Heaven is a Photograph by Christine Sloan Stoddard
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Radiance Cannot Be Photoshopped
i sit in the digital media lab, swamped by computers with blank faces. the legions sleep— that is, all but one. my computer’s screen blinks at me. her impatience clouds the air. i turn away. outside, a snowstorm sweeps across campus. for a moment, i think about the perfection of a single snowflake. then my mind jumps back to silver and white souls humming around me. i tap a random key on the keyboard. the letter ‘c.’ choose. choose now. i button up my cardigan and pull my scarf out from my backpack. the lab’s large windows make the room an icebox in the winter. the hairs on my arms start to wilt as i warm up. the snow falls harder. down the hall, another student putters around in the kitchen. cabinet doors open and close. the microwave beeps. that is not my hot food. i return to my expectant computer. adobe photoshop stares back at me. choose. tab after tab reveals a woman i have never met. her eyes pierce my eyes. i do not know her name, her occupation, or her heart’s desires. i only know that i have been tasked with editing 10 portraits of this person. my professor shared the portraits via dropbox and included a list of instructions: 1. remove her freckles. 2. brighten the whites of her eyes. 3. redden her lips. 4. lighten her hair. 5. lessen her chin waddle. on and on and on. i do not pity the woman for having bags under her eyes. the tiny mole on her clavicle does not bother me. her teeth’s slight yellow tint does not make me gasp. in every portrait, the woman appears happy and health. she smiles not just with her lips but her whole face. she glows. she knows that she is loved and that suffering is temporary. i do a quick color correction on each photo, but only to adjust for the photographer’s errors: underexposure, overexposure, blurriness, extraneous visual information that should be cropped. i do not morph the subject into an unrecognizable version of herself. as i wait for the files to upload in my class folder, i compose an email to my professor explaining why i did not complete the assignment as required. radiance cannot be photoshopped. i press send right after the files finish uploading. before i start to pack up, i glance out the window to the fading snowstorm. |
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The Dead Girl Artist's Scientific Method
have you ever read an artist statement written by a cadaver? imagine the photographer typing in her coffin. oh, you thought it was a man? no, this dead artist is a woman. some might call her a girl. she is still willowy. not yet 30. never pregnant, free from the scars that “make” a “woman.” actually, was. past tense. she’s just a buried body now. camera mechanics do not intoxicate me but they enable me to paint with light. here in the darkness, I crave light. in life, I ate too many worms, too much dirt. all because he didn’t love me. i shouldn’t have cared. who was he but a ghostly distraction? a skeletal character too mysterious for me to add flesh. you must know a soul to love it. i photographed my sallow self before sunset. these were not expressionistic portraits. these were scientific documents, photos for the lab and the archives. maybe a microscope could tell me why he did not love me. I would crack the lens to find out. was it my curly hair? did he long for straight? was it my mayan nose? did he want a ski slope? was it my ripe olive tone? did he prefer peaches and cream? obsession does not make for clear thinking and my mind had always been crystal. i should’ve abandoned my lab coat. there are softer things to wear. why live with coarse fabrics? life is coarse enough. i probed too hard with my camera. he doesn’t love you. i stabbed myself with my tripod. he doesn’t love you. i knocked myself out with studio lights. he doesn’t love you. an encouraging friend might say: at least these unrequited affections taught you photography. and now you can write grant proposals from the grave. is that a nobler use of eternity than pushing up daisies? turning rejection and loneliness into art? now that I am dead, my paranoia has died, too. he never loved me because he never knew me. no lab results necessary. |
BFA
the tapping of pencils in the great hall drums out all serenity from the brain think about your future my camera is my heart think about your life my camera is my soul but you have a stomach feed your stomach the relentless grip of societal expectations could shatter the skull i filled out that green index card and wrote ‘photography’ on the long black line my major decision was not so major right? the lens obsessed do not choose medicine or law business will not do dentistry is a cavity in an artist’s heart we choose the path that could kill us pull the trigger and bang! goes the camera ready, set, shoot four years and a diploma four years and a portfolio four years and nobody knows what is next |
