Mrow

Samantha Ylva Beasley, Portland, OR, 2012

James Wigger, Portland, OR, 2012

I love these!

I was visiting Samantha and James in their enchanting place--to me it's like some dungeon dwelling, sectioned off from the rest of the world. I was coming down with a fever the night they were taken--I didn't have much stamina. Enough to hold still without falling over--that was about it.

I was grumpy and my attention span was worse than usual, and I kept debating whether I should stick around for the night or not, largely due to "parking logistics" or something. My fever got the better of me, and I stayed over, spending a delirious night reading the entirety of Venus in Furs during the times I couldn't sleep.

My sick-grouchiness did them no justice--Samantha and James are such lovely company. I felt completely at home with them. I didn't feel very at home with MYSELF that night [I generally hate being around people when I'm sick], but I always end up blabbering my mouth off at Samantha. It's just easygoing. I have only been around each of them in person a small handful of times, and feel like they've both caught me at worse periods in my life and not when I was my shiny-best, so I'm quite fortunate that they seem to like me anyway. 8]

The cool thing about these images was that, when we shot, they were running low on their very interesting strain of 8x10, so each of them took only two exposures--that's it--and here are two of the resulting four images. Not too shabby!

Daydreaming

From my first shoot with Erin Wilson, Alameda, CA, 2010. I had sworn off large sunglasses till Erin stuck these on me.

I've been gnawed on by the urge to create things.

Sleep deprived, crashing in Rebecca Lawrence's apartment, Brooklyn, NY, 2011

At its best, modeling can be a very therapeutic form of self-expression--but that self-expression is still rendered through the photographer's interpretation.

Sasha V, who'd tagged along on a shoot with Jason Andrescavage at a ghost town near San Jose, CA, 2010

Oftentimes, it's not even a matter of expression. Sometimes the model is but an instrument. Those are the shoots I feel turn out less well--the model has a rigidity to her poses and a hollowness behind her eyes; you can always tell.

ckudos, after taking a taxi to a beach and some ruins near San Francisco, 2010

Some of my favorite shoots have been shoots with models-turned-photographers--as all the photos in this entry are. They usually don't feel much like shoots, actually. Most of the time I just kind of fart around and they pull their cameras out.

C Nirvana, who fed me wine as we wandered around Brooklyn, 2011

Anyway, the point of this is that I'm starting to bubble over with project ideas of my own. I can't wait until I find a good home base for a while--first and foremost on my list is a video camera. I once thought I was going to study film. As often as I'm afflicted by wanderlust--I do daydream a lot of having a creative space somewhere. When I'm in one place, I dream of the next time I'll be boundless and free--when I'm on the road, I dream of the next time I'll be grounded and setting anchors.

It doesn't need to be much, just my own space. I'll take photos, paint, experiment with wet plate, record videos and songs, brew beer and kombucha and pickle things and have an herb garden and grow mushrooms. Maybe install a pole, and a hammock for aerial yoga and so on. Unicycle around the neighborhood. Sit on the roof [I can't imagine settling somewhere for long that wouldn't have roof access] and write and drink wine when the weather's nice. And I'll have a decadently-stocked bathtub. Build things, take things apart, reintroduce myself to my lost love of engineering and the physical sciences. Read a lot, when the sun's down. Play open mics at local bars where I know everyone. Go on walks at 3:00 am.

Wara, my "twin", during a magical sake-drenched time at Jason Fassnacht's in Sacramento, CA, 2012

The last house I was in was alternately wonderful and terrible, and it was an experience I needed--wholly different. I was living out of a "shabin" [a shed converted into a living space] for most of it, and at one point had nine people and six dogs in the same tiny, dirty, eclectic little house--surfboards along the ceiling, snowboards along the walls, mixed media art everywhere, a table that had been scribbled on with paint pens by passers-by in various altered states of mind, and random "projects" left around by the different tenants. The house was alternately filthy, crammed, and stuffed with shit--and deep-cleaned. Being in that house taught me to be unafraid of mess. That's how it was when I liked it better, anyway--the place became bitterly sterile after a while, hence moving out.

One of many road trip photos by Meghan Claire, somewhere in the Southwest [probably Arizona], 2011

Until recently, I was all set to move into this new house--it was perfect. I really liked the people who lived there, there was a jacuzzi, pet ferrets [I love ferrets, even the pissy way they smell...it's homey sort of smell, not acrid like cat or horse piss], my room was to have a beautiful view onto the endless backyard--a long winding creek and trees and grass. I caught a crayfish out of that creek once and, on a whim, decided to cook and eat it. It was good, but hardly one bite's worth.

But shit happens, doesn't it? No longer going to be living in that house, nor that town. By my own choice, but I don't feel it could be any other way. It makes me pretty sad to think about, but I guess it just means I'll have to find an even better alternative.

Dennis Beach

There are a few photos from my early modeling career [my first month of doing it] that, to this day, remain the photos people mention to me the most.

Some of them have quaint [albeit pointless] anecdotes behind them, so I've decided to divulge the stories with the photos as I come across them, what the hell.

I shot with Jefferson on St. Patty's Day in 2010, meeting him in Santa Cruz.

I tried on a bunch of the [mostly flamboyant] outfits in his studio, and settled for the one I'm wearing in the photos above. They were actually taken at a horse ranch [which quite excited me], and while tinkering in an abandoned-looking shed I found a small red box hiding in one of the rafters, full of little notes and rubber-stamped pages, more-or-less a small geocache, called a "Tompte" or something similar. I made an addition to the notes, referencing St. Patty and my current nakedness and thorn-scratched legs, and put the box away again.

Then we drove a short ways along the coast, pulling over at a seemingly nondescript location and wandering past long-defunct trains lined up like rusty ducklings on old tracks to the edge of a cliff. One short barefoot scramble later, and we were in an unregistered beach--seemingly devoid of human interference except for one set of footprints in the sand, and the name "DENNIS" spelled out in huge letters in stones, driftwood, and fresh flowers. There were was a rock archway and an incredible moss-covered outcropping that I posed around.

Later I returned to this beach with my then-boyfriend, and was clambering over the trains when I noticed that the puddles of water in the mud were wriggling. Upon closer inspection I saw that the puddles were TEEMING with huge tadpoles, trapped and dying as the puddles shrunk under the hot sun. So I went on a tadpole-rescuing mission, scooping up big, muddy, wriggling handfuls and seeking bigger wet areas to dump them into, and felt thus fulfilled for the day.

More of it

Laaazy. More photos from that same visit with Roman that I just wrote about. I'm putting up some of the photos I personally found most charming or endearing for whatever sentimental or arbitrary reasons, not the ones that I thought were the "best" by any other standards. Ahhh, the luxuries of having a blog vs. a portfolio. 8]

Nakedness

Whoohoo! For the first time, I've made sure to post NEVER BEFORE SEEN photos! These have been nowhere on the Internet before now, I'm pretty sure. Certainly not on my own portfolio sites.

I am attached to these images [Roman calls them "images" rather than "photos" or "pictures", and I think it's a fitting term]--they're not exactly what one would seek in a portfolio, but the experience that went into making them was unreal.

I shot with Roman on my very first trip as a traveling model.

The timeline looks like this:
February-March 2010: I began modeling and jumped right in, scheduling up to nine shoots a week in the Bay Area
April-September 2010: I worked trails in the woods, got in really good shape, grew out armpit hair.
October 2010: I hid away in Lake Tahoe [for the first time] and did a lot of mulling and pondering and existential agonizing, as is typical for me.
December 2010: I emerged, needed a distraction, and decided to go to LA and model--my first trip. At least I think it was in December.

And the rest is history, or something.

Anyway, I stayed with Roman for a couple days and we would shoot informally in between my scheduled shoots with other photographers. At that point, I was pretty green, having only a couple months of modeling experience under my belt, almost all of which had been glamour modeling. Which, let's be fucking honest here, is easier to do--as far as imagination and aptitude are concerned, anyway--and less personally involving than other genres. Basically, you make a pouty-face and you arch your back and stick out your boobs and writhe around a bit, and then the photos come out depicting you as a nubile young sex symbol. For some, it's fun, and for others, it's nauseating, but in either case it's not exactly rocket science.

And even the other shoots I'd done--figure work and conceptual work and so on--were generally shoots in which I was micromanaged, and had to convey a very specific ideal on the photographer's part.

The modeling I'd been doing, whatever the genre, had at times involved a lot of faking shit, playacting, and often covering up what I was really thinking and feeling. At least, it did when the reality of my life was less than rosy.

Fortunately, I was pretty good at that. But I didn't really like it. I'm not good with falseness; it's the reason I quit my former retail and office jobs and decided to only ever work jobs on a freelance or seasonal basis.

Working with Roman completely fucked up my conception of what modeling could, or should, be. What role it could play in my life...as something a bit more than I-want-to-record-my-years-of-being-young-and-hot vanity,  and as something more than the money. [Incidentally, Roman won't pay cash, in order to avoid working with models who don't enjoy his way of working--but he will extend other generous and practical favors in exchange, that wind up being just as useful as paying cash...unlike photographers whose response to, "Well, I need to eat, and I live out of my car so I have no storage space," is simply, "Yeah? But I can give you framed AND SIGNED prints, then!"]

I met up with him and he cooked me a great meal while we discussed his many artistic eccentricities. The one that threw me off, especially, was when I tried to get a feel of what the aim of his work was and he more or less said, "That's up to you--how have you been?"

I thought that might have been a challenge, like maybe I looked sleep-deprived or uninvested and he was thinking I'd be a waste of film to shoot.

But no. He started to explain that, to him, photos come out best when you see something of the model's humanity exposed. He told me that I shouldn't bullshit his camera when doing my work, even if I'm going to bullshit him, or bullshit other photographers who want me to look a certain pretty way. That, if I'm feeling happy, strong, and free, great. If I'm feeling sexytime, great. But, if I'm tired and congested and have boy problems or financial issues or an identity crisis to work through, then I shouldn't be trying to look giggly or sexy. No acting, no posing, just picking a starting point, some premise [even if the premise is just a pair of shoes that I happen to be wearing, or a street corner we happen to gravitate to] that seems fun, and then hanging out there for a while and seeing what happens.

It makes sense. I aspire to rawness and candor in my daily life, so why shouldn't that apply universally to all aspects of my life and work?

Like I said, the final images may not be the most marketable--a lot of them are abstract, and the ones that aren't are not all necessarily flattering, nor do they showcase my modeling "ability"--but they come from an shoot--no, an in-depth experience--that helped me reevaluate what modeling meant to me, and what to aspire to. And, since I wasn't trying to smile through my stress or sexify anything that didn't feel sexy to me, those few days of shooting are fondly linked to my own memories of introspection, since I WAS going through a lot of gnarly personal shit at that time...and it was so liberating to be able to shoot with someone whose view of "art" [whatever the fuck "art" is] didn't need me to pretend I wasn't preoccupied with it all.

As a result, I tend to prefer shooting with photographers who emphasize nakedness over nudity--and not merely his own conception of a model's nakedness, but consummate, true nakedness, being the nakedness of the model, of the photographer, and of their collaborative dynamic.

Metal

 

Short half-assed entry today. Metal is fascinating--in academic, aesthetic, pragmatic, and hedonistic contexts alike. 

Incidentally, I'm going to be going to a metalworking workshop in the Bay in July. Metal and glass, rather. I've worked with glass on a couple occasions...and as yet am not exceptionally good at it. 

Photos taken by Alberto Bevacqua in LA on my first-ever modeling trip outside the Bay Area, sometime in late 2010. 

On another note, I'm going to be spending the next week focusing entirely on physical conditioning with my sister. That means climbing, yoga, kickboxing, and whatever else we can squeeze in.

Meghan 8]

Photos: Alien Life, 2010

One thing I will say about modeling [I write "one thing" as if I haven't already pontificated my ass off] is that it's allowed me to meet a few true kindred spirits.

Meghan's one of them. I like her a bunch. And am presumably seeing her sometime around September/October for another adventure [scuba diving in Catalina island, camping/climbing in the midwest, or else some other type of vagabonding and debauching]! 8]

She has a thing: http://meghanclaireart.viewbook.com/

And shoots film. Like theeeeese of me:

December 2010, accidental double-exposure--me playing guitar on the sand near Pismo Beach vs. laughing and running naked through snow near Death Valley

November 2011, went through Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah

November 2011, driving around the southwest in the nuddypants

November 2011, Peeeeeing

November 2011, Salt Flats in Utah

November 2011, Arizona

November 2011, more Arizona

December 2011, around New Years in South Lake Tahoe. Riddled with nostalgia.

Playing favorites

I've been asked what my favorite photo of myself is.

That should be a difficult question to answer, but it isn't.

It's an underexposed Polaroid taken by George Pitts--an accident, and one that he was going to throw out, since it was so dark. He seemed surprised and a bit amused that I took such a liking to it, and gave it to me. In it, I'm standing by a window in a white dress [which has since been stained to oblivion and otherwise destroyed] and I'm making a very particular sort of face, thinking about a very particular sort of thing.

I think I like it because it has this dark, almost macabre mood all its own--a complete accident. And it's the most honest, vulnerable-looking photo, taken when there was a lot of gnarly shit going on in my life, during a small, quiet moment at which I was allowing myself to be overwhelmed by all of it. I've been told a few times that I usually look kind of "intense" and "strong" in my photos [I've also been told that I look scary or angry or mean, go figure]...so it's a nice, rare contrast.

It should be a very easy photo to include in this post, but it isn't.

I don't have a scan of it, actually--and I thought about scanning it, but I kind of like retaining the mystery and keeping the photo all to myself. I'm actually not 100% sure where it is right now, anyway, being an oft disorganized and absent-minded creature with multiple home bases.

At this point, I might as well post some of the work I did with George, though none of it resembles the photo I was describing. He was great--I was exhausted and actually fell asleep in a chair while he was tinkering around [changing film or something]. I woke up and felt really guilty, and he just goes, "No, no, no, just keep doing what you're doing. I was just about to photograph you sleeping!" So I shrugged and closed my eyes again, and there we go.

[On a completely unrelated note, it's my mom's birthday today!]

As far as words go...

Photo: Rebecca Lawrence. Taken during a rather turbulent and depressing period of my life--and while I was sleep-deprived, to boot. Which is all part of why I like it.

..."art" is a funny one. ESPECIALLY when it comes to photography, I think.


Photography is a lot harder to peg. Is it "art" when it's aesthetically pleasing--even if it's an advertisement, or if it completely lacks substance? Or is it just a well set-up photo? Is it "art" when its subject shocks the viewer--even if it's poorly executed, hideous or sloppy? Or is it just an interesting bit of photojournalism? Is it "art" when the medium is more involved [wet plate, for instance]--even if, beyond being well-exposed, it has no merits as an image? Or is it just nostalgic kitsch? These are oversimplified scenarios. But there are a lot of less simple times when I wonder what to make of someone's work, or wonder why someone else likes a body of work that I just can't see any merit in.

Anyway, ultimately, I think art is whatever the viewer decides it is--not what they're told it is. It's inherently useless--in a way, I think that's one of the fundamentals of "art", that it justifies itself separately from having any concrete function or purpose--so there's no utility in an objective definition.

[Which, incidentally, is why it's such a pet peeve for me when photographers tell me that I should charge them lower rates because, after all, they are "real artists"--first of all, what the fuck does that mean? Second of all, why does that have anything to do with money? I'll give discounts to those who hire me consistently--this job has no security to it--and to people whom I have a lot of fun working with, any day. Third of all, let ME fucking decide what I think a "real artist" is--there's no point in "informing" me of something wholly subjective.]

And personally, when it comes to photos, as a viewer I tend to gravitate towards portraits and conceptual photography. One of my favorite photos of all time was a postcard I saw out of the corner of my eye in a store, back when I was in high school. It's a portrait by Cass Bird of a teenage boy--maybe fifteen or sixteen--standing against a wall, wearing a hat that says "I look just like my daddy".

I don't get it, either. I don't get why I like it, nor why I remember it to this day--there's nothing evidently phenomenal about it, neither the boy nor the photographer seems to be doing much--but something about that boy's face is really beautiful to me, so much so that it makes me want to meet him. The photo doesn't make me remotely interested in the rest of Cass Bird's work, because I almost feel like my love of it is a complete accident. So what does that make Cass Bird? A great artist, a great photojournalist, or just someone who, by some fluke, took a picture that moved me?

And don't even get me started on famous photographers who make their name by taking "raw", "everyman" photos--photos that "look like anyone could have taken them, with any crappy old camera", like some of Terry Richardson's work.

I wouldn't know where to start, for one thing.

Everyone talks about these Guy With Camera types with a lot of derision--interestingly, I think more of the derision comes from other photographers than from models. And I understand it, of course--I've definitely done a few shoots that struck me as creepy, insulting, or otherwise profoundly awkward, and they have usually been shoots with those that most would peg as GWCs.

But what really makes a GWC? Is it the quality of their work, the subject matter, or the intention of the photographer?

What if a photographer's work is crap, but he has a genuine affinity for the photographic process and improving his craft? What if a photographer's work is sexualized and portrays girls as glamorous, but has a rich depth or quality to it? What if a photographer's sole motive is to hang out with hot naked chicks, perhaps with the prospect of sleeping with them, but his work is nice to look at?

What if a photographer has a little bit of really good work, but also posts a lot of horrific work--even good photographers have some truly awful images, they just know better than to display those. Is being a decent photographer more about the ability to be a discriminating judge of one's work [rather than selecting photos indiscriminately, or sentimentally, or whatever], then? What if this photographer with some really good work winds up soliciting his favorite models for prostitution, and winds up alienating them until he no longer has many models left?

That sounds like a silly scenario, I know, but I met a guy like that--in general I didn't like his work, but he took two photos of me that are still among my favorites, although I no longer feel right posting them, since I eventually had to stop working with him for reasons I hope are obvious. 8P

And as screwed up as it all got...if I'm being honest with myself, I think the reason he took such great photos of me was BECAUSE he had such an affinity/attachment to me. There was one other model he really, really liked, and--big surprise--she was the only other model whom I thought he ever captured well. I don't think he adored us BECAUSE we were great models for his work. I think we came out well in his work because he adored us. He had an eye for us and was able to capture us with the attention of a lover.

Granted, when I put that in context with HIM--given my low opinion of him [for various reasons that I won't go into]--that reeeeeally grosses me out to think about. But I have to admit--that doesn't make the work any less honest.

So is great art most honestly manifested through lustful creepers? Is working with a guy like that tantamount to being an exalted muse, or a random sex worker? Or both?

Did Cass Bird love that boy, or do I see something in that photo that she herself missed?

On kink

Yeah. I know. It's my butt!
I felt like putting it up.
From a really good shoot--back in my early days. Greg's awesome.

This shoot was the first time I experimented with fetish modeling. As per usual, when I try something new I will generally just dive right in: I was suspended, and wound up with clover clamps stuck onto lots of places that don't like being clamped. It was...an experience.

I got lucky--working with Greg was awesome. In general, I don't think fetish modeling is for me [both for the shoot dynamic, the heightened level of trust and vulnerability required, and because I am not a fan of the majority of fetish photography--you get some diamonds in the rough, but not many], so in general I've avoided even very light decorative ropework.

Lately I've been thinking it's the sort of thing I'd like to explore again--work with a darker sensuality to it [not tacky porn bondage; I'm not going to wear fuzzy love cuffs in a garishly lit hotel room so that someone can get their rocks off]--though only for the right assignment. And maybe there IS no right assignment.

Perhaps I feel a renewed interest because of the reading choices I made on my last trip: Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille, and The Story of O by Pauline Réage. Sans one of de Sade's torture tomes, it doesn't get much more transgressive than those.

Yeah, suck on that Palahniuk, you prude!

Granted--I do like me some Palahniuk, on occasion.

Incidentally, I liked Venus in Furs the best. It's actually much more psychologically and philosophically engaging--and more of a fucked-up love story, with real characters--whereas the other two are kind of just porn. Licentious act after licentious act--plenty of symbolism but no real subtext.

Of course, I doubt people have much interest in the reading choices of a professional model. But this is my blog, and I figure people are mainly here for the pictures, anyway. So, here they are:

Gnarly.

Fickle

Photo: Studio200, Alameda, CA; 2010

Writing this on Wednesday, but I'm going to publish it on Friday anyway, I've decided, because I'm a weiner.

This whole traveling thing is weird.

I came up to Vancouver, equipped. I knew of many photographers, and had been in contact with many of them, and maybe fifty more had been recommended to me by models.

I come up, with a calendar that isn't booked totally full, but well-booked enough to serve as a damn decent basis, upon which I might throw on another booking or two upon my arrival--and some extra time left over to go climbing.

And I get here, and--BAM--over the next few days, get cancellation after cancellation--some with almost no notice--until, eventually, EVERY photographer I'd booked with had cancelled, and everyone else I contacted was unavailable.

To top it all off, the weather forecast: wet and gray. Not exactly climbing-ready weather.

On the other hand, if I just decide to GO somewhere and think, "Eh, I'll figure it out," I generally do just fine--and sometimes, I do REALLY well.

This job is fickle as hell.

One week I'll come back feeling like I've won the lottery--not only working like crazy, but being able to take my pick, being taken to exotic locales, spoiled, fed well, doing all sorts of fun things [smashing cars with track loaders, hanging out in boats, etc.] all in the name of making pictures--and another week I'll be dumpster-diving, friendless and sleeping in WalMart parking lots by necessity rather than choice, stuck in traffic and bad weather, thinking of alternative ways to make enough money to get my ass to my nearest home base.

I've concluded that it's not a livable job, at least not as a full-time job, given my idea of "living"--from experience I've learned that, modeling-wise, if things are going badly, generally it's better to give up on them and look for something else to do--to get off the Internet and embrace the Eternal Lightness of Bumhood. Otherwise I'll come back from the trip with no memories [except of being grumpy, stressed, and misanthropic in various Starbucks locations, on the Internet or the phone all day] AND no money...I'd rather just come back with no money, but with plenty of enriching experiences.

It's true. This is what happened in LA, in my previous entry--I showed up, and all of a sudden there was no work, not even the work I'd already scheduled. And look how THAT week turned out [an entry ago]. Not too fucking shabby.

So...it's 1pm, I've been online all damn morning; I think it's time to go run along and play outside and stop being a fucking grouch. Something great will turn up--you just wait.

--

Well, it's nighttime now.

Here's how my theory worked out, in just an afternoon:

I managed to find one shoot, for the following evening--a one-hour shoot, but still a shoot.

The weather cleared up for the first time in a while as soon as I stepped into my car.

My engine started to overheat, and I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it [the coolant was low, so I added water, and it was still overheating]--fortunately I called Alex at just the right time [he was hanging out with someone who'd just had an identical problem], and had parked in just the right spot [two Canadian guys rushed out within thirty seconds and immediately ran off to grab a rag and some water] and within five minutes I was good to go. Imagine if I'd been in ANY other predicament [I never would have figured out it was an air lock on my own]--or if I'd been in a hurry to get somewhere. So I felt lucky off the bat.

And I'd parked across the street from a homebrewing supply shop [something I've become interested in lately, for once I have a stable home base--the shop left me bewildered and delighted, and I snagged a few bits of free informational literature] and a strange hyperpolitical bookstore that I also perused.

I drove into the city, found free parking almost immediately, and started wandering. Ten minutes later I was at a large park with a big lovely pond, and encountered a couple of swans--one of which was about the size of a German Shepherd. Huge. I'd never seen such big birds up close. And they let me pet them. That pretty much made my day, along with an older man dressed entirely in light blue denim who was feeding the birds, and a very slutty cat.

A little more wandering, and I was at the harbor, which was lovely. I seemed to take all the right turns. At one point, I started getting hungry, but didn't have any Canadian currency and had eaten all the snacks in my pockets already--and BAM--two boys promoting a pizza shop come up and offer me a free slice of pizza.

Also, I've established plans for the next couple days: Parkour gym [!!!!!] [Yes!!! I've never been to one!!], going to Whistler, going to Squamish if the sun comes out, and going to some sort of local gathering at a pub, and then bailing off for home. And I'm crashing with a badass climber chick [who is way better than me, even though she has a broken ankle and can therefore only use one leg]. Not so bad.

So, as usual, it looks like I'm covered, if not monetarily [but I should have enough to at least get back to Oregon, if not California, at which point work will be much more easily found--even if it means playing guitar on the street].

Yay! Mr. Micawber Syndrome saves me again!

Since this entry was so long and comparatively boring, here are some more pictures to appease anyone who's bothered to read all of it, all by Studio200 in California: