THE METROPOLITAN RITUAL
a collaborative project.
my friends and i had been discussing a collaboration for about 2 years before we landed on this. one of us was a model, one photographer, and me – the writer and creative. this was most of our (including mine) first project. it's an amalgamation of our discussions and thoughts at the time.
the subject is approaching the time they start growing sick of the city. they miss home — whatever that means.
this is a diary entry from early 2023. i was about to start working and i felt like i had sold my words. i had such a hard time writing anything after that.
*some of the text describes the symbolism in the shots, and offers the reader a lens to look through.*
the italicized text goes over my reflections — the personal anguish, the diary entries, the emotions that fueled the project.
it starts with self-doubt always. i'm always a bad something – a bad friend, a bad daughter, a bad sister. someone who's ungrateful.
i have always been told that i'm a 'cool' person. i used to be terrified that the illusion would break and that people would get bored of me.
i was heartbroken
and so so young
they directly seek acknowledgment for their existence, only to be denied.
by now i realised that i had been sidelined. i wanted to be loved so desperately.
when i think about this time in my life, i can't hear a thing. it feels like being locked in a soundless room with a window into my memories.
i just keep watching everything on repeat, but i'm unable to recall anything meaningful.
their insufficiency sets their madness into motion.
i was paying you in body parts. i almost fucking died by november.
turms out, when you're watching the city for long enought, it starts watching you too.
i don't know how many times i can explain myself. your loyalty and affection is subjective.
i never thought about who i could be if i allowed myself to leave.
"i should have spoken in your tongue."
this will stay when i'm gone.
my love, my life — forgotten.
my pain will be plastered on every wall of this city.
you're not alive / you've been buried
you fill up your own grave with tears like little pearls / from my mother's necklace.
when will it be my turn?
after much deliberation, we decided to leave the end open, because as much as this is an art project, this is also deeply reflective of my relationship with the city — something that is still very much ongoing.