Starting Again

The month of migraines wiped me out physically and emotionally.  I've been through long periods of pain like that for years, but I can't recollect having ever been so drained afterwards.  Once the pain was gone, I didn't bounce back up to where I'd been, and couldn't find the motivation to do anything more than small tasks such as grocery shopping and getting to meetings.  A good part of that could be attributed to the fact that my vacation was just a few weeks away--classes were over, I didn't have the energy to write, and there wasn't any point in gearing up for larger projects.  More importantly, certainly, was the time I'd spent in bed reflecting on paring down my ambitions and accepting my limitations.  I've been fighting with my limitations for years, trying to push past them.  Now I realize that accepting them isn't giving in or up, that it's actually a way of focusing on what I can do.

I know now that it's really not likely that I'll get back into galleries, even though it's not actually being represented by galleries that's so important to me.  I miss the high of shooting, I miss the fracture of a second in which I know with certainty that I've captured an image, the image, that I was seeking.  I miss the hours and days working on a print until I understood it, got it to speak.  A negative is like a musical score, which can be interpretetated in many ways: you must interpret it to resound.  I miss retouching a print until every single imperfection is gone.  Can I pare down my photographic amibitions without losing that pleasure?  Exhibiting in galleries is just the final step in that process.  Not the most important part of the process.  What always mattered to me the most was doing the work itself.  My work doesn't fit in with modern or contemporary photographic trends by a long shot, because I've always done it for myself without trying to follow my peers.  It's just my vision, that's all.  Once I had my portfolio read at Le Musée de la Photographie here in Paris, and the man who read it said that he loved my work but that it was dangerously erotic and too close to fashion, that I should shoot my models entirely nude, Basically, he was telling me that if I wanted to be exhibited in a museum, I would have to rob my work of it's meaning.  If at some point I feel that entire nudity is necessary to what I want to express, that's okay, but I'm not going to do it just in order to be exhibited in a museum.

One of the other main things I was thinking about while stuck in bed was whether or not to move to Palma d Mallorca, where my brother Peter lives.  He's been urging me to move there for three or four years now, because he feels helpless when I'm not doing well and he's too far away to help take care of me.  He also knows that I do better in the sun.  That's true of many people of course, but even when I was a child my family noticed that my summers away in the desert had a huge impact on my well being.  And every summer that I've gone to visit him there him there has made me feel hugely better.  I've hesitated, however, because I couldn't imaginge what living in a small town like that like that year round would be like.  I've been a big city rat for so many years now, that the idea of moving there made me think of being a goldfish in a small bowl swimming in circles.  This last Christmas he invited me for seven weeks, so I could get a feel of what it would be like in winter.  


Stuck in bed with the migraines, I finally made the decision to move to Palma, for many reasons, being with family being one of the most important.  Making the decision to leave Paris is not one that one does lightly after having spent more than half there life here.  Then I met with my social worker and found out that I wouldn't be able to get my disability there.  Retirement yes, but disability no.  And then to add insult to injury, I realized that I'm stuck here for a minimum of four more years because I have someone else in charge of my finances.  I have a weekly grocery allowance, for any further expenses I have to make requests, which my budget will not allow for the next two years.  When the impact of this realization hit me I was angry and resentful for several days.  Trapped by poverty and administration.  Fortunately my thinking began to change.

If I spend the four years working diligently to learn Spanish, my move there will be more than considerably easier.  I have acess to an inexpensive photo studio here, so I could complete the photo series that I'm working on.  I can have my prints done by top notch photo labs here, if I can find the money.  I could possibly find a gallery here, and even in other European countries.  I've got a psychiatrist, psychologist, and full health care here.  I can write here (or anywhere).  I have a great alcoholic support group here.  I've got a great new sponsor with whom I have confidence that I can go through the twelve steps in a much more in depth way than I have in the past--which means not just staying sober, but building a happier and healthier life than I've ever had.  Also, without seeking it, I just got two sponsees who are really motivated, and to whom I'm really honored to be of service.  With my disability card I can get in to all the museums and swimpools for free, and the list goes on. Yes my room still is so tiny and filled with the last of my belongings that I can't let go of, that I have to walke sideways from my front door to the toilet, the desk and my bed, but I can live with that as long as I know it's not permanent.