It takes over two hours. And this shoot was over a year ago, so I was slower then. It must've taken me four hours. To paint over the light white--yet invisible--scars left by angry school boys 20 years ago, scars of being so sure I was somehow off. To tuck away the bits and pieces that are a bit rougher--me, nonetheless very me--but indeed a bit rougher.
After. I bear new scars. From the metal boning of a corset pulled tight. Of women size 11 Mary Janes that cut a couple centimeters too short.
And I delicately touch a flower, or a leaf, or your hair, in a way that is dangerous. In a way that in another time, in another place, it would have been dangerous.
It's a privilege. I know it is. Some baby oil and a makeup wipe, and I get to put it all away. You cannot. But, if I may suggest, let's be grotesque in a way that you and I know is beautiful. In a way that cuts something open and leaves a bleeding edge and maybe eventually a little white scar. But a good one. One that leaves a question for those with seemingly such clear answers.
Your version of woman is so right. My version of me is me.
