Drown, Drift, Float, Wake

Recently on a whim, I acted against my better judgment and took a couple of hours to visit a local clothing factory. Abandoned for almost 25 years, so much still remains, though it is a little local secret for students in the city. It had been almost a year since I'd last visited and seemingly just as long since I'd been on such an adventure. Certainly the motivation and excitement I used to feel has been long gone no matter what I have done to bring it back. We came, we saw, we conquered. But that something inside of me lay low in the cold, bogged down and stuck tightly as though in frozen molasses.



The "zone," the one that you have to actively strive to maintain even if you visit the mindset on a regular basis, has been long locked behind a door, the key nearly lost and the hole dusted over with cobwebs. On one hand I nonchalantly brushed it off because so many other life commitments have been vying for my attention lately. On the other hand was rising panic for a part of me that had suddenly disappeared. I would sooner rather wake up and find my right leg gone than miss the spark that drives me.

Perhaps my focus and ambition went the way of the clothing factory. Like the employees that picked up and suddenly left in 1985, perhaps everything inside my head that made life worth living simply decided to seek fortune elsewhere? I was the mannequin without a heart, the million voiceless woolen coats standing patiently for their return. Since then I have been here, bereft of words, waiting for strong arms to take me up and give me shape, warmth and movement once again.



Slipping off the backpack, assembling my kit and snapping my tripod into shape was the hardest thing I had to do this day. The fear of failure, of solid confirmation that yes it really is gone was the gaping vortex that threatened to tip me into the deepest internal abyss. For months I had given myself just one more reason to not find out, just one more extended deadline. No muscles are harder to work than the ones that have seen so much neglect. Excuses are easy. Work is not.

I do not know for sure if I will ever live up to any expectations made of me. Those I hold most dear understand that I will never feel that I fill my own shoes, but with this familiar jest comes a much more serious issue of understanding what truly is and what is not. Who am I? Who are we all? When will we be satisfied with our capabilities? When will we stop making so many excuses?



I will never look into my viewfinder and be confused again. I refuse to let go of all the work I have done and lose the map of roads I have traversed in the dark. Even if I have no formal guidance in what I do and what I create, I have a light within that will always burn brightly.

Full gallery for the Fischer Clothing Factory.