Photographing yourself isn’t easy. As a matter of a fact it’s harder than I could have imagined. We’re living in the world bombarded by selfies, the illusion of the never ending crowd of perfect, beautiful people hidden under ideal make up. If you ask me, it feels pretty intimidating.
When I thought about taking a self portrait I was trying to think about something different, more real and authentic. Something that defines me more than my face on the night out. I take photos of others as I see them. They’re authentic. I document them in a pure, unaware way lost in the moment, ideally a moment characteristic for the subject. In my subjective, or objective eye for the moment of releasing my shutter button they become naked.
It doesn’t work that way with the self. Self is complicated and I am critical. Self is hard to define, and I refuse to seek a definition. Who wants to be put in a box with a definition on a top? Self is the most vulnerable model I could have asked for. Hardest to please and unwilling to compromise.
I decided to go back. To my bed that isn’t the right size anymore, my cat, my post-communist family photo album, the familiar warm light.
After all, could we be ourselves more than at home?