Much like photography is a study of the contrast of light, “Broken” is a study of the contrasts that exist between love and loss, before and after, healed and broken.

This collection of wet plate silver collodion tintypes accompanied by the subject’s corresponding stories of heartache, betrayal, or loss is an intimate dive into how the death of a relationship can feel like the death of one’s self, how heartbreak can resonate as a physical sensation within the body, how what we may believe to be certain in our relationships can shift leaving a soul raw, vulnerable, and at least for a time, broken.

The inspiration for this exhibit came from photographer Tim Brown’s experience with  breakup and the sense of loss and devastation it created. After talking with friends, Tim realized that his separation and heartbreak were almost universally shared within the human experience even if specific details were different. Amid heartbreak, “Broken” was his way of processing the complex and at times overwhelming emotions brought on by breakup as well as a way to start catharsis and begin his journey of healing.

If you live long enough you are guaranteed to lose something you love, through death, separation, or any one of the many pathways certain to present itself on your journey. We hope these images and stories facilitate remembrance, compassion, and the awareness that you are not alone with your heartbreak. Most of us have been “broken” at least once and we dance amongst our community behind masks obscuring mended hearts. We are souls illuminated with light and darkness, a beautiful contrast for those who see it. 

3 Select Stories from Broken

“Cultivate”

Pacing around our house I see leftover relics of the life we once shared hanging like unpicked fruit on a branch. Many things have gone noticeably missing, harvested by you as you packed up to leave. It feels like limbs of my life have been pruned away. I search for threads of hope like we would search for mushrooms in the forest duff, and when I pick up thoughts I still wish to say to you they scatter away like spores in the wind. The loss I feel expands out like hyphae, a mycelial mat of memory and heartbreak -you are nowhere and everywhere. Within the forest gardens of my heart there is an old grove. Amongst the orchards, I see the life we had built. At the center lies a little cabin, the fire at its hearth has gone out and the home repairs that we put off for years now seem more obvious than ever. Weeds have filled in the garden beds where so much of our relationship was cultivated. Walking past a pool in the brook I see my reflection. I feel gnarled and windswept, an old pine hanging on past its prime. That which had been my delight is now the source of my sorrow. That which was alive within me seems to be decomposing. I know in time I will have to leave this place, that’s what everyone keeps telling me, to move on. And I know they are right. My heart is overgrown with sadness. No choice left but to clear out a new garden where I can let the light back in. It will be fertilized with the ashes of the past. Up will return the flowers and soon after the songbirds and the pollinators. Fertile beds will be formed, fresh seeds will be planted, and new paths trod to places even our love never reached. Oh but bear with me, in this moment I am still not ready to leave. I pick around for anything left to subsist on to keep me here in the old grove we once tended. In my heart's garden emotions flow like acequias. They rise up like sap behind maple bark in early spring. You are embedded on me like woodsmoke, like soil under my fingernails, stained onto my soul like juice from fresh-picked berries.

”Heartache”

I was a child of 20 my first time. I married my soulmate, my one true love, my best friend. We grew together, molded each other, influenced each other's preferences in politics, art, theater, and music. Then my best friend told me he was gay. After 12 years of being married to me, a woman. I felt my life was over. That was it, THE END.I wanted to die. It was as if my world existed inside my mind and the rest of the world was carrying on in some other, impossible dimension. I couldn't get out of bed. I was so sick I was admitted to the hospital. I lost so much weight my friends thought I was dying of cancer. I could hardly function at work, crying in the middle of a sentence. I tried to convince him that he wasn’t gay. I tried to shame him into changing his mind, into wanting me, into choosing what we had. Heartache is the right word; the pain registers as piercing in your chest. Somehow dull and sharp at the same time. I know I have no choice but to embrace new beginnings. To choose me, even if he could not.

“Coccoon”

After our breakup my ex sent me a detailed letter of 5 affairs she had. Each story described the affair in explicit detail, including little jabs like “we did it at my house and you almost caught us” or “it was then that I realized how horrible you were at sex.”Then she told me that that she made up the stories to try to hurt me. For a split second I was relieved, until I realized that I didn’t know which was worse, the truth or the lies. And I’ll never know the truth. At that point how could I believe anything that came out of her?  But that didn’t matter, we were already done.At some point I knew I had to build my cocoon and start the transformation, and this meant letting go of any attachment to what was once there with her. This includes all the good things we once had. What a mind fuck to have to do that; to force yourself to erase memories so you can move forward. Memories you created that strengthened your bond and added to your beautiful story, suddenly became your enemy as all they did was trigger your sadness, your grieving, and worst of all, the pain from your old wounds… Not that someday I could revisit those fond memories and find joy in them, but for now the pain is too distracting, too unhealthy. I asked myself a thousand times…How could something so good end? Well the truth is it wasn’t so good, and that’s what I’m learning. What a bitter pill to swallow, when all you’re left with is your broken self. Isolated and alone, trying to figure out how to release all these thoughts bouncing around inside your skull. I live in trigger town. Where every block holds some story of the good times:  Coffee shop conversations, evening walks by the railroad tracks, the park bench we used to sit at, or driving by her house that was once my happy place, but now I wonder who’s car is parked in front of it.“Shut the fuck up brain, why are you doing this to me? I have apologized and I have forgiven. I understand all that went wrong… but you just won’t leave me alone.” This loss is worse than death, because she’s still alive. And that means my brain is going to fabricate stories of how she’s so happy without me, or perhaps being intimate with someone else at this very moment. I just want normal again. Oh wait, I forgot, normal is why I got into this mess to begin with. Normal is ignoring all the trauma and conditioning I’ve lived with for years. Normal is ignoring red flags. The lingering pain is the last thing you feel when you go to bed, and the first thing you feel when you awake.