Antiques. Antique pornography. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have some kind of appreciation for what women looked like in erotica over the decades and centuries.
Of course I never realized it was specifically European women ( because they get all of the historic representation) when I was in middle school.
Later on I would discover Japanese erotic photographers and artists, but it all started with pinups.
Vargas, of course. Betty Page, an absolute icon. And then, even older photographs of women. From the 17th and 18th century. Large bush and soft bodies. So beautiful, I was enamored. Butts being paddled in muddied black and white. Rarely, but sometimes, a flirty look or even a smile.
There was something regal and classy about the photos. It felt like I shouldn’t be seeing them at all. These photos didn’t feel taken with an audience in mind.
It felt bad to look at them, like they belonged tucked away.
I can imagine young women going out to the forests with a charming man with a camera. I suppose that the same power comes from a willingness to participate in naughtiness and fun would have existed hundreds of years ago as it does now. A comfort with yourself and your own body. That’s the power of womanhood. That’s real divinity in my opinion.
The lighting always seemed natural. So bright. The settings were almost romantic. It wasn’t as rough and violent as pornography evolved to become in 2019. It contrasted sweetness against the modern disgust you can scour the internet to find these days when searching for pornography.
A mystical bush peaks from beneath a skirt, saying hello in the forest as she exchanges stories with a close friend. A cold naked bum sitting on the hood of one of the very first cars, smiling and looking brave. This is the kind of pornography I live for.
Well, headaches hurt. Mine hurt every day. Usually for a string of days. My headaches and pain are my go-to blame for every poor decision I’ve ever made. I’ve been feeling somewhat busy, despite no job or boss to report to for the first time in years. I’m still looking, of course. I hope to have some good news this week, but I hope for a lot of things. Many of them are still on a shelf. I am more than okay with the wait while I truly find a job I will love and can see myself at for many years into the future.
Another canvas is perched on my wall after I made some time to fill it in recently.
I haven’t had a good writing session with my keyboard in a few weeks, instead focusing on finding a career fit out here in Boise. Focusing on my baby, the blue eyed wonderful little baby. Trying to just feel better.
I should have done more research about what kind of income I could expect for my line of work because, man it is disappointing. Salaries out here are just all around lower. $12/ hourly wage for SEO work? It’s a solid reason why technology struggles to thrive here. Jobs don’t pay aggressively and it feels like a bad thing waiting to happen with all of the booming population growth.
We see it often enough, anyways. Mass migration, stagnant local wages, the only job growth is service industry to cater to the wealthy new residents living off of pensions or retirement funds.
My headaches all but subsided.
I’ve been paying attention to my Facebook memories after noticing just how many status updates I’ve written specifically about being in pain or having a migraine. I would really be curious about the actual numbers on posts per topic, it feels like my body is a prison made of discomfort.
I got one last sum of money and decided to order my own dress design off of my RedBubble store. The dress made from a large scale painting that someone had to destroy. Ripped up, burnt and tossed in a pile of rubbish outside. I wish he didn’t feel compelled to do that, but he did. And now, all I have is this .Jpg file stored on my laptop and external hard drive and redbubble server. All I have left out of the mess of acrylic paint and headaches that made up that painting.
Here’s my most recent painting. I’ll update the gallery soon with it, too! Happy belated memorial day.
Memories told me that 7 years ago today I posted “Each of my neurons have a migraine of their own.” to my Facebook page.
A similar sentiment could be true for any other day, too. My body feels like I haven’t slept in days, no matter how actually well rested I am. It’s some form of hell, exhaustion. Working through it has proved impossible. I took some time to try healing myself.I’m very tired. I haven’t painted, or done anything useful and depression has bested me for the first time since I was 24, right after my grandmother died. Maybe there’s a name for this.
At least it’s spring time. I love the flowers.