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Showing posts with label folie a plusieurs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label folie a plusieurs. Show all posts
Folie à Plusieurs
The madness of many barbed dolls – this 12-month long series of film photographs of plastic dolls represents me in various scenarios, forms, circumstances, and aspects. All dolls, specifically named, were intentionally photographed naked, and sometimes even physically deformed, to illuminate the transparency and truth of my adventures and misadventures as I struggle, triumph, and wait for chances, people, and time to pass me by. Different 35mm films and cameras were used and varied grains, hues, and vignettes resulted. Collectively, all of these depict a year-long process of anticipating, persevering, and waiting.
In parallel to my handwritten compositions (touch-typed in each link below), I painstakingly narrated my emotions and experiences (which were oftentimes real and sometimes in reverie) using parchment and black ink. In one way or the other, my personalities are projected to the dolls and each of them signifies my personality as a young adult who, like many others, is searching for her soul.
01. Ten Minutes After Ten
02. Cadaveric Spasms
03. Call for Help Scenes
04. Frail Fragments
05. Double Entendre
06. Else and More
07. Oh, a gentle thing!
08. Slow-Motion Replay
09. Delightful Ever So
10. Anatomical Parts
11. Sore Sentiments
12. She Hardly Executes
*Folie a Plusieurs is my contribution to Whilst We Wait.
She Hardly Executes
She surpassed a whole year of anticipation.
Triumphant
redundant
abundant
amorphous
cantankerous
marvelous
She is blessed, nevertheless.
And she is grateful.
The traces of her words are inked to her soul
and the tracks of her journey are linked to her future.
She is stepping forward.
She is leaving the past aside.
Alliterations
frustrations
precipitations
blasphemy
eternity
mediocrity
She survived an entire year of instigation.
She is inspired, nonetheless.
And she is hopeful all the more.
The shadows of her stills are etched in her mind
and the sieves of her experiences are partnered with her present.
She is looking forward.
She is moving forward.
Different desires
various projections
innumerable personalities
But all of these are to be molded into one
and then everything shall go back to the pronoun:
she.
Sore Sentiments
Exhausted, emotionally and intellectually.
But still she tries to hold on, she lives, and hopes for.
Every now and then, she seeks for her own comfort place.
She gets tired of talking,
and even writing,
in the third person point of view
and then she resorts to her usual desolate place -
his heart.
She struggles and in the end,
she neither fails nor wins.
She crumbles.
Inebriated, orally and subconsciously.
But still she scours for her soul, she strives, and hopes for.
Every little thing, she finds for her own peaceful cave.
She dreams of leaving,
and even escaping,
into the vast unknown
but she curdles back to her usual resonating place -
his heart.
She struggles until the very end
then she wins.
She fumbles.
Anatomical Parts
She is skin and bones.
Nighttime is now her most genial friend.
She feeds on dreams:
this is the drill.
She goes on for hours,
with an empty stomach
and always with a heavy heart,
she floats away...
She scavenges for thrills
and she haunts with will.
She is still the same.
Her skin is devoid of sunlight
and frailty overcomes her bearing.
Her palms are pale.
And her bones are prominent.
Sleek, slender collar bones:
she finds them sensual.
But everything is nonsensical.
She remains still.
She stays the same.
Her structure,
her integument,
her long lost unison...
soon to be retrieved,
soon to be revived.
Delightful Ever So
She sleeps with one eye closed and she dreams with high-end notes.
She writes and almost never writhes.
She has nothing but erratic ideas but she is stirred to make them happen.
She likes doing things that render her sleepless.
She is not pessimistic, oh what a fruitful change!
Full of new hopes, she is!
Technicolour, monochrome, and even in between:
she is to learn new things.
But the ones, living or neuter,
which are of most importance to her -
remain the same and unhinged.
She is running out of words to chew
but not of stories to spew.
She is altered.
She will alter.
Slow-Motion Replay
She is bewildered so she goes back all the time
into a familiar place more homely than home - his arms.
She likes things which are mundane
and likes being around with used books, dolls, and even scars.
Strange, though, since she is a stranger in her own skin.
She searches for a recognized sigh.
Then when relieved, she relives.
Not exactly the same but not entirely different,
she basks in her blissful, unfamiliar glory.
Her morrows are not full of sorrow.
Her collar bones, defined.
Her eyes' brows, aligned. She lays still.
Not exactly contented but not entirely displeased...
she stops and then sighs.
She is besotted so she goes anywhere but not home.
Still, she goes back into his arms.
Oh, a gentle thing!
Her skin is bare but she doesn't feel like a newborn.
Her hair, even without the seamless brushing of the wind, resonates above her shoulders. Strand by strand, they sway. She tries to reach for something but she cannot barely even see. Instead, she slithers, like a fanciful reverie in the bluest skies.
Her feet are bare and are decorated with earthly glitters that shine even behind her shadows. Ghastly in a way, mesmerizing in a way.
She was smitten.
She has forgotten.
She sleeps...
Else and More
She reads through her punctured words
and her ruptured tales and she feels as if
she is bound to weave something else
and something more.
She browses through her photographed scenes
and her reflected deeds and she feels as
if she bound to yield something else
and something more.
Her senses are whirling in great speed
like gaseous atoms inside a quadrilateral grid.
Her mind is in constant change.
Her tenses are whirring in a distinct beat
like fallacious notes along a tremendous feat.
Her soul is in constant change.
Only one thing is apparent.
Only one and nothing else.
She is loathsome no more.
Double Entendre
With her eyelids clenched,
she drenches her nape-short hair into a rose-tinged tub of water.
Her shivering is resonating in circles.
With her mouth closed,
she composes lyrics laced with lies in her gloom-stricken brain.
Her breathing is bellowing in despair.
With her nail beds iced,
she pinches her skinned knees with one hand
while she puffs out another smoke with the other.
With her diaphragm rested,
she heaves in a deep sigh in one second
while she smokes in another puff in the next second.
Her heartbeat is racing.
Her cigarette is burning.
Frail Fragments
Her palms: soaked in tear dribs.
Her eyes: sullen and sombre.
Her brows: squinting in dismay.
Her face: appears long, depicts longing.
Her lips: sighing in disbelief.
Her shins: alternately quivering.
Her insides: clenched into awkward whorls.
Her mind: exudes with flashbacks.
Her heart: defrosted from wicked desires.
Her soul: silkened with memories,
interlaced with stories,
brimming with hope -
fine figments...
waiting.
Call for Help Scenes
She prances under the paisley sunbeams, skin scorching, smelling like nitrogen.
Her dark goldenrod hair, swiftly shifting shades, shuffling, succumbing.
People notice her,
she swims and then sinks.
All is synchronized.
Pitiful,
she is lost.
Her limbs enunciate the whirlwind of pain passing through her veins.
Her heels remain steady, like that of a ballerina - softly staggering and suddenly stuttering.
She bends and then
she breaks.
All is jeopardized.
She glares,
face to face,
without a single blink across her lids,
faking like a fairy tale.
Her
salmon-colored face,
her
perfect skeletal frame,
her
glowing insides.
She is drowning.
Someone save her.
Someone
take
her.
Cadaveric Spasms
She is dressed in cerements,
sad and sullen.
Livor mortis.
Death rattles her.
Symptoms of drowning, images of ending.
Her benign thoughts slowly convulse into delusional doldrums.
Her unsung arias perpetually echo amidst a labyrinth of shrieks.
Dreamlike, but deathly.
To die while she's sleeping is such a dandy way to end her worth.
Instead of shedding blood or suturing pus or severing limbs.
Because death, even though it haunts her, can be beautiful.
Death portrays every life story's epilogue.
Death.
It puts an end and, more or less, an ellipsis.
Because death,
like everything that's tainted and thanatoid,
is unfathomable.
Dreamlike
and
deathly.
No, she is not praying for death to succumb to her.
But if she rests in peace even before her dreams are seized,
there is nothing but one question about her,
waiting to be answered.
Ultimately,
what would her
euphemism be?
Algor mortis.
Ten Minutes After Ten
It's 3, antemeridian, and she wears her long-sleeved plaids. Dawning in humidity, her one hand holds a naked plastic doll with skin as mahogany as hers. Her mouth speaks in fabrics, her heart sinks with fervor. Near the train's end, she waits for him. Oh, the shivers he sends.
Just like a flashing strobe, she and him blissed up north. Dusking in frigidity, his left hand slides against her pallid palm, veins and vessels are calm. His throat thirsts with nicotine, his brain drenched in heroin. Far from the city's trend, he smokes with her. Oh, the trembles she makes.
It's 4, postmeridian, outfits of black and white, with a tinge of blood. A series of unfortunate events interweaves their late summer nights' dreams. She hums him to sleep, she swims in reverie. Oh, they daydream for so long. Their future tense, they spoon, him enclosing her.
Just like a black hole, never-ending phrases of dandies. Those '50s thrills and secondhand finds. 6-hour rides and stolen shots. Whether rainy, rather windy. Water temperatures. Frosted windows. Wander-full strangers, beautiful you.
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Born in the mid-80s, Erin Herøin is a marveller of non-sequitur writing, cinematic films, & analogue photography.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
