February 21 2008

Text By Meera Sethi

The photographer, inspired by a poem, steps away from her philosophical dissertation for an afternoon—who knows what swirls in those pages—and tries to transform her body and her being into what she feels, at heart, she might be. She apologizes to the poet, who in some way (perhaps some very vital way) made her do what she did.

But when poetry, philosophy, and photography meet on a dark day in the middle of a difficult endeavor, and sleeves fly like wings, and fingers become winter tree branches, what apology is there to be made?

if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,-

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

--William Carlos Williams (lines from Danse Russe)