realizing lately that i could give two fucks about pretty pictures. making them, being in them, seeing them. ok that’s three fucks, but i don’t give any. more into raw personalities, sexualities, moods and poses. not messy, overly arty or purposefully “ugly”; but with bold facial expressions, wild movements, heels digging into skin, flailing laughs, hunched shoulders, cocked hips. a hidden object game within body language that says more than the article advertised.
remembering lately that i am not a model, photographer or dancer, really. just a writer who’s lost all inks and leads, attempting to create stanza’s with physicality and f-stops. all the time words jive between shutter claps and repositions. when i was trying to be a model, i joined a league of them and they told me “don’t”. tried using new spaces and edits with models, they told me “don’t”. decided i needed some whimsey, told them i’m taking my clothes off for money and keeping a beat. they said “don’t. aren’t you a writer?” and to that the toll “what’s a cellist doing with a violin? coping.”
reminding myself that it all still works. looking for 2 different things & can’t listen to all that. it’s not that they are wrong or i am wrong, it’s that you don’t tell a chef he can use molecular gastronomy to make pie filling without first feeding him a piece of the evidence.