Writings — Stephanie Schwiederek

I’ll See You in the Morning

2023

I never thought I would find myself living here at this point of time in America. When the Supreme Court overturned Roe vs. Wade in 2022, I felt a number of emotions including grief, sadness, disappointment but mainly rage. Since the ruling, there have been several states restricting or implementing near-total abortion bans, disrupting comprehensive healthcare for women. I thought about my own experience of having an abortion and could not resolve myself to what was happening to young girls and women throughout our country. I became envious of the opposite sex and exhausted of being told what I can and can’t do with my own body.

I have been photographing myself and my partner on and off throughout our decade long relationship. I felt a sense of control over my own body, and found a connection to intimacy through the taking of a photograph. My work references the style of a memoir, using black and white photographs and text, to serve as an entry point to the body. I want to challenge viewers with the notions of intimacy, identity, and roles of gender within a relationship, and how these intricate, conventional ideas can be ruptured.

The framework of I’ll See You in the Morning lies in the personal and political experience of a woman. It seeks to offer a nuanced perspective of the complexities behind the notions of mortality, daily routine, and introspection through the use of documentary, constructed, and performative photographs. Seeing how my partner and I have changed as we have aged. The growth in our lives through the years. It is in the moments captured that illustrates how personal experiences can inform collective understandings.

This Is America…

Operating Through a Politicized Pandemic

2020

Sometimes,

I Don’t Know What I Love

2019

What day is it? Wednesday? No, no it’s Thursday, I tell myself, as I pour another whiskey drink while waiting for you to come home from work. There’s meat cooking in the oven and leftover vegetables in the microwave. I walk to the sunroom, the only space in this home that I admire the most. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I reminisce about the way the morning light hits the orange blanket sitting atop the daybed. I think back to the mornings where you lay down to pet Callie, your long brown, grey locks glinting in the sun. Your greenish-blue eyes shimmering. I let a deep breath out.

I glance out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of you walking up the street from the train stop. I don’t. I notice and set my eyes on the purple, pink sunset falling behind the brick buildings of Rogers Park. I feel a twinge in my feet, and crack my toes in anticipation. I lose myself in those blushing clouds, my head resting on the wall. I recollect and realize we’ve been together for nearly seven years. You were my first, and my only. You are my support and sustenance. I often wonder why you stay with me. I often worry if you will leave me.

I take another deep breath, and release with a sigh of restlessness.

The door opens. I must have just missed you, while I peer out onto the street again. Your temperament fills the space, as you abruptly place your things down on the dining room table. I turn around to see you turn and walk down the hall, shouting that you need to take a hot shower. From what I can gather, it was another shit day at the office for you; as it has been everyday since we moved here to Chicago for me, for graduate school.

I nod, turning back to the window to look out at the clouds. They’ve changed, shifting to deeper, darker purples and pinks. Twilight slowly beginning to settle in. I think to myself that I should go check on the chicken in the oven, but reasoned that it could wait. I proceed to lose myself. I proceed and then find myself remembering a section of “A Lover’s Discourse,” This Can’t Go On. Barthes addresses sentiment and amorous suffering. He states that, “Reasonable sentiment: everything works out, but nothing lasts. Amorous sentiment: nothing works out, but it keeps going.” Within this I find the accumulation of patience. Of your patience.

I realize I’m still at the window, and the oven timer has been ringing for the last minute. I rush over to take out the chicken, and heat up the vegetables that have been sitting in the microwave. I never enjoyed cooking, nor am I very good at it. I often find myself overwhelmed. I prefer to sit, drink, and watch as you skillfully cook dinner for us. But not tonight. I grab plates for us, then set napkins, forks, and knives out on our tv dinner tables.

You come out from your shower, your bottom half wrapped in a brown towel while a light green towel drapes over your shoulders. I let you know that dinner is almost done. You nod and go back to the bedroom to put on a pair of gym pants and a t-shirt. We sit down to eat dinner together. Same routine, different day. I think to myself again about “A Lover’s Discourse,” falling upon Barthes’ section of Domnei/Dependency. He writes that “If I acknowledge my dependency, I do so because for me it is a means of signifying my demand: in the realm of love, futility is not a “weakness” or an “absurdity”: it is a strong sign: the more futile, the more it signifies and the more it asserts itself as strength.”

I contend with myself regarding these notions of futility and love. Is to love and be dependent pointless? Or is it pointless to be dependent on love? Does preserving the space of dependency also allow it to continue to function? How can one be independent from someone they’ve been with for several years? Does one need to be? I don’t know and decide to digress. I then look at you as you finish eating dinner, and I smile.

Sometimes, I don’t know what I love, but I know I love you.

Mother & Daughter,

After Anne Sexton

2019

Stephanie, you are leaving

your old body now.

It lies flat, an old butterfly

all arm, leg, wing

loose as your old corduroy dress.

I reach out towards it, but

my fingers turn to cankers

and I am your mother, warm and used

just as your childhood was used.

Question you about this

and you hold up my pearls.

Question you about this

and you pass by armies.

Question you about this-

you with your big whiskey bottle pouring

its taste sharper than a kitchen knife

and you’ll sew up a continent.

Now that you are twenty-eight

I give you my booty, my spoils

my mother pearls and ailments

Question you about this

and you won’t know the answer-

the staring out towards the crowd

the hopeful tent of voyager

the forgetfulness, the pathways

the shaking, and the pain in the legs.

keep on, keep on, keep on

carrying keepsakes to your man

carrying liquor to your man

carrying, my babydoll, blood

to the bloodletter.

Stephanie you are leaving

your old body now.

you’ve picked my armoire clean

and you’ve racked up all my diamonds

and left me empty

and, as the river between us

narrows, you drink

that manly needy semaphore.

Question you about this

and you will make me a shroud

and hold up Monday’s glass, and ask

“why are you empty?”

Question you about this

and you will see my death

frothing at these grey lips

while you, my burglar, will eat meat

and pass the time of day.

Mother, I have left

my old body now.

And I lie flat, an old butterfly

all arm, wing, and leg

loose as the dress I wore that day.

I see you reach out towards me,

but your fingers, they turn to cankers

because you are my mother, warm and used

as my childhood was used.

Question you about this

and you look out the window

Question you about this

and you wave your hand, signaling

“don’t worry babydoll”

Question you about this

and I feel my eyes begin to swell with tears,

but I hold them back, like I always have.

Now that I am twenty-nine

I never wanted these booties, these spoils

your pearls, or your ailments.

Question me about this

as if I don’t already know the answer

the staring,

the forgetfulness,

the pathways, the shaking,

and the pain in the legs.

keep on, keep on, keep on

buying objects for your room

buying treasures you never use

buying, my beloved mother, things

all of your pretty things.

Mother, I have left

my old body now.

I’ve inherited your likeness

and I’ve inherited your neuroses

and left you exhausted

and, as the course between us

narrows, I drink

that menacing needy semaphore

Question me about this

and I will veil myself of the poignancy

and hold up my glass, and ask

“why are you empty again?”

Question me about this

and I will see your death

your greying flush lips frothing

while I, your housebreaker, eat meat

and pass the time of day.

Together Forever:

An Exploration of the

Documentary Film Grey Gardens

2019

The Poor Family:

Revisiting Richard Billingham’s

“Rays A Laugh”

2019

ZUHAUSE

2017

I grew up in a motel in the small town of Pine Brook, a part of Montville Township, New Jersey. Money magazine ranked Montville the 13th best place to live in the United States of America. However, there are pockets in that township in which the living situation was far from ideal. The motel I grew up in was one of those pockets. I remember not having a window or door to my room. I remember when I was nine or ten years old being sexually assaulted by someone I thought of as a childhood friend. I remember how that stark contrast between my living situation and the surrounding area made me feel like an outcast from an early age. I grew into my adolescence thinking to myself that I was never good enough, or that no matter what I did it would never amount to anything.

The works of Richard Billingham, Elinor Carucci, and Nan Goldin have been heavily influential to me. I am naturally drawn to the snapshot aesthetic, harsh flash, and awkward composition in an effort to reclaim the memories of my childhood. When I began making these photographs, I was interested in the diaristic nature of my images. I wanted my photographs to reference the style of the family photo album to serve as an entry point to nostalgia. Through them, I wanted to challenge viewers to experience my story. But ZUHAUSE isn’t just about documenting my parents, significant other, and myself. It’s about growing up and confronting the notions of identity, isolation, loneliness, family dysfunction, memory, and trauma we have all faced. It’s about the daily struggles, reflecting on the past, accepting the situation, and beginning to move on. It’s about a girl who hated her parents for subjecting her to such a hostile environment, while trying to avoid judgment by her peers because of a living situation she didn’t have any control over. It’s about parents who endeavor to keep a roof over our heads, but still fail to keep us safe from the society we’re living in. Above all, it’s about the human condition.