The first time I found myself in front of Francesca Woodman’s shots, the first thing I thought was that no one would ever face and full the corners of a house with the same incidence, the same meaning. It reminded me of my lazy and visionary afternoons, in which every shape or inch became a world to explore and get lost in — often dreaming of being elsewhere. Infinite possibilities that were drastically reduced every time the time came to deal with reality, outside those walls.
Then one day, I came across Brooke DiDonato’s work and, after a long time of “guilty” oblivion, I had a chance to relive those young emotions that I once again believed I had lost forever. And these are moments when the importance of the role of an artist is remembered with renewed rigor. The importance of their rituals and sacrifices. The reason of their inner sufferings.
After studying photojournalism at Kent State University, Brooke developed a body of personal work questioning the notion of realism induced by the photographic medium. Her images propose scenes of everyday life distorted by visual anomalies and bathed in a pastel universe that evokes the American dream of the fifties.
Among her series, A House is Not a Home, is a self-portraits inquiry calling into question the boundaries of reality and the psychological mindset.