second skin

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self-portraits made in drunken, desperate moments eager to fight or eager to love.  how may we come to speak to one another of the pain of living? about the pain which has become very much a second skin?  how regular it ends up being.  about the pain of the day?  such quiet pains.  such quiet hours.  this stillness.  all the hours of longing.  only my eyes in the mirror.  only me and my camera and no voice at the other end of the line.  

and all of this for you too.

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destruction/creation

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this self (destroyed self portrait)
3" x 3" digitally photographed half-frame photograph
angela simione 2014

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an instinct toward joy

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it's near impossible to think back to just a little over 2 years ago, spend a moment with those memories, and relate to them.  that wasn't me.  THAT girl is not THIS girl.  that life is not mine.  i wake and stretch wide in my own bed.  my hand reaches down down down and i give myself cause to smile.  a roof i pay for above me and a blanket i made with my own hands. and for however humble my accommodations may be, they are mine all mine and i love every inch.  my satisfaction is deep and abiding.  i begin to take pictures of the small moments...  the silly bear planter that i use to hold my pencils and crochet hooks, the books piled in to a boarded up window ledge, Seth sitting on the kitchen counter...

i was once so miserable that the very idea of making a visual record of my life - a life i was so utterly at odds with - was a humiliating, horrible thought.  i didn't take pictures for years.  i had absolutely no urge.  no instinct to nest.  no instinct toward joy.  i made lots of pretty good art and i will not say that era is without value...  but i'll never be grateful.  i will never say Thank You for those days.  i'll feel thankful, rather, that i somehow managed to acquire the wherewithal to find a way out.

slowly, the camera has found its way back into my life.  i want to know myself and my life through different lenses and films, different croppings and configurations.  i take pictures of my mouth, my smile.  i take pictures of my naked form in the mirror.  i take pictures of my friends.  i take pictures of the things my neighbors leave on the curb and the defunct churches down the street.  i take pictures of my diary.  i take pictures of the notes i leave to myself stuck to the door of my armoire.  

i take pictures...

i'm in an era i want to remember.  

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a greater frequency of experimentation encourages a greater frequency in the occurance of happy accidents

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untitled (three and the same)
half frame photograph
4 x 6
angela simione, 2014

open-mouth kisses

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how to speak of desire?
how to speak of fantasy?
how to speak to you
directly
except with an open mouth.


how else to speak to you
except like this. here. in the room where i am king.

alone in my room at night, i photograph my mouth.  monday afternoons, i drop 2 rolls of film off at the one-hour photo lab up the road and wait excitedly to see what magic might occur.  half the time, it's all total crap and a sad waste of money...  but maybe not.  maybe not.  even the worst photograph teaches me something, especially a new way to see.  and then there are the days like today when i flip through the shiny photos and line up the images and find some sort of nebulous narrative that has the ability to speak to the hardest topics i contain, the themes i shy away from and the names i don't want to give up.  but maybe you already know.  maybe, if you've stumbled here, you already know your name rests hotly on my tongue.


how to speak of need?
how to speak of ache?
how to speak of dreams that linger long after waking and which make it so hard to get out of bed?

how to speak without crying?
how to cry without embarrassment?
how to quiver and writhe?
how to stop waiting for unneeded permission?



this suite of photographs i'm amassing is loving referred to as the Kisses Collection and i'm liking what i see.  i like how it feels.


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