“Graffiti” with Phia Westfall for The 52 Pickup Project

I don’t shoot professional models.  Professional models already know how beautiful they are, they have already seen themselves from every angle, they are far too familiar with their “best side.”   I shoot the people in my life, the folks that inspire me, and those who are willing to enter into a creative collaboration with me.  One of my greatest joys is getting someone used to the camera.  The process of being seen is unnerving, how uncomfortable it is to be looked upon with awe and affection.   It is a gift to see oneself through another’s eyes.  Particularly if those eyes are filled with delightful curiosity and a genuine desire to expose raw beauty.   I want my subjects to see themselves as they never have.

“Run Over” Pictures and Poetry by Mim Weisburd for The 52 Pickup Project.

Drowned in a puddle, stomped over, and desiccated. 

Unnoticed and walked upon.

 I am nothing but pulp, unrecognizable even to myself.

Left to disintegrate  

One with the asphalt and grime.

Just leave me stuck to the bottom of your tires,

Allow me to fall apart. 

It’s not so bad to disappear.

Like I never lived at all.

 I am just litter on the ground.

Run me over, leave me for dead, forget I was here.

Allow me to rot away.

Don’t worry the rain will clean up my remains.

Washing my fleshy bits down the drain.

All I want is to slowly become nothing

Under the crushing wheel of life.

Anything to stop the pain of existence. 

Joker Photography and Poetry by Mim Weisburd for The 52 Pickup Project.

I will no longer play the fool.

A smile on my lips and pain in my heart.

I am not your toy to be fought over.

You cannot use me to hurt one another.

I will rip the Jesters crown off your smug head.

I will tear deep into your broken heart and burst forth from your frazzled mind.

Out of these intestines and fractures skulls, I burst forth, sprout wings and fly far away.

Your, failures, injuries, and lost chances are not my fault.

It is not my responsibility to fix any of it.

If you chose to be a fool that is your folly

If you are stupid enough not to eat, and mad enough not to drink your heart will stop.

This is not my fault.

If you are destructive enough to smoke time away in an empty room, it is not my fault.

You have been so selfishly absorbed in your sad little lives that you never noticed me.

The neglect was enough, yet you also burdened me with the worlds’ sorrows.

I will no longer metabolize the hard and sharp bits in order to defecate beauty and truth.

Now I only bite off what I can chew and eat form my own plate.

Digest your own poison filth.

I don’t believe I am responsible for an entire world’s happiness and entitled to none myself.

This guilt, remorse, fear and regret were never mine.

From now I will always come first.

It should have been this way from the start.

“Perspicacity“ Photography by J. Eric Tibbs and Mim Weisburd for The 52 Pickup Project

Perspicacity is a penetrating discernment – a clarity of vision or intellect which provides a deep understanding and insight.   My judgement has been clouded, my understanding compromised, and my intellect dulled by ancient and primitive systems that no longer serve me.  I must re-examine my beliefs, ideologies and expectations in order to truly see.  To foster the process of gaining new perspectives and developing adaptive ways of being I’ve begun traveling.  Exploring my inner and outer landscape, looking at things from a different angle, examining them in and outside of their context.  More than this I am experimenting with different ways of being.  It’s frightening, I feel as if I have looked over a cliff, and jumped into the abyss.  All I know is that what I have been doing so far is not working.  Throwing myself over the edge, I must grow wings, construct a parachute, or find a landing spot.  I cannot go backwards, I must  evolve or perish.

For the past several months I’ve been in an Acts of Witness group with the therapeutic goal of integrating some very ancient wounds.  This process has been excruciatingly difficult and has gotten me in contact with very primitive, tender parts of my psyche.  I was born Miriam Beth Weisburd and at the age of 13 I change my name to Mim.  I created this Hamsa or Hand of Miriam to place on my childhood Synagogue Beth Elohim as a means for integration.   We lived next door and I could see the stained glass windows and listen to services in the privacy of my room.  I’m grateful to my cousin Stana Weisburd who made the offering and documented it for the 52 Pickup Project.   Below is a piece I wrote for my act, a small slice of my truth. 

Miriam was a gentle child, soft spoken and interior, a dreamer who spent hours lost in her imaginary world. She loved the world, the people in it and the beauty that surrounded her. Miriam grew up in Park Slope, Brooklyn, a living museum with slate sidewalks and Victorian Brownstones. Everywhere she went she was greeted by Gargoyles peeking out from carved doorways. She spent her weekends at the Brooklyn Museum with Father; they would walk there passing the water fountains displaying Poseidon is all his glory and through the Arch de Triumph depicting Civil War soldiers on Easter Parkway. The Brooklyn museum was filled with ancient Egyptian treasures, period rooms from the early Americas and an entire Farmhouse from Upstate had been carved into its fourth floor. She and Father would stand in front of totem poles and masks made by the native peoples of this land and wonder aloud to one another about the rituals and ceremonies they were used in.

Park Slope was so named because it gently sloped down from the rolling hills, winding paths and covered bridges of Prospect Park. In the winters Miriam went sledding and ice skating in the park. In the summers the botanic gardens would open with a Cherry Blossom festival, Miriam loved to sit below the trees and let the pink petals fall down on her like gigantic fragrant snowflakes. The library was nestled between the gardens and the museum. Miriam, was a strong reader, with a deep soul and contemplative personality, she found great solace in the floors upon floors of books.

Mother and Father divorced when Miriam was four, Father joined a commune while Mother moved constantly. When Miriam started school she had to bring all of her possessions so she could change parents and apartments. She had two beds, two dressers and two rooms, but no one to help with her homework. Mother and Father were so busy with their jobs, their lovers and their pain that Miriam was forgotten. They forgot she was just a child, they forgot she needed love, they forgot that Miriam was their responsibility. Miriam felt their suffering and wanted to make it better, she tried to be good, she tried to be easy, she tried to be quiet and calm. Mother took up with an angry man as father moved in with a loving woman. One day, the man Mother lived with died, just like that and his mother, a Grandmother to Miriam her, died three days later. The chaos at home did not match the beauty of the world outside, this confused and confounded Miriam.

When Miriam was nine years old people started begging and sleeping on the sidewalks.Where had they come from, why didn’t anyone care for them? The beautiful streets of Park Slope became less and less safe, the chaos at home was leaking into the world, and the gargoyles she always loved seemed to mock her with their smiles. Years passed, the people in the streets grew, her parents continued to ignore her. Nothing changed. Miriam’s soft heart forged by generations of suffering hurt, Miriam’s soft heart bled, Miriam’s soft heart burst, and nobody noticed.

At the age of thirteen Miriam was still being shuffled back and forth, weekly from parent to parent. Mother lived in a one bedroom apartment and slept in the living room. She never had time to cook dinner and made Miriam walk through the increasingly dangerous neighborhood to pick up cigarettes and Chinese food. Meanwhile Father was still living with the same woman after four whole years! The summer Miriam turned thirteen she asked for a nickname from a friend at summer camp, I took my chance and arose, little did Miriam know that Mim would soon take over. The first time I spoke was to protect Miriam when Mother decided to go to Law School and continue working. This quiet, well-behaved child, this sensitive being that always made things easier for others, for the first time said “No, enough, this must stop!” I will no longer be shuffled from house to house and contribute to this chaos where my broken heart, precious mind, and sensitive soul are juggled by clowns painted up as parents.

From the hidden wounds of this tender child a women arose, born of a furry fuelled by impending adolescence and years of staggering loneliness. I decided no one was allowed to ever speak Miriam’s name. I decided to attend school in Manhattan. I decided to live with Father. I decided to be smart, I decided to be strong. I decided to be quick as a whip, strike first, and ask questions later. . I decided to hide Miriam from everyone, even myself

I took that perfect innocent being and tossed her into the ocean, into the cold deep, down and down, where darkness reigns. Drowned in this watery grave I believed nobody could find her, see her, or get to her. She was finally truly SAFE. Months passed, years passed and decades passed. Miriam moved from memory to dream, and from dream to story, and from story to legend. Even I came to believe she had died a long, long, long time ago.

What I did not know and understand is the great strength in vulnerability, the resilience of innocence and the perfection of peace. In the cold and dark she remained, alive and well, full of life and dreamy knowledge. Recording every ripple and sensing every flicker of emotion that I, Mim, experienced. 

What I did not know and understand is how much she understands this life, how her ability to deeply feel and yes deeply hurt is a great gift I have denied us.

What I did not know and understand is that these years of parenting others, creating a life for myself, and carving a unique spot in this world was all in preparation for her return.

Now it is I, Mim that is broken and overwhelmed by the world. After 27 long years of fighting, struggling and keeping pain at bay, I need Miriam to heal me with her unconditional love, deep compassion, and innocence. It is time to dive into the waters, swim to the bottom of the ocean, and reunite with the deepest most knowing part of myself.

4 of Diamonds for the 52 Pickup Project

This New Years was spend in quiet contemplation, relaxation, and meditation, setting clear intentions for 2012.

4 of Diamonds for The 52 Pickup Project

Namaste

 Chinatown  Photography by J. Eric Tibbs and Mim Weisburd for The 52 Pickup Project

Sometimes you just need to get out-of-town.  I couldn’t wait to get in my car and drive.  The further south I drove the more my worries melted away.  Beyond the urban sprawl fo the San Francisco Bay Area, through the farmlands fo the central valley, into the heat of Los Angeles.   Six or so hours, and a life time away.  I needed to focus on nothing but the road in front of me, the tunes on my radio, and honest biological needs; water, food, bathroom, stretch, and back on the road again.  It cleared my mind and opened my soul up to new possibilities.  I foresee many road trips in my future. This Jewish Brooklyn Girl had her best Christmas ever in Chinatown.

ChristMyth Pictures and Poetry By Mim Weisburd for The 52 Pickup Project - Watch the Video!

3 of Clubs for 52 Pickup Paint by Mim Photography/Models  Mim Weisburd and Forbidden Light

He slips down the rabbit hole, naked and pure, floating with the other players, each holds their card tightly to their chest.  In this game the white rabbit has an ace up his sleeve, and he only lets you see if you will pay.  She slips down a different hole, from a different, time another dimension  Swirling into the vortex, she holds her card like a vessel, a kite, a pair of wings, an a dress, it has been al of these.  She transforms as she floats down.  His trip is not as easy.  Sometimes her prays, sometimes he fights, stretches or weeps, occasionally he floats. Both he and she have the three, the card that’s in their hand.  But each is unfinished missing many pieces.  They both land with a themed bumb.  Right on the underground. They find themselves in a blue agate cave with a dark floor  In the long flight down both cards have been shredded to pieces.  The two look at each other and realize their cards are all messed up and mixed together all over the floor.  They two circle each other, Pacing, growling spitting, fire in their eyes “why do you have part of my precious card” each thinks and at once pounces.  The biting and pulling, grabbing and snarling make their body heart rise.  They were so cold from the flight down, and now they begin to warm.  As they warm they realize it’s nothing but skin on skin, and the grabbing turns into embraces, while the bites become nibbles. The grappling deteriorates into groping as they find themselves in each other.  Rolling on the broken pieces of their cards on the floor, they couple for hours and hours, Turning each other in very position.  Over and over they dance until all the pieces of their cards have magically woven together.  The enchanted card is missing pieces, but a crude number 3 can still be read.  They look in each others eyes and realize: We are only two, there is another they know it’s time to let them in, to balance their extremities and complete the angle that is the most stable form on the planet, a triad. 

Forbidden Light shares his version of the story.

9 of Hearts, Concept, Modeling, Photography and Poetry by KaziGrrl for The 52 Pickup Project

KaziGrrl and I have never met, we have never heard each other’s voice, looked in the others eyes or exchanged a handshake.  The power of social media is this; we are part of the same community and therefore we know each other, we trust each other, we can collaborate over miles of separation.  I trustingly mailed this card from California to Massachusetts and what she created touched me deeply.  I love her words, her images and her perspective.  I also love that a complete “stranger” is willing to put so much of their heart and soul into playing this “Game” with me.  These exchanges reaffirm my belief that creativity can spark conversations that get to the core of the human experience. 

Thank you KaziGrrl – From the bottom of my heart – Mim Weisburd

9 of Hearts

The hand is deal

Nine hearts beating in perfect synchrony

Natural chemical electricity between them, as between us

Pounding on in time

Ninefold

But

If one beats faster and fades, the rest wink out in series

Unable to sustain the rhythm

What then?

The gaping hole is torn

I hold the silent heart in my bloody hand

Searching frantically for some magic to re-start life’s rhythm

A tower of power with joules to spare, with watts to give

To bring back from the edge of the abyss

I wear the mask of jagged holes where once life pulsed

I cry to the heavens to intercede

I rend my clothes

The energy, the spark generated in the action so near the tower

Jump-starts the passion, re-ignites the flame

Restores the rhythm to my aching heart, yours and mine

The hole remains but the rhythm of life continues

Ever strong, ever constant

A legacy for all time