I've noticed that I have a decidedly morbid taste in photography. Ethereal, happy photography is all well and good but given the choice I will take darker and maybe even gorier photography. I don't like tasteless perversion unless it's done with self-awareness and humor (hay thar Terry Richardson), but somehow looking at fake smiles makes me more depressed than looking at actually depressed people.
I prefer pictures that would give me chills to find in a derelict house, something that would make me feel like I'm peeking into something warped and beautiful and hidden. Beauty isn't seen in just pretty and delicate things but defective things and mistakes as well. Photography that reflects that is visual chocolate to me.
It's only natural that Wendy Bevan is my newest muse.
Looking at her photography is kind of like looking into a stranger's past. Everything is laid bare, not necessarily happy or sad, it's just there and almost forgotten--until you discover it. Melancholic, and pretty in a harsh way. I think I like it because when I look at my old family photo's, I imagine she'd enjoy them.
One of my favorite photo's of all time is one of my dad's father, in bed with a mannequin. It was evidence he paid for to be made so in court, he could divorce his first wife and marry my grandmother. It was the only way for the divorce to be recognized by the Church. The photograph is long gone now, but the shoddy lighting and the meaning behind it is something I'd like to hope will be ingrained in my mind forever.