mapping project

For this project I chose to map windows; in particular, the windows of my dorm. While taking these pictures, however, I realized that the windows not only let you see in and out, but seemed to be mixing the inside and outside worlds. On a flat piece of photography paper, there is no inside or outside, there is just an image. In the real world, there are plants and hoses inside and entire houses outside. The outside affected the shadows on the windows and the glass let through light. I also found it interesting how I saw it as almost a battle between the wild and the domestic. The house gets two points for capturing some of the wild's flowers and an entire hose, and has invaded with lawn ornaments! The outdoors retaliates by splaying threatening shadows of branches across the house.

emulation project

For this project I decided to emulate Lorna Simpson's Public Sex exhibit. She took pictures of landscapes and blew them up very large, and then beside the photo put a small card with a scene or a couple of lines explaining what the viewer is looking at. The theme was places one could have sex publicly. I was fascinated by this, because that overarching theme completely changed the way I looked at her photos.

I decided to take a slightly different theme of death. We pass by so many places on a daily basis that have stories, and I wanted to show some of them. I blew the photos up as large as my paper would allow, and attempted to tint them slightly to get the feel of Lorna Simpson's work.

quince project

I never had a quinceañera. My normal answer to the question of "Why?" is a puzzled look, and then an "I don't know!" with a silly grin and my arms stretched out wide. The real answer is, I was never Cuban enough.

At fifteen, I had a dog's understanding of Spanish; basic commands and cooing was most of my vocabulary. Everything that happened to me, happened to me right then. Tenses were unknown, and the dreaded subjunctive didn't even exist. I knew how to say things like, "Do you want some more ice cream?" and "You're so bad!" I didn't actually realize how bad my Spanish really was until I came here, and was placed out of the entire first year of Spanish. I learned four tenses in a week. Students from the middle of nowhere with thick southern accents knew ten times the amount of Spanish I did. It was, and still is, embarrassing. I'm taking that class pass/fail, and just trying to keep up.

It's "my" language. I should know it, but I don't. I missed out on the language, and the culture, and I've always found my last name to be a burden. People can't pronounce it properly, and when they can, they expect me to be someone I'm not. My culture extends just as far as a soft spot for flan and guava pastries.

So I never had a quinceañera. How could I? I was too queer, too klutzy, too anti-social, and too white. I didn't want to wear the tiara and think about how much I didn't belong. I didn't want to have to make small talk in my broken Spanish to relatives I'd never met before. I didn't want one of my cousins to be my escort. My blond, blue-eyed mother was the one who wanted me to have a quinceañera. My dad didn't care. My mom likes frilly things, and pink, and flowers. I just like dresses. One time when we were shopping, I came across the most gorgeous dress I had ever seen, on sale. I was fourteen, and my mother was still laboring under the delusion that my quince was going to happen. She let me get it. It sat in my closet for years.

The dress still fits. And if the shoe fits, wear it, isn't that what they always say? So I wore my dress, because I lied when I said I didn't want to have a quinceañera. I did, desperately. I wanted to own it, to own my blood and my culture and my language. Instead, three years too late on a random Sunday in November, I gave myself the kind of quinceañera I wish I had: just friends, cake, and laughter.

eden

Sorry for the lack of a organizational structure of these pictures. I don't really know how to rearrange them. Anyway, this is my final project.













Thirteen is a harsh year. My little sister is thirteen, but she looks older and acts much younger. At thirteen you still like all sorts of childish things—but are much too embarrassed to admit it to your middle-school peers. My sister is still obsessed with Hannah Montana and the Disney Channel. Unfortunately, all too often at thirteen you give up all sorts of things you used to like in an attempt to look “cool.” Ballet is too girly, something you do when you’re little because your mom forces you. Outdoor roughhousing? You don’t want to be a tomboy now, do you?

The other problem of being thirteen, is that suddenly your body, which used to be just perfect for climbing trees and playing, is never good enough. For the past couple of months, I haven’t been able to go shopping with my little sister, because I just can’t stand watching anyone be so hard on their body. She’s physically matured faster than most of her friends, which makes her hate herself.

All the girls in these photos are about thirteen, and were all more than thrilled to play dress-up and get their pictures taken. I had them dress in both childish costumes and more adult outfits in order to symbolize this stage of being in between adulthood and childhood and on the outskirts of adolescence. We had a princess, a fairy, a business executive, a witch, a prom-goer, and Little Red Riding Hood. None of their outfits fit properly; some were pinned on and others showed far too much bra.

In Eden, I decided, that didn’t matter. An Eden for an early teenager would be a place not just to wait it out, but to enjoy being in the middle; to try on new personas every day and figure out what kind of person you wanted to be. There would be no locker rooms, no cafeteria lunch tables, and no comparisons. There would just be a couple of friends, a sunny day, and a chest full of costumes.