This week’s newsletter is an indulgence in something I’ve wanted to do since making this work, but it felt unnecessary and I didn’t have a great platform to try it out on. Now I have the perfect platform, and really who cares if it’s unnecessary.
What really gave me the green light for this idea is a book I’m about halfway through, and loving - Essays One by Lydia Davis. Davis is an American writer known by many for her short stories. Essays One is a collection of self-reflective essays she wrote throughout her career, on writing and translating. When I picked up the pretty green book at Powells, I’d never heard of her before, but I read the first few pages and was immediately seduced by her blunt and playful style. I decided it didn’t matter that I wasn’t familiar with her work, and bought the book.
My favorite thing Davis does in these essays is include various short stories she’d published, sometimes only a sentence, and then analyze her drafts and the changes she made on the way to the final piece. Here’s one I liked, without the preceding pages of context that would make for a more rewarding read, but are ultimately unnecessary for understanding.
It’s a common belief that art shouldn’t be explained. That it should always be open for interpretation. When you release your creation to the world, it’s part of your duty as an artist to let it stand on its own. Maybe it will sputter and die. Maybe it will spark discussion, worship even, and feed on the attention until it looms large over your head, then continue to grow long after your finite blip of a life is over. The art must stand as if you were dead, even as you live.
That is unless you choose to reject that boring idea. I love hearing artists talk about their work. I wish I could know the exact significance of every line in all of my favorite songs. I want to see the drafts. I want to see the edits. I want to know what state of mind you were in when you made this thing. Did you fight with it, or did it flow freely from your subconscious? What do you think about it now? Give me a peak behind the curtain. Show me how you think.
My coach used to say to us, “trust the process,” a simple and helpful mantra. My own version of that statement, in the context of art rather than rowing, might be something like “the magic is in the process.” I want to end this weird conception we have that explanation ruins art. For me, at least, explanation has only ever made art richer. Often, it even adds to the mystery, oddly enough.
So, without further ado, here’s my own deep dive into a photo poem from September, which I posted on Instagram in 6 parts, one day at a time over the last 6 days I lived in Seattle. Let’s start by taking a look at the final piece, assembled here for convenience but intended for and originally posted here.
And now, here’s my detailed break down of the text and the process, via annotations on the uncensored/unchanged note I used to write and organize my thoughts. I wish I had kept each iteration of the poem as I was figuring it out. You miss out on looking back at the journey when you delete and rewrite your drafts digitally. Still, there’s a fun bit of thinking we can observe here in terms of image ideation. (you may need to click on/open up the image to actually read any of it, oops. much to cram in)
There’s not much to say about each individual photo. While writing is a process ripe with decisions and edits and changes and concrete thoughts, photographing usually occupies the more instinctual, intuitive side of my brain. I collected these images over the summer, and started pairing them, not quite knowing what I was trying to say until a few weeks before it came together. Some are simply little moments I wanted to remember (doorknob, dog, flower crown). Others are images I planned in order convey a specific feeling (sunburn, face, cup).
Because I intended this poem to exist as 6 separate Instagram posts, I found myself sacrificing a more logical (visual) order for what might perform well or look the best online. This sequencing is far from the best it could be, I’m sure, but I also haven’t cared enough to improve it. So it remains.
The cup image (and accompanying text) feels like the hero shot to me. To conclude my explanation, please enjoy this bts photo of me at Gene Coulon Memorial Beach Park, covered in lake water, my hair still in rollers, feeling like a total loon, but triumphant in my pursuit of the photo nonetheless.
Revisiting this project reminded me of another note I’ve had sitting in my phone for over a year - similarly melancholic.
While walking home from class, on a Tuesday apparently, I thought to myself, “what is the opposite of a tree?”, and was surprised when an answer came almost immediately. What surprised me even more was that as I kept thinking about that answer, I decided I genuinely believed it to be true.
For months this was just a silly and isolated thought that I’d remember every few days, and think about again, only to confirm that yes, I did still believe it. When it came time for me to leave Rochester, however, I connected the words to my struggle to put down roots in that temporary home. Every few months for four years, I towed myself and all of my belongings from one side of the country to the other. I guess I decided it was easier to “land”, rather than “plant” myself, since I was only going to be uprooted again and again.
It pains me to admit, but I think this specific (extremely corny) note was actually an Instagram caption draft I (thankfully) didn’t end up using.
These notes, I never turned into images. I had a vision though - also a diptych. On the left, a blooming Rochester tree from high above, taken with a drone. On the right, the underside of a plane, taken with a long lens from the ground. Both images would have been simple to make, but the timing needed to be right and I found myself in quite the scramble those last few weeks.
I wouldn’t want to make the images now, in a place other than Rochester. I hope they don’t mind if I sentence them to a long (or maybe very short) life in your imagination instead.
I chose The Star for this newsletter because its imagery reminded me of my “last summer” project. The vases (cups), the water, the lush greenery, the naked person kneeling between the water and the earth.
The Star is about resting, recovering, healing, especially after great emotional upheaval. This person exists in a far away place, relaxed and unguarded, because they know they’re safe. They are in flow with their environment. There’s no need to conserve energy or time or ideas or resources, their well runs infinitely deep.
Wishing you a peaceful Saturday!
Jordan
I am in love with the journey you take me on each week. Beautiful writing. “The opposite of a tree is a plane.” Fantastic!