By Patrick La Roque
Well, this took a turn. I was initially going deeper into self-examination for this essay, writing down thoughts about the fluidity of identity, not yet exactly sure of the angle but getting there, slowly. And then the words suddenly felt...claustrophobic.
The concept of how we define ourselves is immense. It branches out from our private thoughts, to our perception of others through language and culture; to tribes and to nations. As we can now see all too clearly however, these are nothing but shells. Ultimately we’re not red or white or black or blue; we’re not doctors or kings. We’re not even photographers. We’re a collection of atoms, all of us assembled according to a single blueprint. All of us carrying the same design flaws.
It’s humbling, this virus. It lays waste to class and to borders and makeshift walls. It equalizes. It levels. It does not differentiate. It attacks a single organism…
Us.
One identity.
...
I don’t scare easily. But I admit being afraid for my friends, my family. I admit being terrified for my kids. So yes, this story took a turn. I shot multiple exposures, then I scribbled and painted on the images in an attempt at exorcism.
It doesn’t define anything.
It might express something.
