In November we welcome writer and photographer Jaret Ferratusco, presenting his photography exhibition entitled “Black Portraits”. Through his work Jaret presents both photographic and literary considerations of unsuspecting individuals who are struggling with overwhelming and drastic changes in personality through what may be termed clinical depression.
He says in his show statement, “When your mood has shifted for the worse, when you are paranoid yet unmoved, the field of dreams scatters as if exploded, raining down again in a mess; commonly it’s unvoiced, unattended to. It burrows and grows silently.” Black Portraits will open November 3rd as part of First Thursday, with special musical guest Myrrh Larsen performing ambient rock throughout the evening. All photographs shot on 35mm film.
Jaret Ferratusco was born in New England in 1977. Having been a tour photographer on the road with various indie bands from one side of the country to the other for over ten years, he is the longtime proprietor of Corpse On Pumpkin Photography, an independent photographic production company, as well as its newer, sister company, the fiction publishing endeavor PATIENT, FOLDED HANDS. He is the author of two books, 2009′s ‘I Grew Up In Amaltherey Hill’ and the recent summer release of ‘Please Don’t Leave Me’, a collection of dark fiction.
First Thursday:
Artist’s Statement:
You are not alone (so they say). A person may experience in their repetitive days, boldly recurring times of overly personal interior doubt that tends to weigh ungraciously heavy. It can be kept well hidden, in these times, hovering behind unvoiced doubts that shiver within you like a vague chill you barely notice. But when you do notice, when you can’t let it go, it starts a spiral downward, when these occasional times begin not to separate themselves but to take over seemingly everything. Emotionally antagonistic great weights will sit on your shoulders, the burdens and daily crosses to bear will follow you around, tugging at you from behind, holding you back. Your private, locked eye-to-eye contact in a bathroom mirror will bark out the personal impressions of yourself as you perceive all purpose in you degrading. The constant worry and wonderment over fragile contact will seem too much to handle; the incalculable mystery of your friends and family will frustrate you; your trust, those who trust you or those who don’t, those who can’t and those who won’t. When your mood has shifted for the worse, when you are paranoid yet unmoved, the field of dreams scatters as if exploded, raining down again in a mess; commonly it’s unvoiced, unattended to. It burrows and grows silently. In such cases where it may be examined, it’s merely voiced-off and considered part of the human condition. That’s just life. Depression, overwhelming sadness and discouragement, it’s “just life.” You’ll say this because they’ll say it, and outside everyone agrees. But what of it on the inside. What if it’s not a commonality after all. What if it’s really just you.
