Lying-in

December 19, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 26 Comments

Photographer Katie Eleanor

Lying-in

Herein lies the self-taught art, Comfort in Confinement: a full body cast, snug fit of emotional and physical posturing, not for the weak of brittle bread and bones or for the claustrophobic faint of heart. Swaddled in perplex, plaster of Paris’ burlap blanket maintains an incessant itch, a familiar womb-like warmth of pleasant-unpleasant darkness. Sleep floats to the scent of a salty melody, sodden soil’s sweetness is reminiscent of musk’s six feet under while embracing a solace that is predictable and dependable. Within this box numbing is welcome; pressure is measured by pounds per square inch and the decaying pockmarked pinpricks of awakenings hold hands in silence, joining in the good vibrations of deep contemplation: counting backwards from infinity — by primes.

“…we can only hope that the evocative Welsh word hiraeth will be preserved. It means ‘distant pain’, and I know all about it…But, and this is important, it always refers to a near-umbilical attachment to a place, not just free-floating nostalgia or a droopy houndlike wistfulness of the longing we associate with human love. No, this is a word about the pain of loving a place.”
— Sally Mann, Hold Still: A Memoir with Photographs

“What Remains: The Life and Work of Sally Mann”

Fortieth Day

February 26, 2018June 21, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 61 Comments

Francesca Woodman Untitled Rome 1977-78. Perhaps it should be titled, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”

Fortieth Day
100 Words

Thaw, the fifth and final season, follows in muffled white steps behind Winter. It wakes like a charging bull with a caustic rage, unleashing pent-up black thoughts, sullied emotions, and questions of sanity: leaving you fully exposed to blind spots told in epitaph. It’s the cruelest season with the chilling betrayal of your own frostbitten hands beating you down, down to nothing, down to less than nothing. When you realize you’ve had enough you find yourself channeling the iconic genius, Francesca Woodman hanging from the door casing before a final leap of faith into the unknown: leaving a void forevermore.

“The joy that isn’t shared dies young.”
― Anne Sexton

Video — “ARTIST ROOM – Francesca Woodman” * *

East

February 12, 2018December 19, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 64 Comments

Photographer Erich Hartmann

East

Reduction, a man-made affliction: the queue that holds abundant room for cruel intentions and harsh realities. Snapshots of the transparent and apparent blanket everything with a blasé gesso malaise when properly prepared hushes questions of right, leaving blank stares as empty armless hugs, known as the huddle: an odd semblance of warmth. The Deplorables distinguished as righteous, the righteous disguised as deplorable share in the madness and madness: a never-ending role of one in the sameness.

“It’s sickening how The Machine treats its individual parts.”
— June Gloom, The Gray Zone

Balthazar – “The Man Who Owns The Place” *

Crapshoot

August 20, 2017June 21, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 55 Comments

Man Ray Self-portrait

Crapshoot
100 Words

Ooh la la, this photo is to die for, even if I do say so myself. It’s all about you, you, you. What about me? You’re brilliant, a diamond in the rough, running circles around me while I clean a loaded gun with my right hand, count barbiturates with my left, wondering if I have time to swallow them all before the hammer hits the firing pin. Choking down dry pills, no water, coughing furiously I hit my forehead on the table, accidentally pulling the trigger, missed by the bullet, clarity arrives. Not to worry, I’m every shade of okay.

“I have been accused of being a joker. But the most successful art to me involves humor.”
― Man Ray

A Short film by Man Ray — “Poison” *

Blind Orchid

January 9, 2017June 14, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 114 Comments

Photographer — Katie Eleanor

Blind Orchid
100 Words

I am forever young and forever old, from everywhere and from nowhere, memories muddled and memories clear: so many and yet all too few. Yesterday, indiscernible from today or tomorrow, for where there is no time, there is no matter. I am akin to some wild thing that comes into bloom but once a year, hidden deep within the Woods of the Wounded Sparrow. The cruel irony, partners: decay and decadence, dance in frenzied quickstep to Rimsky-Korsakov’s, “Flight of the Bumblebee”, while onlookers: the moon and stars, rule over my endurance, I long to be found, recognized, yet not saved.

“I am a collection of dismantled almosts.”
― Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters

Video – The poem, “I Am”, written by John Clare, read by Tom O’Bedlam.

Music — “Flight of the Bumblebee”, by Rimsky-Korsakov. * * *

Marrow’s Mediocrity

November 7, 2016June 21, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 181 Comments

Photographer — Francesca Woodman

Marrow’s Mediocrity
100 Words

Having met life’s fate in the winter of my youth, I’ve lived my passions in pursuit of the truth. Stigma and fear jailed my beliefs, keeping my love under lock and key, found near starvation in rags of hand-me-downs, sucking on pebbles to silence the hunger, blocking the ritual: speaking in tongues. Necromancy of the resurrection, all memories have since fallen away, swirling as leaves on a tempestuous day. Vacant lots of strange-strangers: the half-past dead, unknowing stand-ins for what’s ahead. While waiting for the Four Winds to carry me away, I’m wondering — what’s the weight of a human soul?

“I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.”
― René Descartes

Hindi Zahra – “Don’t Forget”

The Pardon’s Wife

September 26, 2016June 21, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 119 Comments

Triste — Photographer Mukti Echwantono

The Pardon’s Wife
100 Words

When days are long, nights longer, there thrives a predictable chaos to everything that walks silently behind her. It hides beneath her shadow of certainty, which she prays to religiously and righteously. It smiles as she makes missteps, finding glee in the lessons. It frightens her in the dark, having no hands to hold. It lies in wait as she becomes ever more unsure as
to her purpose and direction. It casts a net of paralysis over her will and determination. When she reaches the point of wretched indecision, it reveals itself as a familiar stranger, an unwelcome friend, Fear.

“It was my own fear that allowed me to keep a safe distance from myself.”
― M. L. Lurie, The Lost Journal

Banks – “Beggin For Thread”

The Pardon’s Wife was originally posted September 26, 2016

Dilemma Panic

And So It Is

September 12, 2016October 7, 2020 ~ Mia Pharaoh ~ 138 Comments

Lee Miller photographed by Man Ray

And So It Is

There exists something different, strange and mysterious today. I can smell the stillness, perhaps it’s the uncertainty of the known. I blink, accepting an invitation to an alternate reality. I blink again, I can no longer discern what material is, I assure myself it’s of no importance. An indescribable release floods my being, I let go of all attachments that anchor me to a realm of light and dark. There’s a weightlessness found in this saturated calm, like the air after a good hard rain. I feel more alive than ever, the perpetual violet twilight smiles down on me. With grace I push-off, fully immersing myself, slipping silently into the visible abyss of everything and nothing. No longer blinking, I forget all that came before this moment.

“Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay