what i am, what i am not

Today, I feel fragile and worn.

Despite the wonderful news that I was 3rd place winner at the Art Festival in the Ukraine. Pretty damn impressive for something that i was not even going to enter.

They found me.
They liked my stuff.

I am a photographer.


Got another email from an arts company in NYC. They seem like a "vanity agent" - pay us 1000$ and we will put you in our arts magazine. I wrote to Bob in NYC. He's the man in the know and i know he has my back. I will wait on his advice before moving in on this offer.

I am not (that) gullible.

While posting my last batch of images on flickr, i found myself editing each shot. Don't put this one, it's not flattering. Don't add that one, your stomach looks like a soggy bunched up sheet of flesh. This one is too dark, too much grain and the blacks look muddy. Judgment is my biggest enemy.

I am a perfectionist.

A link from a fellow flickr self portrait artist threw the monkey wrench in my "best laid plans for accepting myself". It's 3am and still not sleepy. More wired than anything else, and when i'm wired, the buzzards swoop down into my grey matter and pluck at the veins that feed blood to my brain.

I'm not accepting sleep as an option.

E said that this latest series is one of my best. Sam on flickr also said the same thing: "You have reached a pinnacle of sort with your art". Wow. That is very cool. I am very happy.

I am learning to accept compliments.

So best laid plans led astray. Best intentions run amok. Self image out the window. The girl must not be more than 21. Her body, svelte, skin taut across her flat belly and perky breasts. No droop or stretch here. She was interviewed in a magazine that is an erotica online one. Very tasteful, but catering and by the under 30 group. Mostly women in this issue. And she is one of them. Her photographs are pretty. Moody lighting, sensual poses and come hither expressions. I'm jealous of her beauty, her youth, her ability to have the self confidence to show herself so boldly. What happened to me?

I am not jealous.

I am lying to myself.

What happened? Life happened. Cancer happened. Death happened. Mental illness happened. Why would a gallery owner in the heart of the New York City gallery district believe so completely in my self portraits? Because they are real. Not plastic, not fake, not perfectly staged. This must be my mantra. Realization of what the most important things in life are. I longed to be in his gallery, and two years ago, i marched on in with nothing but my big city set of balls and a few prints. That was good.

I am learning to take what is important and make that more important than the unimportant stuff.

I will not stop photographing myself.

I will become more forgiving of myself.

I will unconditionally love myself as i am.

I will not let them get me down.

what i am and what i am not
what i will and will not do




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