Self Portrait



Who Am I?

Who am I? If I listen really quietly will something come? Who am I? Does this question really have an answer?
Who am I? I am GB. What I is GB? GB is J’s partner, a fun loving, playful partner.
Who am I? I am Lulu and Angel’s mother. I snuggle with them in the quiet dark peaceful moments and rally them in the busy daily chaos.
Who am I? I am friend, both loyal and fierce.
Who am I? I am a photographer. I get paid to take photos. 
I get paid to make images.
Who am I? I am a photographer. I express myself and mould my world through photography. I shape the world to my inner vision.
Who am I? I am an artist. I express, I play, I experiment, I paint my life and I tread softly, sometimes boldly, off the well worn path. I make my own path stumbling, hesitantly yet bravely, through the bracken of the world.
Who am I? I am an explorer. I explore the world and myself, I explore both the new and the known.
Who am I? I am a creator. I create my world, my house, my family, my life. I create images and stories and other things that inspire my whims.
Who am I? I am woman. I walk around with the knowledge ghosts of those before me, who suffered in silence or who suffered out loud but were not heard but still managed to love. I honor them by being heard. I honor them with my gratitude and enjoyment of life.
Who am I? I am a dancer, I dance through my dreams and sometimes I dance when I’m awake.
Who am I? I am a dreamer. I dream with my eyes wide open, I dream with my eyes turned inward and turned outward. I dream with my words and thoughts, I dream with my images.
Who am I? I am the here and now. I am the pen that glides across this page. I am the moment.
Who am I? I am the past. I am my past, I am others pasts all converging to bring me here and now.
Who am I? I am the future. I am my future, I am their future. I create the future. I chose the future.
Who am I? I am quiet, I am loud. I sing, I dance, I cry. I cry tears of joy, I cry tears of sadness, I cry tears of anguish, I cry tears of pure bliss. Sometimes I can’t see through the tears.
Who am I? I am possibilities. I am the possibility of my dreams, of my choices, of my future.
Who am I? I am struggles, I struggle against the boundaries of identity, of who I am, of who I should be. I struggle with the weight of possibility, of choice.
Who am I? I am a traveller.  I am the journey. I travel down the road to me.

Self Portrait #1


Self Portrait #1

Who am I? Depends on the day, the way the light falls, where your looking from. In some cliches I am a rebel mother, rambling mad woman, lush in training, inconsistent perfectionist, queen of the microwave, Mac wrangler, domestic t** (I did want to put something here that might have raised some little flags in some little cyber code that couldn't discern how far in my check my tongue was wedged), a Jed Bartlett supporter, {photo}shopper extrodinaire, pixel duster. I also support the separatist movement for the independence of chocolate as it's own food group.
What do I believe in: contradiction- this I know to be true.
As I ponder on the truly important questions of our time, like why does the first cup of coffee always taste better than the second but the second glass of wine tastes better than the first? & why is it that every time I open the fridge a block of chocolate comes flying out and shatters across my kitchen floor?
My eleven year old son keeps asking me what I'm going to be when I grow up. I just look at him and shrug, and answer him honestly- I don't know. Perhaps it doesn't matter what I'll be when I grow up, perhaps what's important is the who I am, or how many who I ams along the way.
I'd call myself an artist if I knew what that meant or what one looked like, but I don't know anymore. I make images, sometimes with pictures, sometimes with  words. Are they art? I couldn't say. What I do know is that sometimes the muses whisper to me and sometimes I'm lucid enough to hear what they're telling me. Sometimes its just me and all myselves. As I don't know what art is I just have to make images that I like, that speak to me or of me, to put words down that are mingling in the recess of my mind, clambouring to get out. Like children, all I can do is birth them and nurture them, after that they're own their own, hopefully finding their own wings. It really has not much to do with me. I can delude myself that it does, that I am somehow important in the process, but really I am merely a vessel. When I am proud of them I have to remind myself that they are independent of me.