How far do we step inside of ourselves? Have a look beneath the skin? Is it vanity? It it a search for truth? Justice? The American Way?
I look at the work of Francesca Woodman and see I work that is an exploration in progress for self truth. A process. A work that is left undone. I do not see the genius or tragedy that is expressed and written about her work. I see a young woman, an art student in the fledgling throes of exploring who she is. I do not see a work that is complete. One’s work never is, until that time that we are no more.
The tragedy is the ways and the means of her death. A premature end to her work and exploration. Her images are her mirror. For us they are a window. From her images, we can peer into, but we cannot know, only guess, who she is. We can only speculate her life from her imagery, the thoughts of those who knew her. Friends, her parents. Not those art critics who love to discover, label, and take possession of their finds as their own.
“Yesterday’s Dream” © Keith Goldstein
(These thoughts are my own and by no means written to disparage Ms. Woodman’s work.)