Introduction to Drawbridge
I’ve always thought of myself as a place – a landscape that unfolds in a strange kind of space, a city where I can cross a street to find myself in a field of brittle grass and then climb up a ladder and wind up huddled amongst a throng of cooing birds. A city where I can peek into windows like frames on different reels of film, where blaring car radios and shouted conversations merge into a living rhythm, where the most disparate elements somehow find a home. A city run through with avenues and lines of lights. A place where I can move and see.
But there are times when being myself feels like being trapped. Like being a city collapsed in on itself, punctuated with dead ends, impassable and inaccessible. Like being no place at all, cut off from not only all these parts of myself, but also from the world. I’ve decided to begin this zine with writing about isolation and fragmentation. Ruins and rubble strike me as good places to begin a story about figuring out how things piece together, about all the stages we inhabit between wreckage and grandeur.
Creating Drawbridge is not only a way for me to weave my experiences into a larger narrative; it also enables me to connect with others at a level not possible in casual conversation. As an artist, I have decided to take the risk of being vulnerable. It is a choice I also strive to make in my everyday life – to be open as a prerequisite for connecting and learning and creating. To be visible in ways that allow me to be understood, that allow me to give, and therefore, to belong.