“People don’t understand that the hardest thing is actually doing something that is close to nothing. It demands all of you…there is no object to hide behind. It’s just you.”
― Marina Abramović, performance artist

At the May retreat up in Rockport (Maine Media College), I experienced a breakthrough moment. Like every other breakthrough moment I’ve ever had, this one wasn’t planned.

As at every retreat (there are six during the 3-year MFA program), I was scheduled to present my semester’s work in three different critique sessions, each attended by a different team of core and guest faculty plus 8-10 colleagues (fellow students).

The first two critiques saw me discussing the work I had hung on the wall — 13 prints, each measuring 17″x22″ and printed on beautiful Moab Entrada paper — plus playing one of the many audio recordings I had made over the months that related to the theme of portraiture and identity.

The prints were layered portraits, comprising primarily portraits of women made in collaboration with DALL-E 3 (generative AI), plus some lens-based work I had created to go with the portraits. Here’s an example:

To accompany these portraits, I had audio recordings of my own voice, telling stories from my life. And the idea was that although these printed portraits were made with AI (primarily), the work in its totality was a form of self-portrait. 

It was a difficult concept to explain and I knew that going in. For the first time since I started my MFA, I did not present work that was “completed.” I was actively asking for ideas and for feedback. What I imagined for the work, at some point, was a gallery space where the portraits hung from the ceiling, possibly printed on silk, and the sound came in to the gallery. I was imagining an immersive experience. 

In each of the first two days, I played one five-minute audio file. In the story, I talked about loving ballet school and loving the beauty that the ballet life gave me. The story went deeper into my truth and revealed that I was mistreated by the ballet master because I was considered the fat kid; I did not have a dancer’s body. Eventually, as I shared in the story, I quit the ballet school. I loved dance, and I still do. But I felt that I was being destroyed. 

In those first two critiques, my colleagues and the faculty spoke about the images and the audio. They were very helpful. VERY helpful. They, too, struggled a bit to connect the images to the audio. And that was valuable for me to know. And then one of the faculty asked me, “What would happen if you didn’t have the images on the wall? And you just played the audio?”

White space can be scary. The white wall is empty. The only thing that people would have to look at, as they listened to the audio, would be…me. 

I decided to do it. With the help of my friend Cindy, I removed all of the layered portraits from the wall, packed them up and put the big box in the car. And I prepared for the third and final critique. I was the only person with nothing on the wall. No work. 

The next day, when my turn came, I stood in front of the white wall and introduced my work. Then I played two audio files. One was the ballet story. The other recounted one of my oldest memories, when I was  four or five years old and I told the Maytag repairman that I was not related to “these people” (my family); rather, said I, I was from Paris and I was visiting for the summer. I spoke with a thick French accent, or what I thought was a French accent. And the Maytag repairman believed me. My mother revealed the truth. I didn’t mind. What I took away was a feeling that, with imagination, ANYTHING is possible. And I realized way back then, at the tender age of four or five, that I could tell stories. I loved stories. 

Many people closed their eyes as they listened. Some looked at me. And the sound in the room when the audio stopped playing was profound. I knew that I had been seen. Not just seen as in recognized, but seen as in naked. I stood at the front of the room while the story about fat shaming and the story about longing to be something and someone I was not — someone I undoubtedly saw as more interesting and more deserving of love — played, and I let people see me as my stories unfolded. I felt vulnerable, yes. 

And I also felt completely comfortable. Because I knew I was being 100 percent honest. Authentic. Nothing to hide. 

Like Marina Abramovic said, I had no object to hide behind. It was just me. And a colleague made a photograph of me standing in front of that empty wall, listening to my stories. 

I feel different now. I’m approaching the work I’ll be doing this semester from a different perspective. I am unconcerned with beauty. I am unconcerned with completion. I am obsessed with making sure I go to the vulnerable place. That I work from that space. 

I no longer feel a strong pull to continuing with the AI portraits. I got what I needed: a backstory from which to leap. A springboard to what lies beyond. Or, more accurately, deeper. 

Following my gut, I made a BIG decision a week or so ago. I knew I wanted to get back to working with a camera. But I kept feeling that I was using the “wrong” camera. I have a Leica Q-P. It’s a wonderful camera. And it has a limitation: a 28mm fixed lens. So, absolutely ideal for street photography and even for travel. But definitely wrong for portraits. For working slowly and deliberately. 

So I sold my Leica. Traded it in for a different Leica: a 10-year old Leica S2 (digital). The S2 is a medium format camera. It’s heavy and much larger than my Q. Back in its introductory phase, this camera sold for $22,000. I got it for much less as a result of trade-in. I will need to use a tripod. It’s a totally different experience. And that excites me greatly. It feels right. Because I want to work with a camera that will be my creative partner in a deep and ruminative process. 

To continue with the metaphor: With my “new” gear, I will need to stand naked for a while, not just whip off my shirt and then streak across the stage! Okaaaaay!