My Artist Statement

The artist’s statement.  What is that exactly?  It’s where I explain to the masses a little bit about me and what feeling my work is supposed to convey to the viewer, but the reality is you are going to take away whatever feeling you want to take away from it, and knowing my educational level and such are not going to make you know the real me.   I don’t know how my work is supposed to make you feel.  Is a headless doll in a pretty dress presenting you a flower really any less beautiful than one with its head attached presenting you one?  It’s not the norm, certainly, but is it really truly less beautiful?  Is the gesture of presenting a flower not as sweet?  The one thing I do know is photography allows me to express myself in ways I cannot articulate into words.  My medium is my lens.  So look at my work and make your own interpretation.  It may impress you.  It may make you uncomfortable.  It is what it is.  So is life.  Life can be uncomfortable.  Life can be suffering.  Life can be downright cruel and ugly, and at the same time be beautiful and wondrous.  We either choose to see it or we don’t.  If someone chooses to be oblivious to the dark elements of life I don’t begrudge them.  Good for them.  The majority of people are this way and although I once thought this was a frivolous existence I see how they are just as essential to existence as anyone.  If you want to be a lemming be one.  If you want to believe everything you hear on Fox News good for you.   The life you want to see is often an illusion, but if believing that illusion makes you feel good go right ahead.  Life is much more comfortable when viewed from a bubble.  It’s much easier to not face the truth, to look in the mirror and realize that the reflection looking back at you is the only one that controls your destiny, not your upbringing, not your past, not a bad experience, just you.   At the end of the day we’re all animals.  The strong devour the weak.  We are instinctual creatures, but some choose to ignore what they feel inside to fit in with the status quo.  We hold back what we truly feel because of fear of the unknown; we don’t pursue what we want sometimes out of guilt or repression.  Our empathy towards others can make us sacrifice ourselves.  If you are one of the few people that have managed to see past the illusion, who can take in life with all its goodness and ugliness and not stick your head back in the sand, then you already know that you don’t need a statement to tell you how to feel about my work.

What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his? - Emile M. Cioran

The Moon Goddess

An old weary soul once looked upon a magical moon. Instantly drawn to it she was mesmerized. Its powers captivated her. She loved it from that very moment. The longer she gazed the more she awakened. Her human frailties and insecurities all flooded to the surface. Every memory she had buried resurfaced. Her sins fell away. Her karmic debts were repaid. As the night went on she metamorphosed, Shedding what remnants of her old soul remained. Now she would have vast wisdom for her days remaining on the Earth. The spark that had so long ago been snuffed out began to burn again. Special gifts long dormant reemerged. She aged 1000 years that night. All because she stared into the light. A death and rebirth within a simple harvest. She wished desperately that moon would stay forever. With a heavy heart she realized upon the breaking light of day it would be hers no longer. As much happiness arrived so did a cold darkness. For the path she now walked would be an isolated one. Such knowledge carries with it an eternal unfulfilled weariness. With a heavy heart she began to cry, and her tears turned into a river. This river would be her gift to the world, bearing fruit and bringing light to many, and would provide her solace for her remaining lonely days.

© Brandy Lindsey www.brandylindsey.com

Wounds

They say time heals all wounds. As I grow older I find that not to be entirely true. I think you grow from the experience that caused the wound, but the wound itself just simply scabs over, always there, lurking just below the surface, waiting for just the slightest hint of a memory to rip it back open.