Losing It

I recently found a collection of photography that was a series of self portraits by an obese woman. There were 44 pictures in all and it struck me as (1) laudable that a woman who's so obviously outside of what's accepted female beauty is forcing people to look at her and then (2) a little embarrassing that I found the series so "laudable." After all being fat isn't winning anyone Nobel prizes.

Part of me is all "good for her. You go girl. Show them that they need to write outside the box for your story." And part of me is "really? Is it necessary to be so provocative in your portraits?"

First, as one who lauds, I have always been an advocate for bringing a voice to marginalized people. These people aren't often looked at and are even less listened to. Ms Davis' collection forces the viewer to look at her.

And as one who cringes, I find Davis' collection of intimate portraits unsettling. She seems to be objectifying herself in the same falsely intimate style that society unfairly does in the first place. We stare both at those who allure us and those who disgust us.

As a praiser I find serious artistic poignancy in the intimacy Davis exhibits in showing herself so bared. And as a cringer I find the intimacy without voice jarring. It's similar to how I feel about Diane Arbus' work. I can't draw my eyes away but am troubled that if I look too long, the image will draw detached disgust out of me. Ultimately I want the marginalized to be heard and not just made a spectacle of.

Wild Chives

Out the window there was a graceful tree, flowering in the sunlight. And inside Lola was smiling. The waves on the lake were making white peaks, thrown by the same warm breeze that waved the tree. And Lola was watching the tree, snug up in her bed, smiling. A southern breeze meant spring and in spring there was hope.

In her mind she was pulling on her mud boots and stomping through fields on the watch for new streams. There would be headwaters, born by snow melt and waterfalls with small pools. In the cow pasture she would fling off her boots and splash knee deep in the cold water, chilling her toes. She would be happy. The newness of the spring would wrap around her and lift her up.

In her room Lola lingered between soft sheets. In her mind she wanted to hold the reminder that life can be wild and new.

Outside a siren began its long howl as it moved up the street and a bus rumbled by carrying the morning's first commuters. The rumble shook Lola' room and the little flowering tree outside. And inside Lola thrust her feet onto the cold waiting floor.

Springtime in the city. Birds call.

(Back by popular demand. OK. Back by request of my husband and my sister-in-law.)

Springtime in the city. Birds call.

Vibrant Green on Berry Black
This is the color of spring-time

Light pink petals falling against rows of cars
This is the look of spring-time

Springtime in the city. Birds call.
The Sun streaks across the city,
brushing hillsides and sweeping against
high buildings

Light slants through the shadows of highrises
Diving down to touch heads lifting up from Winter

Laughter tinkles from behind wide sunglasses
Arms and legs stretch out against restaurant patio tables
Soaking up sun and heat and day and Spring.