This face approaching specifies no world. This face I see belongs to a young woman with a very old story to tell. She has lived within the story all her life; it quiets her, and it speaks for her; she contains it, though she believes it to be much larger and more significant than she.

She will want to speak, but she will be prohibited by her guilt, a sense of culpability, as from profound involvement, but really born of too-heavy memories. All this can be read in the pause that overtakes her face, but not a world, not a specific geography, nor ethnicity, nor culture, nor any detail beyond the pause and the guilt and the quiet.

This face approaching has opened a gap in time; I see her as if there were nothing else that could possibly occur in this moment, and she sees that I see this... it is all she knows, for a moment; she lives, for a moment, as if experience itself were a camera trained on the core of her awareness... she is more than she knows how to say; she is wilting.

She is the sort of person, it should be noted, that is likely to give birth to a mystery, or to many. She has a name, and she has a past, but she has found a way to slide between worlds with a sort of ease that actually tastes like discomfort, a luxurious anxiety which she cannot relinquish. This will bring her to ever more unlikely encounters with a mirror she has not decided to understand.

© 2007 Joseph Robertson

WRITING & NAMING: the medicine of acquiring knowledge
Joseph Robertson

Language is that point of contact in the abstract, that plane where the intellectual life within us is enabled to assert itself as part of the overall experience of living. Language is that plane where the individual self is allowed repeated attempts at manifestation. What takes place in the process of writing, in the spilling of ink or the posting of digital characters, the slip toward defining a landscape, however brief, is the sanctification of an individual, and by extension of the human condition as such...

Not every person is a writer, by trade, nor should they be, but there is something about the act of writing that serves the writing individual as if it were a medicine for selfhood, a healing venture into clean waters. Especially so when its intent is to be expressive of secret regions of the mind or to lay out new experimental vessels for such expression. [Keep reading...]

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Book of photos in halftone sepia-tinged black and white. An exploration of contrast and meaning in the textures of the everyday.

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A FACE
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JOSEPH ROBERTSON