to her world, subdued through out space in time; the distance between her life and mine. It is pure emotion and her work can not be critiqued or foretold; it must be felt. Her spell has been cast over me and I am enslaved to every portrait for I've never seen such beauty in one's mind.
I just saw this picture in relation to the bed in a different way. I grasped it before intellectually but it wasn't until a recent kinesthetic experience that I was given to photograph a subject on her resting place that I now realize not only the emotion behind this piece but how much more can be expressed about experiences behind a resting place. It holds so much energy, so many stories, so much time.
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