The lights are dimmed and the mood sustained by the persistent grey of a Brooklyn sky; A short-lived drizzle creeps slyly down the whitewashed windows, peering inside upon a half robed woman. Her Ink smudged fingers return to the photograph whose accidental stain of yesterday morning’s coffee leaves aromatic pleasantries adrift in the air. The photograph is one of her eighth grade self, bare-faced with an expression of stark mystery, almost reflectory of the one she is boasting now sitting before it. Silently, she pauses in recollection of the sensation she attained at that time, when the camera was fresh to her hands…
These days the clutch of a camera seems second nature, an inevitable accessory in the presence of life.Blaise Allysen Kearsley is a veteran of her craft, a possessor of passion in the snapping away of a la vida so sexy and cold. The progression of her reality situated upon a neutral scaled series a la mode, kissed by the crimson lips of a femme fatale. Self-characterized as quirky and seductive by the kinkiness of her hair’s curl, tale telling in the candidness of her gaze, best tranquilized under the arm of her lover. A potency in her feminine presence is portrayed as boldly equilateral in each moment passing, each click and snapshot alike, whether it be of she herself or the surrounding moment in which her presence is consumed.Kearsley takes on an extensive complexion in sharing her energy through an expressive entrepreneurship, taking on not only the title of photographer, but writer, collage artist, and producer, and can be caught in action as the host of the “How I Learned” live storytelling series.
…As the woman releases the trigger of such tender nostalgia, she reconciles yet again with the camera of which was responsible. Disrobed and slipping into the attire only worthy of a frost-lined day in Brooklyn, she sets out into the cold with her best companion at hand. It’s another day in the life of Blaise Allysen Kearsley; the lens can tell no lie.
