When I was 16, I bought an art book, in Paris, considered very risqué at the time for its sensual renditions of the naked female body. For me, it was visual poetry in motion, a photographic tome of femininity, each black and white vignette a metaphor of nature. Small details were magnified to evoke an alternative perception of the actual subject. The curve of a hip became a barren landscape; the bend of an elbow, … Read More
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