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This body that I am packaged by is a blessing as much as a burden.
It would be art if a Caucasian old woman with graceful wrinkles and
weathered expressions modelled nude in a park, but the final results of
any nude photoshoot I do always end up being classified as erotica.
I have nothing against the term. It is actually the historical context
of what this term connotates to the current public that makes me
uncomfortably self-conscious. It denotes the value of my mental entity
by disecting it from the figure I own. My physical anatomy then becomes
something purchasable, as much as my disposability, suggesting my
nature as a submissive subject to patriarchal ideal. These connotations
promote to others that I am a target DESIGNED to be taken advantage of,
especially when I offer myself in front of the camera.
By being aware of what my image suggests to public eyes, I cannot help
but become excessively defensive, turning my intuition on an
extremist position, which eventually limits myself from performing as I
wish to. Remembering the first time I modelled nude for a photographer,
I look less consumed by the fear that transpires onto film. Alas,
thoughts of this issue still drive me to fret and I intuitively freeze
myself from the performance.
I do not know how much social abuse I can take; if I eventually crumble
from this personal interest, it is not because of me, but because of my
audience, possibly from how you see me.
--Antony Green 2005 |
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