- Servitude -
The hint of skin from the wrists has always excited me. They oozed with desperation and yearned for a thrill to be pinned. Through this vision, I adopted the idea that I would hide these areas for sexual discretion. These parts of me, like the skin of an over-ripe fruit, were delicate. Their demure, shy frames were so easily hidden yet so quickly exposed when lifted into the air. In photos, I revealed the cravings for my desires that were wet with temptations each time I exposed my wrists. I'd give strangers the reveal of nothing more or nothing less than the subtle honesty that I longed for their touch. I longed for their peeping eyes to look beyond the curtains and the chiseled glass of french doors. Through these walls of illusions, they'd find me revealing more than ever. But despite my skin being bare under the moonlight of their eyes, my fruit would be hidden. Now, in the shadows of my bedroom, I'd show the creatures of voyeurism everything but the veins on my wrists.
In plain terms, I had grown to become quite shy about showing skin. There was a cloud of negative connotations that loomed over my head. Whether this stemmed from my own self-image or the society that raised me to be ashamed, I wasn't quite sure why I felt so afraid to embrace the sexual side of me. In private, amongst lovers, I was far from modest - often the sexually secure and unapologetic lover who was ready for anything. I was comfortable to beg and plead, but also strong enough to demand and command. However, in the eyes of a camera, I became hidden like a child who had never touched another. As I've grown as an artist and watched those around bare themselves, I felt I could no longer find solace in hiding myself - hiding the parts of myself I had grown to love. Uncovered and truthful with nudity - embracing my skin for you to see.