My name is Sullivan. I'm a 17 year old multi-media artist. I took classes at the CCC for the purposes of refining my photography skills. I write, I draw, I take photos, all for the purpose of storytelling.

I love horror, literature, rock and gothic music, and dark and moody art. You can see that reflected in my work. While much of what I create is greatly inspired by my own life experiences, I instead choose to create a clear distinction between the art and my real life. 

That's all I have to say. I'd much rather allow you to consume my work than for me to over explain it.

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A Collection Of Things Better Left Unsaid is a photography project intended to represent themes of identity, or more specifically, lack of identity. While the entire book can be taken in an abstract fashion, the story entirely up for your own interpretation, the initial idea behind the use of poetry and gritty/grungy photography was to represent the dissonance felt by the subject to those around him.

All of the poetry told in first person point of view is told from a subject who lacks a solid identity and is searching frantically for one in objects, people, and his own fantasies. The brief second person stanza in the beginning refers to self-ridicule in the search for purpose.

I purposefully made the titles and stanzas vague, so that it's easy to relate to, and fits with the gloomy tone of the entire book. Going for grainy tones and harsh shadows, along with a mostly monochrome colour palette, I'm intending for a vintage or noir feeling. That's generally where I take most inspiration from.

SPHACELATE

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I have dreams of a fox in silver moonlight, 
Dancing across the clouds, 
A black shadow in the mist.

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The fox visits me in the real world sometimes.
It meets me at the window of my bedroom, 
Staring in with its piercing white eyes.

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I lean my head against the glass, 
Wondering if it’s worth it to let it inside.
The animal with heavy cravings
Would like nothing more 
than to have someone who can feed it.

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Memories of blood and gore and screeching crows
Fill my nights if not the fox. 
I prefer to see the fox, 
Even if it begs me for food.

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The days when it’s not there, 
I wonder if it’s dead. 
But it always comes back,
At one point, or another. 

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I hold my pillows close to my chest
And I wonder if decay is really all that horrifying.
The way it eats you,
It’s no different from a starving animal,
Begging for some kind of nutrition?
The way it only consumes the corpses of the deceased
Must be like some kind of mercy.
It leaves the living be and takes only the dead.

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The fox speaks sometimes.
It speaks in phrasing that I cannot understand,
Its words wrapping around my throat 
In such a deathly way.

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It told me its name is Sphacelate. 
Like gangrenous, 
Decaying,
Rotting flesh and corpses.

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I asked it if it’s death, 
To no response.
Its piercing white eyes bore into me
In such an unfamiliar way.
So I did not ask again,
For the answer was already clear.

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In the nights that I do not see the fox,
I lay awake staring at the window, hoping for its return.
Despite my doubts, I know it will.

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For it’s told me how much it loves my voice,
And my songs,
And my stories.
The reason I am not quite sure of,
And the reason I will not ask for.

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But my trust lies in the animal
That speaks only of decay.