How far do we step inside of ourselves? Have a look beneath the skin? Is it vanity? It it a search for truth? Justice? The American Way?

I look at the work of Francesca Woodman and see I work that is an exploration in progress for self truth. A process. A work that is left undone. I do not see the genius or tragedy that is expressed and written about her work. I see a young woman, an art student in the fledgling throes of exploring who she is. I do not see a work that is complete. One’s work never is, until that time that we are no more.

The tragedy is the ways and the means of her death. A premature end to her work and exploration. Her images are her mirror. For us they are a window. From her images, we can peer into, but we cannot…