Tuesday, December 01, 2009
When I photograph myself, I think only of anatomy, angles and perspective. Any self-consciousness is lost. It's only when I begin to draw that I remember it's me.My relationship with my body used to be austere and loveless. I suppressed every desire for physical pleasure. I ate like a bird, took drugs to deaden the senses and 'did' sex, when required, with clinical efficiency. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw were flaws – and not just with my body.Over the past few years, I have, in every sense, let myself go. It's been a wonderful experience. I freed myself from wrapped-too-tight notions about how I should look and act and and threw caution to the wind. I ate for pleasure rather than to "feed the machine", as I used to put it. I responded to the sexual curiosity I'd repressed since I was in puberty and fucked both women and men, setting no boundaries for what I'd do with them. I fell in love, hard.I even exposed myself in my art, allowing it to express the raw, unrefined tumult of my emotions.Right now, I am reviewing a sheaf of study photographs of my body. Suddenly, I realise, I'm no longer critical of what I look like, of whom I think I am. My body has become the repository of more good memories than bad and even if it isn't quite as tight or as elastic as it used to be, it's the vessel of a freer, bolder, more imaginative and ultimately more satisfied self.