Brittanie Jones Is

Monday, December 12, 2011

VOTE

Want to do a christmas card/print... Which one?!?!

Chauncy Peak and love.

Sometimes my photography is super self serving. Say CHEESE

When my aunt passed away last year, I smuggled the family spoons out of her basement, keeping them in the original stone mason jar that I found them in. They just reminded me of when I was a child, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why a spoon would be so small.

I pulled out these spoons recently to photograph them and study them.

I haven't updated this in quite a while, but life is pretty different since my last post. I've had my usual ups and downs. Surviving as an adult is harder than it looks. But we gotta hold on to what we've got, it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not...

I had to :3

Anyway, I thought I'd just give a little precursor to the photo dump that may be happening in the next few weeks.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Proud Decay

Over the last year, I have tapped into a very textural vein in my work. Obsession with layering and combining these textures has led me to taking targeted images. As I began building an archive of these degraded, rough, tactile photographs, I started thinking about what texture means to me. I realized that the aspect of texture that I enjoy so much is the way an object’s surface displays the passing of time. A building can show how it has survived hardships through its’ marred exterior just as a scar or mark on the human body can. The hand of the world presses into everything, leaving its impression on surfaces and objects as they interact with the sands of the hourglass.

Particularly in my new town, Elmira, the passing of time in the textures and landscapes of buildings and objects can be plainly read. I don’t know anything about the history of this place, I have only interacted with its houses, its streets, and its people, crafting my own ideas of its past as I wander the once-proud streets. Sprawling townhouses with decorative gingerbread accents slowly melt into the ground, paint chips flaking like old scales from the carefully constructed facades.

Every time I mention to a long term resident of Elmira that I relocated here by choice, I get strange looks, guffaws, and the inevitable question: Why? I haven’t spoken to anyone that seems genuinely proud to live here. The times seem to have beaten them. They appear just like those buildings, once raised up with high hopes and dreams, bolstered up with balustrades of hard upbringings, now with the texture of time worn into their souls.