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Postcards From A Walk

January 10, 2012 No Comments

How strange it is, the first time you put your mother’s sock on for her, tie her shoe. You came here to do these things, knew they were coming — had envisioned this very act, even — but still it surprises you. The world shifts. You roll up the cotton sock and within it is her vulnerability, which you don’t like to think of as her (oh god) mortality, which you don’t like to associate with your own (oh god) mortality. You’re tiny at her feet like a child, tightening the laces, bunny ears through bunny ears. A little looser, she says. There we go. Perfect. How quickly it becomes ordinary, just another thing to do before you leave the house together.

Kitty!

Sashimi Bun

January 8, 2012 3 Comments

The day I brought the kitty home I had a temperature of 102 degrees. The drive to the humane society had been an act of rebellion against my better judgement: I was a little dizzy, a little nauseated, my throat swarming with antiviral armies wielding spears, javelins, occasionally catapults.

But I had been sweating in bed for three days. The sixteen year old in me moped to the kitchen and whined. “Oh my god, get out of the house.”

The ten year old in me perked up. “AND LOOK AT KITTENS.”

So I popped two Dayquil and took my adult body on a feverish adventure. I knew what I wanted. An orange cat, male, two or three years old at least. I would name him Milo.

More photos of Sashimi Bun: here.

Minneapolis/St. Paul

Mancini’s

January 6, 2012 No Comments

Sarah had acquired a new pair of sparkly gold shoes, so she invited us all to join her at Mancini’s, an old steak restaurant in St. Paul dripping with heavy red curtains and watered down cocktails. Suits were involved, and a big band tapping their feet on a stage glittering with christmas lights and bows, trumpeting out “Little Sister.” I’d busted out some faux furs and a silk dress I’d found at a thrift store for ten bucks. I’ve only recently decided that I’m old enough to wear lipstick, so whenever the opportunity presents itself I get really excited.

“Can you taste any vodka in my vodka cranberry?” Joanna asked. “I’m pretty sure this is just Juicy Juice.”

“You should . . . send that back,” someone confirmed.

While we waited at the bar, an older man tapped me on the shoulder. “I’d really love it if you danced with me, just one dance,” he said.

“I dance with anyone!” I said, taking his hand.

He swirled me around, told me I’d put a spell on him. He said I had those angel devil eyes. At the end of the night, he patted my back. “I know you have a boyfriend, but I just put my business card in your dress,” he said. “And if that ever changes, call me.”

My spindly arms twisted and grasped my halterline in alarm. “That is a smooth move!” I cried.

Pasties!

Backstage at the Ritz

January 4, 2012 1 Comment

Obviously I was going to take pictures backstage at The Slutcracker when I visited Boston. I emailed the director — aka, my friend, my mentor, my former troupe leader — as soon as we realized I’d be in town during the show’s run, she asked me when I wanted to be there, I showed up, and at one point I was on someone’s shoulders while everyone cheered.

I knew almost the entire cast. I had been on a stage with them before, I had been naked with them and ripped adhesive off my chest with them and made out with them and mock-humped them with a sock stuffed down my booty shorts. And usually, I’d also had my camera with me. It was just part of my hand, part of my face, a given.

When I saw that the troupe I’ve performed with just a couple of times in Minneapolis was also doing a subversive “Nutcracker” — at the Ritz, one of my favorite theaters, and collaborating with Ballet of the Dolls, one of my favorite dance companies who have a long history of beautiful, eerie (occasionally to the point of being Lynchian) and often hilarious shows — I contacted that troupe leader too. “Hey! Shooting backstage is kind of my jam. Want me around?”

They were cool with that. I rejoiced. I packed my things, I showed up.

And then, faced with the dressing room of the Dolls, I broke into a sweat.

I don’t really know any of these people, I realized. Not just that this was socially stressful, but from a practical standpoint: I don’t know who the camera whore is, who prefers privacy, who is more selective with their personal space, who might be annoyed by my mere existence in the room. And I deeply admire all of them. They’re professionals! Oh god, I was going to have to act professional.

I would announce my presence, start from a distance. I use a wide angle lens, so these photos were mostly useless, they were just warming me up, normalizing that shutter sound echoing in the room. Hihihihihi.

Okay, I’d breathe in, act casual, get closer. Now closer again. They’d look up at me, smile, or not, they had things to do. God, they were so awesome! What if this was obnoxious? What if I was in someone’s way? What if this wasn’t professional? I bumped my butt into makeup trays, broke a chair. Closer.

Full album: here.

Photo Lessons

Portrait of a Photographer

November 8, 2011 1 Comment

From a portraiture class at the MPLS Photo Center; most of mine came out pretty goofy, but I did kind of love this one. Afterwards we opened a window, threw off our shoes, and crawled onto the roof.

“Look like you’re about to jump off,” this one commanded the other student; a man maybe ten, fifteen years her senior. He eyed her nervously, then ran to the edge.

“Jesus,” I said.

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