There was that old photograph returned to repeatedly, with the two lovers in bed, that captured somehow their animal hunger seeping out past the mouth, into an unforeseen spectrum of sincerity. It was something shared, but then it was something privatized. It sparked more moisture between the legs, than video footage searched for drunkenly one night. The raw static of everything just scratched at the eyes, while the staged black and white grandeur, danced swimmingly. It was a painful relic that screamed, “You want him and are pathetic.” It was an orgasmic denial. It made sense of things, and burst all.
In the weeks that followed, photography was consumed with something more than appreciation. For in each stilled moment, there was a million stories to be explored and imagined. And in my own picture-taking, there too, served something as a placeholder. Each thing frozen and damaged with the tempering of color, became all I could live again and again, and I’d sit stargazed for hours and look at the different shadows of something I once knew as real. And from that I learned, that there is a magic in all that’s documented, and it is this that proves we are empathetic, for we wish to share everything that anyone might hope to connect to. We bloom love like flowers.
That snap-shot above with the naked lady in lingerie, with her reflection there in the mirror, reminds me of most early mornings. The ones that you typically don’t stop to savor, but that happen there in the half-light, when all you think of, is what matters most, whether it be the people you adore, or the way the routine of monotony becomes something that will crush you, until it works as a teacher, a teacher of an often delirious, but brilliant wealth. One that shines.
There is of course something insanely thrilling of nude portraits, unveiling taut skin that just teasingly pouts. When it is something genuine and never forced upon, the soul agrees with familiarity. It is a break from what is kept hidden beneath cloth and fabric. And us as wild tigers, well we like to see what is ugly, if only because it is true. In war, we often escape, but in what makes us who we are, we are without that option. Instead, our bruises stand blatant, no matter what our cries. We are to be messy, if we are to be free. —Yes, surely.