Thursday, December 18, 2014

Crotchless Panties vs Pubic Hair Underwear


Crotchless panties. I often talk about my pubic hair underwear, the underwear I always wear, down there. These everyday panties protect pretty much all of my lower girl parts except for the part that most needs protection - the opening between my labia lips. Clearly any occasion I claim not to need underwear because, “I wear pubic hair underwear,” (translation: I do not shave my pubic hair), I am joking. The real reason for not wearing underwear is to avoid panty lines for my photo shoots. I have grown accustomed to not wearing undergarments and choose to go commando even on days without shoots. However, when I wear short dresses and ride on public transportation, I make an exception and wear underwear for my own protection. All of my skirts are long enough to cover under my bottom when seated, but in the event of them riding up, I could may end up with my lady bits directly on a subway seat and this is not an option. 


So crotchless panties - sexy, right? You wear a bit of clothing to give the illusion of being covered up, but, bam! Your coveted girl parts are not covered at all. You are all open and vulnerable or available. I don't know what you are, but this fashion is not often attractive. Sheer panties, show a hint of what is underneath, or small panties simultaneously cover and leave some surprise. But furry bits which hang out between two bits of fabric is less than attractive, and a shaved vagina bookended by useless fabric is in your face vulgar. This all has a time  and place, a dose of vulgarity is part of a balanced lifestyle, but does not make the style “pretty.”


I recently shot in a lacy outfit given to me by a photographer - nipples visible through a bit of the fabric, but wide open where the most intimate of parts sit. I enjoy wearing cheap, cheesy wardrobe once or twice as intended prior to dismantling and discovering new uses for a less than perfect piece of clothing. The first shoot I dutifully dressed as demonstrated on the package, then pocketed the now tainted-by-Keira-crotch lingerie for my next shoot (there is nothing wrong with my body but as general policy, wardrobe which touches a model’s genitals is not to be worn by another model afterwards). This was a cheap bit of lingerie, and by the second use, the panties came loose from the top part of this outfit. Modifying the top as well, I suddenly had a new outfit.




Years ago I heard about Wicked Weasel Bikinis in Australia and always marveled at how a woman is supposed to tuck their bits under the ribbon of fabric that they call a g-string, or hide a nipple under the minuscule triangle of a “bra top.” Anyone with any sort of pubic hair would find their attempt at hiding hairs under the bikinis to be futile, but I did have a go at this on my second Australian trip before scolding myself for being hopelessly daft. However, now I had the lacy equivalent in my hand. I stretched this pair of panties over my chest into a bikini top suitable for laughter, and a few photos. Determined to find another use for these panties, I transformed them into a sort of collar that would go well with a white shirt underneath. And finally, with two triangles, I had myself a lacy mask. So these “useless” panties came to have not just one purpose but were worn as four completely different pieces of clothing by one girl who holds the job of being pretty, and not brainy. Okay crotchless panties, I now shed my criticism as you are truly a pocket-size multi-use item. I know what I will be buying as stocking stuffers for my friends and family this weekend.




All photographs by E-Digital Fantasies
Edited by me

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Los Angeles

Large metropolis that Los Angeles may be, I had crossed this place off my list of travel destinations. The city is notorious among art models as being difficult  to schedule work with respectful photographers who believe in compensating their model talent, and as spread out as this city is, I decided traffic and frustrations would be best avoided.  As a Californian, in the battle between Northern California and Southern, my views of LA were colored with my student experience in the suburbs of Southern Californian, and my bias towards the Bay Area. Now, I stand by my decree that the Bay Area is superior, partially because of my familiarity and comfort with the area, but my recent trip to Los Angeles has shown that the city is not the monster I had envisioned it to be.

While traveling, I rarely have the chance to enjoy a weekend properly, as prime real estate for shoots is on Saturday and Sunday, which means going to bed in a timely manner and waking up refreshed is a basic requirement. A night at a party or at several destinations with a friend does not promise the sleep which is needed to offer myself fully for shoots the following day. And evening shoots on the nights for socializing leave me drained with a comfy home my most common desire. In Los Angeles, I purposefully set aside the weekend to see the city, LA Style.  I had to turn down work offers, but this trip was about visiting a friend and having social time.  Sometimes we need to do things for ourselves, even if the workaholic inside of us wants to lecture us about not working when there is work to be had.

With a Lyft ride, my friend Trish Davis and I were able to head to the city to enjoy a night out and know we could get home safely. Once a drink enters my body, I refuse to drive regardless of how much time has passed and how sober I feel.  Our first destination was a rooftop bar in the city, watching people for a while, icy cold drinks in hand. While delicious, my sazerac was inappropriately served in a metal cup which froze my already cold hand – I’m all for a cold drink, but when bundled in a jacket and exposed to the elements, extra chill is not needed.  The general crowd was fairly young and I marveled at seeing college students with fancy cocktails in hand, as my young experience did not include any such thing. I am a believer that having several destinations makes an evening when not offered any one outstanding place to be, as the momentum and variety provides a fun taste of several ambiances, and we were ready to get inside a warmer environment after our time viewing the city at the bar. Neither of us being familiar with many downtown options, we asked the doorman who sported a hipster look and beard, and he either had horrid taste or misread the two thin girls in black pants, leather jackets, minimal makeup and a head of curly hair, directing us to a bar which was far from our style. We entered, visited the restroom and turned back around to exit, unenthusiastic about standing in the mix of dark bumping and grinding. We headed to an after hours party where large sofas were organized throughout a backyard, tarps put overhead in some places, and cheap drinks served in the corner, still not indoors but a substantially different vibe to experience. The place became busy, with no shortage of people watching, but a serious lack of females. At one point, the two of us huddled on the couch closest to a fire, with another woman, seeking respite from the cold, and were circled by male eyes.  The entire scenario was a trip to experience even without intoxication, but eventually the cold snuck into our bones and we were ready to rid ourselves on another couple of guys bragging about their success and offering us a taste of their prosperity. 



Photographed by John Stutz

There would be other nights out, but most of them much shorter evenings; once the weekend has passed, the start of a week is always much quieter.  For about 4 years now, photographer John Stutz has been trying to shoot with me, but shooting together is difficult when a photographer does not travel to me, nor do I travel to where they reside. On this trip, I was able to drive to the outskirts of the LA area to shoot with him, for a great first meeting. His style is generally outdoors in direct sunlight, and his project had been strong women, but our shoot was primarily done indoors as he experimented with new studio styles and avoided cold, overcast winter days outside. 

Shooting with female photographers is a treat. And a shoot with anyone who is exhilarating to be around is spectacular. Trish Davis and I had both shot with the inspiring, adventurous Liz Earls in past years, and were invited to shoot with her a couple of times on this trip. My memories of my first shoot with Liz include wearing high heels in a shower while Liz sat in the foreground of the photos, saxophone in hand provocatively, with this all taking place in an dizzyingly decorated home with a plethora of beautifully strange art installations. As a trio of women plus her adorable puppy D.O.G. (another female), we created scenarios of fallen angels, and lounged around doorframes and on beds. Trish and I model differently, but have somewhat of a similar look, which makes for a great pairings of styles, which bother contrast and compliment each other.  I had to try her stripper pole, but failed miserably in managing to do anything but climb up and down a handful of times. This woman's home is an adult playground as you may glimpse from some of these photos.



Models Trish Davis and D.O.G (and me)
Photographed by Liz Earls

I had never been to a Korean Spa before, but modeling and sitting in vehicles tears up my body, so this new experience was added to our list. After a shower, soak in a salt water hot tub, and time in a steam room, I was ready for my massage. A tiny, strong woman kneaded on my robed body while standing at my side, then while sitting on me.  The second half of the massage was done without a robe and with the largest quantity of oil I have ever had slicked over me. Rolling out of the room feeling a little looser, there was a series of rooms to experience. The mud room was divided into plots of little, malt ball size mud ball filled rectangles which looked somewhat like cemetery plots and sounded like shuffling through leggos when entering and exiting. The room was heated and the mud balls incredibly hot and relaxing to lay on. The ice room was less cold than expected, but likely because of the welcome respite provided. Deemed “boring” by some and a favorite of others, I enjoyed the tranquility and subtle high of the oxygen room. The Himalayan sea salt room was another heat room with mats to lay on, and the Infrared room too hot to handle for much time.

My final night in Los Angeles was back at Liz’s place with Trish, for more great photography and company. We snuggled in bed with the most well endowed mannequin I have ever felt, and did other photos before heading to dinner. Appropriately dressed for some flashing photos, and accompanied by D.O.G., we purchased tacos for entry into a Mexican restaurant shooting location, shot for a moment, then quickly departed after unappreciated looks. A bridge and wall mural would be another background for photos before finishing the photography component of the night.


We whispered sweet words to this sexy babe meaning them in the moment, 
and like the fog, her name was soon forgotten.
Models Keira, busty babe, and Trish
Photographed by Liz Earls
 
I have tired of the frequency of delayed airline flights but for once my notice of a delayed flight was a welcome opportunity to sleep a few more moments before driving through traffic in the pouring rain, to yet another plane ride.

Los Angeles, you treated me well, I will be back.

Photographed by Liz Earls

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Clothing disaster

The basic wardrobe of a nude model while shooting is rather self explanatory. While bits of clothing can absolutely transform a shoot, nothing is actually necessary. Perhaps some coconut lotion or oil of choice to add skin sheen and some makeup, but in theory a nude model does not need anything on their body. But the key phrase is, "in theory." I receive wardrobe requests often enough to encourage looking for, buying and packing exciting pieces of clothing to add to a shoot, should they be requested or decidedly useful.

The complicated part of clothing for me is the everyday part. In the summer, showing up free of clothing lines is easy, I throw on a summer dress and a cardigan if needed, and am set. For the fall I have my leather jacket that keeps me warm enough. But come winter, I find myself falling into a trend of frumpiness in attempt to avoid lines. The current style is tight fitting leggings which almost exclusively will leave lines, but are also the clothing item which is easy to pack, light weight and warm. Some models have chosen to risk a few lines on their skin in exchange for fashion on the street, but I am reluctant to show up apologetic about lines for twenty minutes.

Last year I spent a great deal of time in the cold weather and snowstorm zone of the US, and wore the same sweats and jacket on a daily basis. I was probably undressed so many hours that the repetition was only noted by myself, and my re-use of clothing not considered disgusting because I tend to be clothed the same amount of hours in three days' time as most people are in one.  I have always been a bit of a fashion disaster, which is another reason nude modeling comes so easily. As we grow up, some models relish the fact that they can dress in comfy, cozy outfits and still be successful; however, I am receive the opposite point. I would like to finally look more pulled together. For a short period of time I dressed in nice slacks and shirts, when I was living in Dallas and doing some teaching, but that look is no longer appropriate to my lifestyle and who I am. The way we look reflects in how people perceive us, and there are occasions when making good impressions clothed is wise. And not just any impression, but one that is appropriate to the image we are trying to identify with. For the most part, nude models are not judged based upon how they arrive and depart a shoot,  and quite possibly no one in this network cares how we dress, but some may. And most importantly, how we feel is integral to our well-being, and this feeling is often connected with our thoughts regarding outward appearance.

I am comfortable modeling in most clothing, as my job is to play a role, and become the person a photographer wants me to be, even if temporarily. Sometimes I may wear a dress I would ordinarily consider too flashy or "skanky" but for a photo, the supervamp version of me can dress how she would like. Or the 80's jacket or puffy prom dress may be silly for my everyday self, but for a photo they make a big splash of color. On occasion a I do fashion photos and am dressed in a hip and ideal outfit for some of the facets of the real me. One day I will learn to shop accordingly so the real me can look how she would like to, but I have this stumbling block in my way called "clothing lines" which is complicated with my "abhorrence of loud music in clothing stores."

Today was one of the days where I attempted to improve my personal and shoot wardrobe. I am not convinced this was accomplished, but I came away from the shops with the sun lower in the sky, a throbbing headache and some clothing items for during shoots. At least I have the right work clothes - my uncovered nude form.

I leave you with some photos of the unadorned natural world.

La Perouse

San Antonio

Outside of Sydney


San Antonio

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Conversations on the train


“I am 38, and my oldest, she is 28.”

From the pages of my book, I had to look up. The math sounded wrong.  Possible, yes, but one does not simply begin their life story to a stranger on public transportation with this kind of fact. A woman with brown, manicured curls, and a large frame sat in front of me, conversing with a Hispanic man in his early 50s across the aisle; this conversation must have been a continuation of words exchanged before boarding the train.

“I already have 12 kids and I want 10 more. The oldest, she is 28; the youngest is 2. They are all close together: 13, 14, 15. One every year.”

I had already been grasping for focus with my book of one-sided love letters in an intimate affair of words of the soul between two strangers who would never touch, but now all chance of reading was lost. The woman’s dialogue had me captivated.  What happens to a young girl to transform her into a woman who desires perpetual pregnancy? How can someone provide sustenance, love and care to so many children, and why would a woman wish this upon herself? This reality is incompressible, yet was sitting directly in front of me, traveling concurrently in the same direction.

“I have been married five times. My husband, right now, he likes guys. My husband before wanted an open marriage. He was dating a married woman.”

“The guy I wanna marry has a girlfriend. I’m hoping when I get a divorce, we can marry.”

The man was listening, commenting occasionally about one past girlfriend and a wife he has been married to for years.

When we arrived at Hayward, the woman picked herself off her seat, and walked through the open doors. All I ever saw was her back, and a small, child’s backpack with a Spiderman design. 




Photographed by Edward Badham

“Delusional.” The one-word answer came from my brother matter-of-factly. This was all overheard in BART, and the Bay Area is home to an overwhelming number of homeless and psychologically unstable individuals. Her story flowed so easily, and with such simple structure that I was moved to trust in disbelief. These past years have served to add a protective shell to my naivety; my inclination to believe what is presented, and question the how and why when my understanding did not align with what I heard.  Would you be more saddened to hear this woman lived in such a warped reality that she invented and shared this story with complete conviction, or to know this story was true?

Monday, December 1, 2014

If you can't carry it, you can't bring it

As a child I had a bright purple duffle bag stuffed with too many pairs of pants, shirts, underwear and other not-so-essential necessities to sling over my shoulder on the infrequent trips I made with my family. My hair and biceps, have always been my only big physical features, with my other largenesses kept hidden inside of me. No matter the size of my bag, I was always tough enough to carry on.

Photographed by J. Gatta

I purchased my first suitcase from a Ross store near my college apartment, wheeling the promise of travel across the street on at the cross walk like any good Californian would have done. Spring break in NYC was likely my first time to break this suitcase in, and the suitcase came to get much more use once modeling became part of my life during grad school. I had my suitcase on my first trip to Alabama when I worked with a photographer to create some of my first strong portfolio images. Later, I brought this suitcase as I was enthusiastically flown to Ohio and returned full of tears.  Never quite the right size for carry-on but my perpetual travels were not foreseen when I had first made my purchase, all I had wanted was to upgrade to a bag with wheels, and this I had done.

Somehow a larger suitcase would accompany me on a trip to Israel, but there was no need for embarrassment or concern.  Many of the other kids in their early 20s had packed far too much, never having left the States for a 10 day trip before then, and all had overprotective Jewish parents encouraging them to prepare for every kind of situation and rationalized that we would have a bus and some help to schlep our things between cities.

I backpacked around South America with my trusty red backpacker’s pack, and yet returned to the states with gifts for friends and family which overflowed into a side bag I had purchased. A couple of holiday gifts and trips to second-hand clothing stores resulted in me needing another suitcase to consolidate my excessive things. And now, this suitcase stays with me, pushed to the limits of the sturdy walls. Like my pet turtles who continually grew when I would replace their aquarium with a larger one to fit their increased size, my belongings seem to grow to fill the space I have for them.


My new thrift store belongings will be fun to shoot in and come my down time, having my camera, musical instrument, music and receipts will be rather handy but my strength and already fragile back will be put to test as I transport myself between lodgings, public transportation and cities this next month.  “If you can’t carry it, you can’t bring it,” – I will uphold my philosophy but have to re-think how far I want to push myself.



Photographed by Grenville

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Baby-Free

I moved from the couch, to the floor, to reduce the smell of baby vomit wafting into my nostrils. With the cushion under my bottom, and the back of the couch to lean on, I am sufficiently comfortable and likely cozier than when curled on a jagged rock, as I so often am.  I have reached the age in which an increasing number of my friends are married and have entered the stage of baby creation. I am able to cross into this world of babies, cooing softly and flapping my arms like a stupid human bird to encourage a smile from a young human (for us adults, watch this video instead chicken dance techno), and enjoy the simplicity of a child, and yet live in a world far removed. Could you imagine a traveling model with a baby to care for? A young creature in the main part of the studio while creating art on a pedestal, couch, or seamless backdrop, sleeping until the next burst of tears for attention.  And location shoots, with a baby to watch over – an impossibility. I have a difficult enough time keeping my backpack in sight while climbing rocks up a river, heading increasingly farther away from my starting point, that the idea of having a living, loving, beautiful being to worry about boggles my brain. 

Soon I will be back in California, visiting with family and overcoming jet lag from an arduously long string of flights back from Australia, and will be given another dose of baby time with my nephew and niece. I will likely stay the crazy auntie, as I am the one in my family who does not have the picture perfect existence but uniquely vagabonds with a purpose. There are aspects of the settled, successful lives of my siblings which I desire, but I can wait on the house, spouse and child under each arm.  Today I am in Australia, tomorrow I shall be as well, and after a double dose of Tuesday, I will be back in the United States.

My afternoon shoot had cancelled, and after a well paced day of climbing naked on one of the oldest functioning bridges in Australia (I believe the photographer had informed me the bridge was the second oldest functioning bridge in Australia, but I shall not claim this in the event I remembered incorrectly or the fact was mistaken), walking on a train track, sticking my bottom out of a tree in Dandedong National Park (although never quite as perfectly as we wanted for the photo), dressing in said tree before hikers came around, washing off and dirtying myself in the same waterfall and standing next to metal birds in a beautifully manicured park, I treated myself to lunch of dumplings and salty green Asian vegetables. I resisted the urge for that delicious pastry, more on basis of stomach space than willpower and later satisfied my sweet urges with a mango. A bit of laundry, a shower and a nap later, and the rested version of myself was ready to begin emails for a while, and entertain and be distracted by the small child of my photographer friends.


This rambling blog entry was inspired by baby vomit, small in quantity and relatively harmless, but something I do not need in my life. 


Both 100% baby-free
Katja Gee and Keira Grant
Photo by RJWG Photography
Edited by Keira Grant





Street Photography by Keira Grant
Hard Rubbish Day
Ormond, Melbourne, Australia