the bunnycage: 04.2012

4.28.2012

A Subtle Indication of My Lack Of Subtlety

Some women lower their eyelashes and fold their hands just so. They can smile without really smiling, from the corner of their mouths and so discreetly you would miss it if you blinked. Some women use dramatic pauses and filler in their sentences, like "oh" and "well" and "hmmmm." When they write, they don't use exclamation points. When they dance, their feet barely move. These women emit airs that are delicate, soft, refined and bit elusive. These women have read "Etiquette" by Emily Post, or if they haven't, their mothers did.

It's taken countless years and buckets of tears to put away the shame I felt for being... well... me. I so envied the women I met in my young adulthood who were my version of the perfect woman - those who had mastered the art of subtlety, who spoke with deliberateness, who were obviously in control of their emotions and expressed themselves articulately, politely, with purpose. I wanted to be that 'together.'

Alas, no matter how I tried to mimic these lovely women in their lady-likeness, I fell short.

I'm flippant, brazen, downright cheeky. I always say it. Whatever "it" may be. I lace my sentences with double entendres and expletives, and my meanings often make people wrinkle their noses, catch their breath and blush. I talk with my hands, my shoulders, my entire body - and not gracefully; rather, all parts dance around, lifting, swaying, bouncing at seeming odds with one another. I laugh too forcefully, like a gust of wind through an open door that knocks the wine glasses from the counter top and sends them crashing to the floor. My eyes, my mouth are capable of hiding nothing: I stare, glare, tear up, raise my eyebrows, lick and chew my lower lip, smile big and wide and otherwise contort my face in a dozen different directions, all in a matter of minutes. When I see something soft and textural, I reach out to touch it with my fingertips, my cheek. When I taste a new and pleasing flavor, an indiscriminate sound rises from my throat, my head tips back, I sigh aloud. When I hear a rhythm, my hips keep perfect time, whether I mean to dance or not. I guess all these things are a subtle indication of my lack of subtlety, huh?

I recently teased a friend after saying something brash, outlandish, "I'm not exactly a lady, am I?"

He answered, "You're a lady. The best kind." (I know, right? I have really nice friends.)

That got me thinking... A lady is as a lady does. The best kind of lady is the one that accepts and honors herself, just as she is. When will I embrace that subtlety is not my particular gift? When will I celebrate that my own inability to cover my emotions, my unwillingness to be cryptic and coy, my distaste for small talk, and my refusal to adhere to social morays? When will I acknowledge that this makes me an open and sensual being, makes me good at my work, makes me happy in my own skin? How about right now? Now is good.

My work in intimate portraiture is all about the journey we women are on - alone and together - to self-discovery. I hope to inspire you in pictures, through art and words and sharing my own experiences to know yourself more fully, and to love yourself better.

xo.
Sara LeeAnn