I have succumb to the night as of recent. A mistress to the moon to sound more romantic, none the less, I have, as of recent been carried into the wee hours of reading and writing, of listening, observing, crying and experimenting. I have only myself to converse with; and only myself to see. This in return has lead to my self study via camera. The meticulous examination of my being internally as a result of my being externally and the inverse of the same.

Here in the quiet and the dark I am exposed. Under the guise that I am shielded by the peaceful sleep of others, the comfort of my home, and tree covered dark – I am yet exposed, my most vulnerable, my most curious, and my most focused.

The night has become my labyrinth, a place to weave in and out of confidence and insecurities.

Here amongst bats and spiders (and here in SC the ever lovely roach) I have begun to enjoy the time I spend on me. On understanding the places I have developed from, the actions I have taken and the consequences they have had. In trying to understand, or analyze oneself there is a need for risk, and painful exposure, and honesty. In light of that, I have always been as uncomfortable with my internal as my external self. Never nurtured to the comfort of flesh and feeling, I am underdeveloped, a late bloomer, a timid statue of a grater expression. Therefore as I have confronted some more emotionally taxing issues as of recent, I suppose it is time to tackle some more taxing physical issues as well; mostly as a means of breaking the general insecurities I have harbored for so long.

I have always carried more shame then I would ever been willing to admit. Afraid to see who I was/am as much I was afraid to be seen naked, even by, at the time, my own husband.

There is comfort in flesh, in skin, in touch, in curves, and nerves. I ignorantly associated this comfort with a pure desire for sex for the sake of sex. How untrue that is, a tainted conception that evolves from abuses that will not be addressed here. None the less, the body offers a fantastic means for evaluating us each most truly, most purely. The body is something that we all possess. We are all made of skin and bone, though often built quite differently from one to the next, it is here in hips, and toes, and hair and thighs that we are ultimately all common, and yet how incredibly varied in our similarity. This body, this form, this commonality is so shunned in many cultures. To view any portion of the body exposed is to view sex, sin, and lust. This may often be so, but only as a result of our own conditioning to the idea.

When viewed more detached, or perhaps more involved, we can see beauty, even in forms we may not generally appreciate for our tastes. The beauty that is a nude statue or painting is evident, it captures the essence of our sensuality, our fragility, our grace. So why is not the nude photograph understood with the same affection? Before I go on, yes, I do agree that there is a difference between study/classic art and pornography, if it needs to be defined, then you should probably just stop reading here. For the rest of you, there is an obvious abuse of the body that exists in forms of exposure many term ‘art’. For this purpose I am implying those images which capture curiosities,  lines, humanity, or art as it is in the distorted figure. I am not implying that these pictures are art. What I am implying is that in taking the pictures I am experiencing myself as art, as beauty. Its not that I don’t find myself interesting, or attractive. But to understand  yourself as art, as something worth looking at simply because to look is interesting, and beautiful, indicative of confidence and curiosity,  not because its sexual. I am art. I am as much a work of art as the Mona Lisa and to think anything less of myself is wasted energy. The thought may seem lofty and pretentious, but I assure you it is almost essential to maintaining and developing a love of your body and  so yourself.

Do I think that I am perfect, by no means. I am certainly not the standard to which other women, or things, are found to be beautiful or great. I am me, an individual that has struggled with balancing the roles of mother, wife, friend, lover, sister, housekeeper, tutor, worker and student. How do those manifest simultaneously and with a positive result? Well, recently I realized they manifest naturally if you are in balance with yourself. When you are resolved to accept the many parts of who you are – crazy, artsy, nerdy, momish, hard working, emotional, stoic, lazy, tiny toes, stretch marks, imperfect skin, thighs – you come to accept you, and that you are a complex sculpture that requires maintenance and upkeep, much like a classic painting, and some will love what they see, others perhaps not so much, some will understand at sight what you represent and the type of person you may be, or be portraying, others will be blind.

No matter how we come to understanding who and what we are, or when we are given the opportunity to understand, we must be open to it. To understanding that we are a masterpiece in the making, and the more sound in mind and body we become the longer our legacy will last. Those who are the most pure of heart, body and spirit always seem to be remembered the longest and the best. I am only to improve upon the character I am increasingly understanding.

This has been highly more internal than it was intended, but noticing that I am in need of more pictures to continue this on a more external level I will leave it at that.

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