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40 years ago today—19 January 1981—a young woman, a talented American photographer, died. She was just 22 years old.

Francesca Woodman was her name. In her short life, she had produced a collection of more than 800 photographs, each one individually unique, yet collectively they bear a distinctive, unifying aesthetic:

Dreamlike, whimsical, dark, just out of reach: Woodman’s photographs display a sense of self, as often she herself stood in as the subject, citing the “convenience” of having herself be the model. Her work is ethereal, as objects blur and move due to long exposure, while the lighting is soft and subtle. The daughter of artist parents, Francesca’s father gave his daughter her first camera, a 2.25-inch-by-2.25-inch Yashica, that she would use for most of her career. Taking her first self portrait at 13, it marked the beginning of a unique, and painful, journey.

I first came across Woodman’s work on Instagram last summer. I was immediately intrigued by the black and white images, undeniably creative in the poses, subjects, and expressions captured. They are such a stark contrast to the aesthetic offered on “Insta,” of near neon colored images with impossibly perfect subjects, with no flaws—or soul for that matter—to be found. Clearly, Woodman’s photographs were taken and developed before the digital age.

Accompanied with the images was this self portrait (above) of the very photographer, Francesca Woodman. Judging from the clothes, hair and type of camera pictured, I assumed Woodman was a photographer from the 1950s. Her aesthetic was yester-decade, not at all contemporary, but in a cool and natural way. When I came across this other self portrait, however, I had a sudden sense of foreboding.

She looks so…melancholy. Without having to look right away, I felt that her career—and life—had been short. I was already surprised that the majority of her work was taken in the 1970s, not the 50s; her aesthetic was already “retro” during the disco age. But I noted that the dates of the images I saw, never went any further. It was if the photographs—and the artist—simply stopped. I did some more research, and my forebodings were confirmed: Francesca committed suicide that January day, 40 years ago.

Knowing this, it’s all the more tempting to truly dive into her work, looking for clues that explain the why of what she did. For example, many of the photographs display the female form, nude, but not in a sexual or graphic way; many proponents claim Woodman’s art as feminist, as a “taking back” of the female form as when captured on film by a woman. However, Woodman herself never explicitly identified herself, or her work, as feminist. Many other images consist of the subject, usually Woodman, with her face and/ or body partially or completely obscured. Here, it’s easy to conclude that such images refer to a loss of identity.

Ask an art critic of what they make of Woodman’s images, and I’m sure you’ll get in-depth analyses. I’m still new to Woodman’s work, but regardless there’s a mastery in the creative genius the girl had. Its clear she had a passion for photography, yes, but more so for the aesthetic she captured on film. Her dedication to her craft was clearly there. So why did she end her life?

Like me, Francesca was born and raised in Colorado. She spent her formative years primarily in Boulder, where her parents worked as professors at CU. She spent summers in Florence, Italy, a place where her artistic aspirations thrived, as she was surrounded by museums. She took photography while at boarding school in Massachusetts, and in 1975 began attending Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), quite confident in her artistic abilities. As she further added to her portfolio, she remained determined to make her mark, specifically in becoming a fashion photographer. She thrived in school, but by the time she graduated, photography was not in vogue.

Moving to New York City, Francesca worked tirelessly in promoting her work and skills as a photographer, but met little success. Colleagues describe her as being needy and intense in nature, utterly dedicated to her craft but just as fragile in emotion. Acquaintances also cite Francesca’s desire to outshine the art accomplishments of her parents. Despite sending her portfolio to numerous companies and agencies, nothing came to fruition; others cited her work as too avant-garde. The first break came fall 1980, when Francesca attempted suicide for the first time. Family and friends did their best to monitor her, but her depression remained.

When Francesca learned that her application for funding from the National Endowment of Arts was rejected, it appears that this was the final straw. Already dealing with the aftermath of a failed relationship, Francesca was in crisis. She made her final journal entry, then made her way to a nearby building in New York’s Lower East Side, and jumped from a window.

At her death, Francesca’s work was unknown. However, in the years and decades following, her work has, finally, garnered much attention and critical praise. Since 1985, there have been several solo exhibitions of her work, the latest having been 2019-2020’s Francesca Woodman: Portrait of a Reputation held at Denver’s Museum of Modern Contemporary Art (how I wish I’d attended)! There are also several books showcasing her photographs and notebooks, as well as a full length documentary, The Woodmans, released on the 30th anniversary of her death, in January 2011.

I can’t help but wonder what Francesca, had she lived, would have made of social media, especially Instagram. Would she scoff at the “selfies” made by Milennials and Zoomers, citing them as uninspired, due to how easy it is to snap pics with a SmartPhone? How would she perceive SmartPhones as a device for taking photos? Are such devices blasphemous to photography? Or would she embrace all these changes, and perhaps envy Instagram, silently cursing for it not having existed when she was young, as it would’ve provided her with a more concrete platform for her work? Just as it so tempting, and easy, to analyze Francesca’s photography via the lens of her tragic death, so it is with asking these hypothetical questions. But one thing remains constant: Francesca’s conviction of her role as an artist, as she wrote, “I was (am?) not unique but special. This is why I was an artist…I was inventing a language for people to see the everyday things that I also see…and show them something different.” And that “something different” is what draws people to her photographs, as they “contrast to the cool slickness of the digital,” while embracing “tactility and decay in a very sensual and seductive way,” remarks Corey Keller, a curator of photography at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. I couldn’t agree more. Francesca took photographs the old fashioned way, and combined with her artistic vision, made her images forever timeless—and forever haunting.

~LMC

*Note: All images are by Francesca Woodman unless where otherwise noted.

On this day five years ago, much beloved singer-songwriter David Bowie passed away.

One of things that people quickly learn about me—aside from me being an avid runner, outdoor enthusiast, horse and cat lover—is that I love David Bowie. My entire life I’ve been listening to his music. Several of my earliest memories are Bowie themed: toddler me watching David Bowie music videos on VHS; my Dad, himself a talented singer, playing “Space Oddity” on his acoustic guitar; my Dad and I eagerly awaiting and then listening to the latest Bowie albums released when I was a kid (Earthling, Hours…, Heathen, etc).

So, it was a shock, to say the least, when the news broke that Bowie had died; he’d never let slip that he’d been battling liver cancer for the past 18 months. Only his immediate family and a special few were aware. When it was announced on his official Facebook page that “David Bowie died peacefully today” the world was caught completely unawares. I remember that day quite clearly. I’d just arrived back home, after a drive of several hours. It was evening, I was tired, and I soon fell asleep on the couch. And I then had the most vivid vision: I was in a grayish-white room, and before me stood an upright hexagonal coffin. There was a small window over the face of the deceased. And the face was male, and I just knew I had a connection to this individual. I suddenly felt so frightened and disturbed that my breathing seized, and I awoke with a start. I was quite spooked, and perplexed: why did I see such an image?

I was unable to sleep that night, so I stayed up scrolling through Facebook, when I saw that my friend (who is the ultimate country music lover) had posted, “RIP David Bowie.” What? I dismissed it as a hoax. Celebrities are constantly dodged by fake death announcements. But I had to check. I searched the web, and my doubt soon turned into shock. I literally stared at the wall, uncomprehending. Bowie was dead? But heroes don’t die. And your heroes especially, they never die. Right?

The vision/ dream/ nightmare/ mere coincidence, call it what you may, slammed back into my consciousness. And it was then the tears started. I stayed up for another hour, feeling drained. Yes, I did not personally know the man. But what really hurt me was to think of Bowie’s daughter, Lexi, had just lost her father. She was just 15 then, much too young for any child to lose a parent. 🙁 Lexi, sending you a big hug.

Bowie Beginnings

My Dad is the one who introduced me to David Bowie. He’s been listening to Bowie since the 70’s, when he first discovered Young Americans album while on a trip to England; he attended 10 Bowie concerts over the decades, and has dozens of Bowie vinyls and CDs. To be clear, he never forced me to listen to or like Bowie. He provided me the exposure, yes, but my fascination with Major Tom was natural, organic; I just grew up him hearing him and was completely fascinated by his many transformations, with music styles, characters, and appearance. His vocals, lyricism, his stage presence, are just mesmerizing. He was born to perform.

My Dad and I have always been close. So when I first thought of Lexi losing her father, it hurt me. I’m sure she was close to him. To her, he wasn’t David Bowie; he was her Dad. Bowie the man may be gone; but his legacy, his music lives on forever. Lives end, but legends live on forever. I hope that, in some small sense, this provides comfort to Lexi and Iman, Bowie’s wife.

The day after his death, my Dad and I had a somber conversation on the phone, just reminiscing on our favorite albums and memories. My Grandma Brenda, my Dad’s mom, even emailed me to express her sympathy, writing that she herself enjoyed several of his songs. I then began re-listening to several albums of his, namely 1976’s Station to Station, and just, wow. His vocals are just so incredible, and playing the album was quite cathartic. It would be a little while, however, before I could give Blackstar a proper listen. When I finally did, it was quite the experience. Tony Visconti, who produced several Bowie albums, says it best: “He always did what he wanted to do. And he wanted to do it his way and he wanted to do it the best way. His death was no different from his life—a work of art. He made Blackstar for us, his parting gift. I knew for a year this was the way it would be.”

Five Years On

I’m still incredulous that it’s already been five years since David has passed. Five years…any Bowie fan knows the significance of this number, as one of Bowie’s earliest songs is “Five Years.” Released in 1972, the song relays the story of Earth only having five years left, and individuals’ various reactions upon learning the news. After the initial shock of learning about his death, in other ways I was not at all surprised, when it came to how Bowie handled his failing health and imminent demise. Knowing Bowie and his mystique, it didn’t surprise me that he never divulged his cancer diagnosis to the public. For a man who had a 50+ year career in the spotlight, he was in so many ways very private. By keeping his diagnosis known to those only closest to him, he was able to enjoy the final 18 months of life with privacy, all while writing and recording Blackstar, his final album. Released on January 8, his birthday—and two days before his death—the whole record is clearly his swan song. “Look up here man / I’m in heaven,” are the opening lyrics to the single “Lazarus.”

The stunning fact that Bowie’s diagnosis was never leaked until he finally succumbed, I think speaks volumes about the respect and awe people had, and continue to have, for him. For his whole career, he was constantly reinventing himself in terms of music styles, alter egos, and fashion, always ahead of the curve. It really warms my soul in knowing that Bowie’s career was so long that it spanned and influenced several generations. For example, my Dad clearly remembers purchasing Bowie vinyls as both a high school and college student in the late 70’s and early 80’s; Bowie was still releasing music when I was both in and out of college, in 2013 and 2016, respectively.

So, thank you Starman, for everything. Your massive creativity, talent, that certain mystique about you, live on. No one can ever replicate it. You are the soundtrack of my life. So many of my heroes have been long gone, some for centuries, but I and so many others count ourselves very lucky to have witnessed your career, your presence on Earth. In April 2004, I saw you perform live at Budweiser Events Center, in Loveland, CO, for your Reality Tour. It was a dream come true. I really can say I have seen David Bowie perform live. And it was utterly fantastic. And in many ways, bittersweet. It was both the first and last time I ever saw you. And it was also the last time for my Dad, marking the end to a decades long span of watching his hero on stage. We each wore a Bowie shirt, Dad letting me wear his shirt from Bowie’s ’78 tour; I felt so honored. I could easily keep going on, but I would like to end my ramble on this: we miss you Bowie, Major Tom, Aladdin Zane, Ziggy. And to my Dad (whom I, and others, have always thought could pass as Bowie’s brother): thank you.

~LMC

Punk Pixie

I first saw your beautiful and forbidding face
in a music magazine.
Razor sharp cheekbones,
Death glare, heathen sounds, searing vocals:
A misfit friend found.

You were hardly 14,
when you ran away from home,
never revealing the reasons why
only providing your new name, a new soul:
Alice Glass.

Shards of innocence
stripped away
your companions the punks
of Downton Toronto.
Blue eyes dilated
skin sickly pale
hair once fair
dyed black to deny the image
that you were once a helpless child.

Your look: a mesmerizing witch,
Ripped tights
random shirts,
Jack Daniel's
in one hand,
a cigarette in the other.
A look formidable,
Always paired
With a pencil skirt.

You took to the stage
Staring down rabid males
A spirit more punk than theirs
Spitting beer in faces
Wielding the mic
Screaming your poetry.

I must admit that I’m surprised—
and utterly relieved—
That you’re still here.
That the angry cuts
The abusive creeps
The aching psyche
Did not silence you forever:
That which is the short, violent history of your life.

But at that show in Denver,
You proved yourself very much alive.
When you jumped into the crowd
There is absolution,
Born of adulation, inspiration, hope.
The image of your face becomes flesh,
As I hold you up to the heavens,
misfits and individuals bracing our friend,
the goth eccentric, rebel beauty
Alice Glass: a legend in my own time.

~LMC

This poem I wrote in college, dedicated to one of my true heroes, the lovely Alice Glass. A singer and songwriter, Alice holds such reverence in my heart in that she is utterly unique in both her life story and talent. Alice Glass is the former vocalist (and as far as I’m concerned the only vocalist) of my favorite band, Crystal Castles. An electro-punk duo, CC’s songs are seared into heart in the same way as Bowie is part of my identity. I love electronic music, and I discovered Crystal Castles at the right time: just before I started college. Their music was unlike anything I had heard before. From jarring, mind rattling 8-bit pieces (“Love and Caring,” “XXZXCUZ Me”) to dark synth ballads (“Suffocation,” “Wrath of God”), I was, and still am, enthralled. Mesmerized. A day does not go by that I do not listen to my beloved CC. I’m not kidding!

Just as my poem alludes to, I came across Alice in Spin Magazine, July 2010 edition. Accompanying a brief album review of the newly released Crystal Castles II, was a photo of one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen: Alice Glass. Her short black hair reminded of the Sneaker Pimps Kelli Ali, another badass female vocalist whom I revere. It was an immediate girl crush, that sense of having found a new friend for life. But it is not just Alice’s face that is stunning, but her aesthetic. This I immediately learned from watching CC music videos and live performances. Her dark eye makeup, punk yet feminine attire—black everything with a pencil skirt—paired with her fearless demeanor, is both striking, sexy, and confident. A no f&$#s given attitude. Diving into the crowd multiple times, climbing onto the drum kit, all while wailing out her soul: I had never seen such wild, naked passion in a singer, let alone a female vocalist. It was and is such a beautiful, reassuring thing to see. Being a woman, I relate to and respect Alice in shattering expectations for women. Forget the plastic, robot façade pop singers of the mainstream: Alice was, is, and will forever be my girl crush, my role model, my hero.

Alice departed CC in 2014, citing sexual, mental, and physical abuse by none other by her own band mate, the other half of the duo. I won’t mention his name. Enough about him. Since then Alice has embarked on a solo career, with her first EP, the self titled Alice Glass, released August 2017 to critical acclaim. I love her new work. As one interviewer described the work, “Alice Glass sounds everything like and nothing like Alice Glass.” If you’re a CC fan hoping for more CC stuff, don’t bother. Alice continues to cultivate her own new sound, a catalyst for dealing with the trauma of her past, while still asserting her voice and her persona. A brilliant lyricist, she explores feelings of self doubt, hope, and particularly rage and vengeance. One thing that has remained the same since Alice of the CC era: Alice’s passion and sincerity are ever present in her work, as I witnessed at her show at Boulder’s Fox Theatre, May 2018. She held my hand while cooing Celestica, and not once, but several times I sang literally right next to her when she stepped down onto the floor. The reverence she has for her fans is palpable, just as her fan base utterly adores her.

10 years has passed since I discovered Crystal Castles on 26 June 2010; in this past decade I’ve followed, and have grown up, with Alice and her journey. Just as my hero has experienced dizzying highs and terrible lows, Alice’s music has been there for me in my own journey. 

We love you Alice; never stop fighting.

~LMC

• Featured photo of Alice Glass at top of page, and Moon Dagger, are from public domain.