This unfamiliarity with a thing suddenly not being mine is just one of the many reasons why losing my journal this week is the crappiest crap ever.
Failures. Triumphs. Pep talks. Savings goals. Character sketches. Plans. Promises. Insecurities. Shame. It was all kept in a 5 1/2 x 8" black binder in my purse. I wrote in it daily, honestly, and now it's part of the landscape of this damn city. No one shares this stuff, this uncomfortable goo that makes us human. Except maybe Steve Rosenfield's subjects. He's made a whole project of people's deepest fears and flaws.
"If it was private," you may be asking yourself, "why was it in your purse?" I don't know! It seems so stupid now.
But I have to say, I've taken comfort in these pictures. Why do I always feel so alone? I'm not alone. Everyone is holding onto some hurt. Maybe by losing the journal, I'm not holding on anymore. Maybe I've shed what was in there.
All images by Steve Rosenfield