Saturday, January 24, 2015

Sugar sex kitten

Much better than a Dunkin' Donut
Photographed by Warren Hukill

I ate a donut, which means I’ll probably have a sugar crash. This quickly consumed fluff of sugar and fat was cold and a little stale – a Dunkin' Donut from a stand in the Stamford Connecticut train station. Most of my low quality, high in sugar impulse buys are when there are no other options and I am faced with enough hunger to not think my ideas through. I know I am a bit hungry, my brain wants to be fed, and my eyes see a stand with shiny donuts, and nothing else. I have been conditioned to think donuts are delicious, most people think sweets look appealing, our bodies know sugar is sweet and can provide a quick energy rush. Yet every time faced with this predicament, I hear my mind proclaiming, “donuts may be delicious but stale, train station ones are not worth the sugar and calories,” and usually resist the urge to stroll up and exchange a dollar for fleeting contentment. Those who know me may be aghast to read about my consumption of a fast food chain dessert, as I usually whine about not supporting huge fast food chains, but when the options are slim, and my thinking hindered, I do not always make the right choices.


The train rolls back to Manhattan, quickly passing from Stamford to the city, and my stomach grumbles, now poked with a sugar stick and reminded of its existence. As is the norm, my NYC trip has taken me to Connecticut yesterday, and today as well, and the next week and a half will be punctuated by rides to New Jersey and Long Island.  My half day involved rolling around nude on a hardwood floor, putting on heels and confining myself to the undercarriage of a coffee table, removing my shoes and posing on top of the table in a more orderly fashion, running outside with boots to take the snow photos that I do not do, donning crotch-less stripper wear and glamming up my face, and rolling around on a bed, once again nude. I have known this photographer a handful of years and my ability to go from the girl who wears plastic bags around her socks and feet to stay warm while trudging through the snow, to dolled up “sex kitten” for a shoot came as a bit of surprise. Photos to come eventually.


Third Floor Productions
"sex kitten"

My art needs less rules; my art needs release.


My feet, clad in wool socks and wrapped in plastic bags, are tucked warmly within my favorite boots, Steve Maddens, half a size too large.  My last pair of boots, the same mark and style, accompanied me through the snowy streets of NYC just last year, down alligator paths in the Florida everglades, and up and down rock-strewn hikes in Australia. Once deemed a favorite pair, my shoes will be worn until their death. A hole in the sole is not a problem until rainy season; tearing fabric on the top, and sneakers remain acceptable until my toes begin to stick out.  I bade farewell to my last boots one chilly Portland day, replacements sighted and in hand, not a moment too soon.  Just barely a shoe - half the top was affixed to the sole with a bit of gummy glue to thank. As a child I would only wear Payless shoes – their cheap quality and sizing somehow fit my little, unsophisticated feet.  Now I scoff my nose at that place, having learned a bit more quality makes for more supported feet and a happier me. Cold feet, and the chill will rise through your body; uncomfortable feet, and your whole back could be thrown out of alignment. I am not overly fancy; I see sale shoes and second hand ones as an acceptable sort, but things that are cheap, rather than inexpensive, have come to have a hidden price.


I hit a turning point this year and realized I am slightly grown up. Not entirely mature, but old enough to bade goodbye to some of my youthful insecurities. I’m 30 and have been living life with my own quirks and flair for the past handful of years. I have been without an apartment of my own for years, and the room that has been mine is barely taller than my body, bent in half.  My life has taken a departure from what my adolescent self knew to be my path, having been appointed and grasped onto the title of a musician, knowing no other identity. I stand certain I am an artist but my art in itself is not as clear. Classical music had always been a project to work at, and the chase for perfection a game with no end.  On occasion my soul sang through musical line, but the rules held too strictly. My art needs less rules; my art needs release.




 Photographed by Tim Bradshaw
Sydney, AUS

One glorious day in Sydney, Australia, Tim Bradshaw and I visited La Perouse, a seaside area popular with photographers. The sun was high, the rocks gorgeous, and we had the place to ourselves; crashing water below the cliffs, small gusts of wind, and warmth to share. This was my first shoot with Tim, and as shoots tend to go, the more we bounced around, enjoying the caffeine high and freedom of space, the better our photos became. As we shot, a mixture of nude frolicking and work, the sun inched down and approached the golden hour. Our decided shoot time had come to a close when the light was perfect, and I urged to keep shooting just a little longer, to make use of the dazzling light. Fearless within the realm of caution, I scooted towards the edge of the rocks, still firmly planted in reality. Pose, click, pose, click, we moved in a dance of body and limbs, until a small crack sounded beneath me, and a few rocks shattered away. I was within safety, but we took the cue that the performance was over.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Technology Meltdown

   
Nothing Ever Happens
Not True

I had a technology meltdown. My phone thought 24% battery life was equal to zero, and would power off without warning. My computer was a clunky brick the entire time owned, but functioned smoothly until a phase of the "pinwheel of death" when replacement was approaching. My computer must have learned she was soon to be set aside, and decided to leave my life on her own volition, so for a week and a half before my new, lightweight Mac arrived in the mail, I was without a computer. While I don't need much when modeling, in order to actually set up my schedule I have to spend at least three times as many hours on the computer as every hour worked, and my iphone works but not efficiently. Emails have piled up, and I far fewer people know I am now on a work trip than should have, but at least now I have a replacement computer.

My now deceased computer is dismantled, and the hard drive encased to use as an external drive with this new one. (I felt special going to the technology store, buying the enclosure kit and extracting my hard drive, thus proving I can be a little bit handy.) The main frame of the machine will eventually be part of a conceptual photo series or video.

I am currently in NYC and will be here until February 3, when I will be available in Philadelphia, Washington DC and Baltimore. These photos are from my summer walks in the city, and edited on my plane from Houston to NYC thanks to the portableness of my Macbook Air.


City Boat


Industrial Shadows


Williamsburg Bridge


In Brooklyn


Train Station near Woodstock, NY

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Nude Housecleaning: Keira Cleans


Photographed by KMann Photo

The summer after my freshman year of college, I was back under my parents’ roof, taking summer school classes, in need of a job, and completely unable to bend the truth. I had discovered the nude beach, Pirates’ Cove, and spent every afternoon there doing my homework and lounging around in the beach dress code – my birthday suit. Finding a summer job proved a problem as I lacked the ability to portray myself as living back in my hometown, and no employer was keen to hire someone who would only be around for a handful of months. Faced with no other option, I created and delivered fliers to an elderly community near my temple, and hoped someone would take pity on the young Jewish musician who may have been an honors student and fully competent in re-hanging clothing tried on my frivolous teenagers and soccer moms, but still found interviews coming to a close after the question about where she studied – not the town where she sought employment.

The summer of 2003 I spent my hours not in class openly laying on the beach soaking up the sun, or dressed in crummy clothing, soaking dishes, and scrubbing counters and floors. At $8 an hour, I removed grime and bacteria from the homes of appreciative ladies, adding a bit of sparkle to their abodes and the smell of green chemical clean. For a few people, I was invited to organize the possessions of their lives, which was always a favorite task.

Visibly nude in public, and clothed while working, the idea of doing both certainly crossed my mind.

Photographed by MartiniVision

When I returned to Southern California for my sophomore year, the idea stuck and I searched around craigslist and newspaper for ways to combine my propensity to clean with my natural comfort being nude. Hired for Randy Housecleaners (horrible pun intended) to clean homes while wearing a one of several French maid inspired thongs (not to be confused with the crotchless underwear I just discussed), a bow tie and heels of my choice, I went home with a collection of cleaning supplies which would turn out to last four years of cleaning my own apartment, and the notice to stay posted about my first gig. My young 19 year-old self was assured this was strictly for cleaning, and not concerned. As a student, an additional gig a week with this job would provide adequate extra cash to support my studies and satisfy my curiosity.  The job never happened – they were confronted with issues about legality and intention, and soon that potential for a high paid, high exposure cleaning gig came to a close and was tucked away in my memory bank of things not yet explored.

To me, cleaning in the nude makes sense. You don’t want your clothing to get ruined by bleach? Take off your clothing. You need to use a lot of water to clean out the bathtub?  Remove your clothing, hop in and now water is not an issue. 

I have pursued this for an occasional photo-shoot, often upon my own suggestion.
I have also helped clean several homes of people I know, often in the nude because that is a Keira inclination.  Call these examples of model photography or documentation of a model cleaning your home (varying amounts of real cleaning took place); I present to you Keira Cleans.




Photographed by KMann Photo
Houston, TX



Photographed by End of the Road Studios
ABQ, NM



 Fetish Nude Housecleaning Shoot
Folding Laundry with cuffed hands
Blindfolded, bound vacuuming
Napping on the job in washing machine
None of the above recommended for efficient cleaning, but this is how David wanted me to clean and he was the boss.
Photos by David Rolin


Photographed by StereoStyles
Rhode Island

This blog entry has been sponsored by celebratory bourbon spiked coffee and a dash of Christmas Cheer.

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