5. Blues and Greens

This is a snapshot of a moment in time– it remains incomplete.

*June 2021*
Jumping takes you higher but you can't go back down. You can always start over. When it seems you'll never see the ground again, that's right where you'll find yourself.

In my last tryptic of albums I envisioned hands and feet, wondering whether my next work might come nearer to my body.

There might have been more intimate portraits of me in this exhibition, but just as I started to work, the photos from my first 364 days of transition were locked inside my phone. A time capsule or a grave? How peculiar to begin a self portrait and lose a year of selfies.

The piece began with disembodied shapes. The gallery formed around them and the portraits came last. Tvordis recorded the gallery dins in 2015 and I carried them lovingly from hard drive to hard drive ever since. So abundantly duplicated that they will never perish. He shows his presence with clicks of his tongue and snaps to test the shape of the room.

I see the ghost in the machine tampering with my most intimate data, demanding that I compose rather than archive myself. Still, I mourn the loss of this residue– the private rejected documents of my dysphoria and euphoria negotiating their spiraling tension upward and out.

I sat for a portrait and staged some of my tools below the assemblages of 3D printer waste stuck to my wall, for which I was still seeking a venue. This staged background remains in the video pieces.

My breasts no longer feel like tight painful buds. Here I document myself enjoying that feeling. I watch myself refracted through the video synthesizer and see my body as clearly as ever.