New York photographer Willy Somma and I started our collaboration while I was writing my script “I.V.” in the Mojave Desert. Her fascinating work of integrating poetic images of stylish cinematic women into the immensity of our urban or natural environments has met my research on the intimate relationship between womanhood and the wild land. Under 110 degrees, she dressed me in #Hermes and #HeidiMerrick and we drove together to my favorite spots of the low and high deserts. While I modeled or rather acted the different layers of that woman, she constructed phantasmagoric scenes in her lens. This turned into a transformative adventure for both a us and a wonderful friendship was born. This text below is the first illustrated picture which will be soon published in an entire series with a full story I’m currently writing.
For the past five years I have scrutinized and dreamed the fleshes, creases and bones of the low and high Southern California desert. Its skin has changed mine. My heart melted under the burning sun and evaporated the last tears in thin air. Nothing matter but the vast land. There, I didn’t mean more than a rock, a bug or a dormant flower waiting for the impossible wet. The desert is the purest mirror in which you can see, wide, deep and unforgivable. It’s the empty ocean which echoes old sirens songs from the dried veins of the collapsing faults. Water is everywhere yet nowhere to be seen, shinning an upside down white hot mirage barely tolerable to the eye. Like the ocean, I’m nothing here but yet I feel like I’m everything. I’m all I need to be. This land is offering itself naked, it’s giant lips open like a sex to the immensity of the blue sky. It’s dry but so wet inside. It has no shame because nothing to be ashamed of, just an exposed skin, the bones of the earth. I squint at the brightness and the loudness of this vision, I scream from the top of my lungs, but everything stays perfectly still. Boulders, rare trees, bushes, miles of sand just perfectly still. The noise is in my head. The other noise is deep down those guts, through those veins, far down those faults and creases, at the center of Her. Down there She is boiling too, like I’m up here, hoping to be heard. So when I stop the noise, and sit still on that still skin, when I let my pelvic breathe tilting down to her heart, through the secret path of the undergrounds, I hope that maybe she can feel me, hear my silence, and breath with me in unison.
areudirty
origamiaround
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
