I photographed my exes.

People I shared intimacy with. Some who I slept with once. Others who I truly felt love for. Some are what ifs, others are could’ve beens, but all are people I gave a piece of myself to.

 

Maybe by photographing them I’ll get that piece back. I’ll capture something of theirs, like they captured me some weeks, months, and years ago. At a time when I hoarded intimate moments, desperately needing validation. Desperately needing to feel wanted and loved. 

 

Through some miracle (through age, or maybe my weeks in therapy?) I’ve freed myself from my fixation on intimacy. So I'm going back, and exploring my changed relationship with those that were subjects in a narrative filled with insecurity and self-loathing. With the need for them gone, has our connection weakened, or intensified? How much of what I shared with them was real, and how much of it was perpetuated by longing and delusion?

Daniel
Richy
Dino
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