Consisting of two German words: inner and weltraum. Inner and space.
One’s inner space world.
Compounded by William H. Gass.
Since I’ve come across the made-up word in a book, it won’t leave my mind. It’s the word I never found to delineate the constant tension, the stream of restlessness in me. I whisper its guttural, foreign syllables over and over as I’m writing this. How to explain what it means to me?
My innerweltraum is a secret place. The place where my too shy self finally feels at ease. I’m a woman of few words. I’m always on the verge of saying - but I don’t. Silence envelops me in her cloak. I nestle in it. The words trickle back down my throat. And that tension builds up in my innerweltraum. Longings and fears seem to converge to that little space.
Photography is an essential part of my life. It’s the link between the here and the there. I don’t capture spontaneity. Instead, when my hands pick up the camera, I feel an imperative desire to create narratives. Like a spider patiently weaves her web to capture flies, I weave stories to perhaps grasp a fragment of the innerweltraum.
The narratives are unfinished, ambiguous. They are like half erased poems, suggesting instead of meaning. But that’s perfect this way. Ferociously private, I’ll only show parts of my world elusively. Photography is my way of saying. It’s still a murmur, but it’s growing louder and louder with each picture I create.
I invoke the innerweltraum, take a photograph. Click. The tension releases for a moment.