As frantic and zealous as the artist herself, Sarah Moon’s photography is a randomly planned concoction of brilliant madness. Beginning to weave the verbal spell to accompany the slideshow presentation of her cacophony of melancholically gleeful photographs, Moon speaks with a childishly raspy voice, spoken with the fervor of a crack addict coming down off of a high while in the middle of describing the hypnotic hallucination before their eyes only. Repeatedly Moon makes it a point that the model’s face itself is inconsequential to the shot; a sort of bluntly rounded ball cap that sits atop Moon’s actual study—the rhapsody of fashion and figure. Portraiture in this instance is sort of the anti- genesis of the brilliant image that Moon desires and seeks. Be sure that in this study, fashion and figure are as much mutually inclusive of one another as they are exclusive, entities seen each unto themselves but made whole by their joining. A symbiosis of body and cloth, so to speak.
Moon is both a poser of subjects and random catcher of the candid; her need to control frantic as much as she is a tempestuous seeker of ‘the moment’. Prone to moments of all encompassing psychosis into her work and the magnificence of the ‘magic’ she narcissistically applauds capturing, Moon is just as quickly throne into madness at her incapability—failure—to find that which she is seeking of her model, subject, image. This is but a short lived rollercoaster ride repetitively ridden as it is when she gives up that ‘the moment’ glides into her view—the muse’s touch always a fingerprint of just a little too much genius. And it shows. Moon captures ‘the moment’ in a flurry of frenzied snaps, a series of instantaneous moments caught in their perfection of form and that spicy blend of the models confusion and innocent childlike need to please.
Moon sees in her camera an object with which to capture ‘magic’—the magic of a moment, a time, a person, an emotion. The elusive and un-capturable…captured.