Where Your Feet Are

“Where are your feet?”

It’s a pretty obvious question and the old me would’ve probably jumped in with a “on my legs!” with a sassy snicker to follow. But for all of its apparent simplicity, its been a question that hasn’t been all that easy for me to answer lately. It takes thought, an inventory, and then a stern talking-to when I inevitably discover I’m lying to myself.

Over the past few months, I have been actively trying to be more present. What started as a quirk became an indication of a more serious problem. I found my mind drifting further and further, from innocent daydreaming, to the need to escape, to becoming a prisoner in this world I had created. Very long story short, I became lost. I still am. Often.

Untangling the “real world” from what I have been living has been like picking at knots. A little tug here, a pull there; slowly the root of the mess comes into focus, but you know you’ve got your work cut out for you. With the knot disappearing, a dividing line begins to take shape, distinctly differentiating “here” from “there.” Herein lies the question. “Where are your feet?” reminds me to take stock. Am I here or there? Am I where I need to be? Am I present?

I know there are merits to waiting until a series of work is complete before presenting it, but I want to share “Where Your Feet Are” from the beginning. This series is about the unraveling of the knot- about progression rather than the final product. As I take time to be mindful and present, I find myself in a quiet exploration of the world (for lack of a better term) that I’ve long neglected. There is beauty in simple, banal scenes. To acknowledge the place of these scenes in my every day, to study them, is to be thoroughly present. It’s like seeing everything for the first time; reading a novel in the light and shadows of a simple dish towel, of the fragility of the dust on the shelves, the strength in a lopsided stacks of dishes. It is a recognition of the precarious balance of permanent and temporary existence.

As my understanding of place continues to evolve, this series will evolve with it. Photos will come and go, but I feel the most important part is the changing vision. Right now there is quiet, there is a lot of contemplation. Over the next few years, maybe we will see brighter, louder counterparts. Who knows? If I’ve learned anything these last few months, it is that the mind is not to be rushed. It can be best to let things just come in their own time. In the words of an old friend, just “be where your feet are.” And my feet are not running anywhere.

Where They Meet, 2020, shot with Canon AE-1 on Cinestill 50D 35mm

Bird Bath, 2020, shot with Canon AE-1 on Cinestill 50D 35mm

Sew, 2020, shot with Canon AE-1 on Cinestill 50D 35mm

Pane, 2020, shot with Canon AE-1 on Cinestill 50D 35mm

Winter Morning, 7:00 am, 2020, shot with Canon AE-1 on Cinestill 50D 35mm

MMA, 2020, shot with Canon AE-1 on Cinestill 50D 35mm

On Vulnerability

The layer that separates the inside and outside is surprisingly thin. Our boundaries, our skin, our realities. At times, the two swirl together, inexorably mixed. No matter how we try to scoop it up, it simply runs through our fingers like water. Other times, it is like stepping on newly formed ice in a puddle. One slow creak and the ice breaks, the ends jagged and cold, driven up and away from the epicenter. Some pieces wind up submerged.

Sometimes it feels that the skin of our sleep is the same. At a single touch, reality could break across the entire galaxy, its calloused edges retreating, leaving only a milky black pool at the center. Churning, the pieces are carried out to sea. The tangible life so confidently known only moments before mingle with something stronger, creeping up from a deeper place; the two are no longer separate. Color and motion begin to take shape and their fluidity seems boundless; however, rational sense knows that a bottomless pit is impossible. But we let go anyway.

Sleep and vulnerability go hand-in-hand. Certainly there is the element of trusting your body to the external milieu, but more importantly, your mind adventures boundlessly. It is oblivious to the limits we place on it while we’re awake. We trust our subconscious to explore the deep recesses we cannot knowingly access and report back to us in the morning. Our dreams, whether narrative or formless, are the illustrations of our inner vulnerability.

Self Portrait II, From Hypnagogia, Kathryn Reichert, March 2019

Vulnerability is the recognition of this thin layer of protection; to damage it is to risk the sacrifice of the purest, most raw part of yourself. You lay out all of the splints and the fractures that you can find, dripping with whatever remnants previously lie underneath. Pieces are inevitably lost, but this is you, bare, emblazoned in your flaws. Those missing pieces are never the same from one person to the next. Imperfections are the only thing that can be wholly owned without reserve; they are each claimed for our own and that is where beauty comes from.