Lately I’ve let myself go — much like (but not limited to) a wife I have been complacent with life. My daily fashions mimic the trends of a chemistry teacher from a Pennsylvania winter in 1998. My week consists of going to work and back, grocery shopping and picking up a couple bottles of wine. And when I do go out, I get my usual economical drink of a beer and a shot costing $5. I sit at the bar and I hate on the beautiful young people dancing and cursing and grinding on each other. My obsession with photography and writing have dwindled while I take great joy in catching up on True Detective, Mad Men, and Tumblr blogs that celebrate the heritage and aesthetic of beautiful brown women.
While infinitely scrolling on Tumblr the other day, I came across the photo essay titled, The Photographer’s Wife. At first glance the title leads you to believe some man, during travels and years of devotion to his beautiful wife, candidly and effortlessly captured her seasoned elegance.
Turns out the wife, Laura Heyman, is the photographer, the subject, and the mastermind. There is no husband snapping photos during vacations, but a story about a women through the eyes and into the eyes of a woman. Moreover, the striking stillness in each photograph cracked and moved something in me. A thing that had been frozen by the New York Winter of 2014. Showing itself and revealing that the comfortable union with a man, my peers, my family, and my work are not enough for me to thrive. I lacked the desire to create something so freakishly unique to me. My desire to capture my own light-energy in these waning days of my youth are so strong, I can hardly breathe.