“it’s still a heart. it’s just a little bent out of shape.”
my former fiance introduced that phrase into my life. it has stayed with me, well past my dramatic valentine’s day departure from the life we shared for six years. this phrase is the impetus for a deeply personal photo project that i have been working on for over four years now. my “found heart” series.
i am an artist, a creator. my medium is photography. capturing and creating images is my vocation and method of self-expression and exploration. my chosen art form is so central to my life that it truly defines the woman i am, the life that i lead. i am a photographer, as is he, which deepens the mystery of his betrayal.
on my recent road trip, i moved the last of my belongings from Nebraska to Arizona. space was limited in my car. i went through my belongings and chose the most important things to keep. this process is excruciating. painful in ways that are beyond explanation. every time i go through a move i am reminded that there are two boxes that have been missing since my split with my former fiance. two boxes that he took from me. two boxes that contained 12 years of my life. twelve years of family memories - sister’s graduating high school, my nieces entering the world, my dad in his signature Izod polo shirts. twelve years of my professional development as a photojournalist - my documentary projects, original negatives from my coverage of 9/11 while interning at The New York Times. twelve years of my life. Stolen? Destroyed? the detectives that investigated the case and questioned him were sympathetic and kind to me. they said he was sullen and cagey. uncooperative. with no absolute proof of his actions, the investigation could go no further.
twelve years of images created and captured by me…removed from my life for reasons that i shall never be privy to understand. my mind does not work in such twisted and inhumane levels. i do not possess the ability to hate anyone so strongly that i would attempt to destroy them, as he did me.
it has been years since this happened. years. i am only now able to speak about it in any kind of way. the ripple effect of his actions continue today.
one box did remain. a box of correspondence. love letters, cards, postcards. all from him. romantic, he was. he rarely called me by my name. he called me “Love”. simple. succinct. full.
i did not move that box to my new home. it went directly into the trash, which is the word that i now use to refer to him. trash. simple. succinct. full.
my heart, while deeply scarred, it is just as he said. it is still a heart, just a little bent out of shape. i find my misshapen heart everywhere i go. graffiti on the walls of bar restrooms…
when i remove my jewelry at the end of the day…
outside coffee shops where i lock my mountain bike…
in patterns in the linoleum of old churches while on assignment with the youth i now teach photography to…
on hikes in the desert with dear friends…
the hearts that i find are precious to me. with each heart that i find, i heal a little bit more. my heart opens up. my capacity to love deepens and my faith in the healing power of love solidifies. my hearts, in all their forms, prove to me that love is out there if i am willing to see it.
I love this essay - and I love the timing of it. Last week i was making Ramen and when i emptied the packet o’ sodium into the bowl, it landed in a 3D heart. in the middle of a strawberry, a friend of mine found one as well.
because the form is found, as you show, everywhere and not created by hand-of-human deliberately to be in that shape, it is a gentle reminder of the presence of love. I’m glad that you said it.
sort of how i feel about young couples holding hands or canoodling in public - it’s there, and it is good.
your photographs are evocative and lovely. i hurt for your losses, but have faith in your future…
sarah
Vague progress, advanced by
random markers, a practiced
essence interpreting tracks, crumbs
dropped along a path leading, to? Iconic
motors in stone, glass, wire, flesh, coupling
pain and hope, love and fear, tears with
dreams.
William…profound beauty. I send a “heart” to you.
You were 16 when we first met. The wonderful smell of developer, stop bath and fixer filled the air. Your heart filled the newsroom then, a small piece on every reporter and photographers desk. It also found it’s way into my heart, where it has lay dormant. Now to be reminded of it’s kindness and beauty. I too have had taken from me some of the physical things as you have. But original negatives and prints are just things, important…. absolutely so. But that’s part of life I guess. I remember developing not only images with you under a soft red light, I remember developing with you a friendship that I dearly miss. It’s been a long time since those days and reading what you just wrote has brought to my heart the remembrance of a perfectly photograph that no one can ever take away.
The last line should read perfect photograph, the misspelling just show I’m human…….
sorry, messed that one up too, how about “shows”
I’m really putting my heart into this.
Damien…wow…such kind words. It has been a long time since you and I met. It is strange how people come and go in our lives. Some leave, only to return at a later time - as you have. I’m glad we’ve reconnected.
I do truly miss working in a wet darkroom. The magic of watching an image materialize off a blank, white sheet of paper is an experience unlike any other.
So deep and true. I’m at a loss for worthy words.