Self-portraits

 

Introduction: This is an unfinished project of a photobook: a travel across my identity crisis. This is me, looking desperately for a reply of who I am, but it could be also you in case we share that anxiety, that confussion. If you find yourself here, I hope you feel you are not alone, and I hug you in the lonely fog that surround us.

Page 1.

 

All my landscapes are expressions of myself.

I don´t look for myself on the landscape, but I found the understanding of my feelings on it. It may sound corny but I understand myself (sometimes).

 

Page 2.

Some pictures where I lost me, and also found me:

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A landscape

 Page 3.

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A person leaving the place.

Page 4.

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An empty wait.

Page 5.

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A still life of a dead love.

 Page 6.

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I see myself everywhere, except in the mirror.

 

 

Page 8.

-How to portray yourself, if you don´t know who you are?

 

 

-Why portray yourself if you already know who you are?

 

 

Page 9.

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I ran away and part of us has lost in the way.

Page 10.

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If I see a demon, I will ask him to come back inside my mind.

Page 11.

Sometimes I feel I cheat myself and I am not me. I play another role even I don´t know which one is mine. I fail on the script and I get frustrated with my acting, I mistake the timing and with any knowledge of what is my goal, I feel I am not enough, almost ashamed.

I guess everyone has their hang-ups.

Page 12.

But I don´t recognize myself, with or without pimples.

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And this is a problem of identity, not of esteem. I mean, I don´t like pimples. Few people like them.

Page 13.

But if you are sad because of that, you can always think that even the moon has pimples and craters.

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And everyone likes the moon.

But does the moon hate herself?

Page 14.

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Do the stars feel alone, or are they connected?

Page 15.

Finally, I got tattooed.

 

I needed a wound

to see in the mirror,

and touch the scar

while I look into my eyes

and I say,

This is me, this is my body.

 

Page 16.

Page 17.

Page 18.

Page 19.

Page 20.

Page 21.

“How can I feel proud, when I am not even sure of who I am?”

An old poem and two self-portraits.

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How can I be proud when I am not even sure of who I am?
How can I be proud, if instead pride
I feel fear.

I am scared not to fit,
and I feel that I don´t fit
I tried hard and I felt as faking myself
but then I tried the opposite
and I felt lost, unaccepted, alone.

Where do I belong?

I am not sure of who I am
and this is normal because I am sixteen.
But they still ask me If I have a girlfriend,
they laugh and say something sexist and I feel sick.
Some people misgender me,
and when they notice some apologies
others insist, like “Are you sure?”

And I was never sure.
And I never reply,
neither cry.
But all the tears,
all the fear
it vibrates inside me
every time I let myself;
to be me.
Like butterflies in the stomach,
like to fall in love
with someone of your same gender
and feel how a thousand ugly flying bugs
haunt and bite your organs.

To be brave,
to not think if you are not who you thought
or who they told you,
step up over the anxiety
and ask that person to go out on a date,
at the same time
you see how his face changes
like you threw up a mass
of dead blue butterflies.
You feel rejection and hostility
and literally a punch,
of homophobia
for the first time,
by then you know it´s not gonna be the last one.

And after many years,
when you know more about sexuality and gender
and other oppressions,
and not what the society says in the school,
I mean, nothing, and wear condoms tho’
when I am not confused anymore,
I discover that my first crush
calls himself hetero-curious,
because he is a brave ´Machito´man,
and he thinks “homosexuality is not for men”.

So it was at that party,
he tried to kiss me
and I was afraid he would punch me again
if I would not kiss him back,
I kissed him back, he punched me anyways
and with the faggot word
he tried to bury me alive.

And that time I cried,
not because of the punch, not because of the word.
I was as afraid as I was at sixteen.
But after taste his beautiful lips,
I felt that all the fear and anxiety I had, (and I still have)
he had it the same and even more,
and I started to cry so hard
because I wanted to hug him, to say him it´s okay
despite what they taught him.
And I couldn’t stop crying
when in the deepest part of his sight,
I saw through the violence and the confusion; he wanted the same.

I never hug him,
and I never stopped crying because of that.

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Page I lost the count.

Page a few more then.

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