In 2008, Miley Cyrus’s partially nude Vanity Fair photograph graced every gossip rag, mouth and show. It’s what I remember every time I read a post wherein someone calls their fanny something stupid like “love box” or wonder how wild an idea it would be to post partially nude photos of myself on my blog, if my confidence was large enough for that and I so pleased. It wouldn’t be something to raise red flags on my host, rather a shirt and undies. I’d be clothed, just not enough to avoid raising red flags with people who judge my every move—or with sites like Tumblr.
I don’t see the sexiness in photos like these; I see the raw beauty of humanity. I see coziness. I see a delicate intimacy, at the same time: secrets, a story waiting to be told that may never be told. I see an unexpected confidence. I see encouragement to be comfortable with my body, even when I hate it. I see taboos challenged.
I see a finger to the patriarchy and anyone who dares remove that individual’s autonomy.
I don’t see sex or picture what is underneath. The human body is beautiful; that’s what I see.
And if someone dares to remind me about the men who will be affected, is this taught sexual objectification of women not how they wound up in such a predicament?
I’m the type of person who pushes rules to their limits, testing all the bullshit ones as much as I can. My photography style is that which captures beauty in its most natural form. It varies for everyone. For me, when I think of photos for myself, I don’t picture someone who’s gotten all dressed up; instead, I picture something teetering on the edge of boudoir—again, pushing those limits as far as they can go while remaining in the “not quite”.
I used to be scared to venture into to those parts, but I’m done. I’m 28. It’s my body, and it’s fucking beautiful.