I am not this body . but I am. Aching and full of longing. take a picture of this meat, this husk. You don't have me. I am something that cannot be photographed, cannot be named, defined, translated. there 's experience and that's all there is.

But there's also all this stuff. It gets in the way. You have to move it around. I've always had trouble with stuff. I've fought my whole life to have control over stuff, over the appearance of stuff: my chaotic hair, learning to play the accordion, getting dressed, being on time, electric bills, the five ballet positions, getting money, spending money, even just putting one foot in front of the other. Clear the table. A place for everything in its place. A battle for order, a battle for space.

I am not this body, but this is where I live. I'm trapped in here. I eat talk take pleasure feel pain from here. If you remove me from this body I am no more.

I am certainly not this photograph. Am I? These are traces of a moment when wisps of light pass over the physical world. Is not me. Like a shadow on a cloudy day, a poor reflection in a dirty mirror, a representation that can't contain the juice. Where am I in that tiny flat substitution, that 2-D knock -off of my flesh, my self's facade? Don't be fooled. I can't keep up with my thoughts; I barely sense my self. Maybe you see something you recognize of yourself, an imprint of something familiar.

The poignancy of the mute surface of the physical world. The physical world itself so promising and comforting even in its damaged, crumbling, flooded, shining, decaying, pathetic state. We embrace its sweet dumbness in our craving to get at something real. Photography depends on light falling on or off this stuff and then pretends it's the story. But I am not this body. This is not my story. But it is.

BARBARA ESS