Taboos

It has been almost two years since I first started to blog, and one of the first topics I tackled was the crotch shot. Because I love erotica, I enjoy pushing "mainstream" boundaries in my work. I wanted to explore the crotch shot, something about which I have conflicted feelings.

During my first shoot with Dave Levingston, we sought to capture the artistic crotch shot. To us that meant the shot had to be unintentional, coincidental, not blatant and gynecological. The latter shot makes me uncomfortable, makes me cringe, in fact. We produced my all-time Greatest Hit from this shoot, "Everything, Including the Kitchen Sink."

At our most recent shoot in Orlando in February, Dave shot "Bedposts," which is following "Kitchen Sink" in its popularity with viewers.

These two images created by the incredible artist Dave Levingston accomplish what we set out to do. They ride the edge without going over. They depict the crotch shot as coincidental.

So. One taboo crossed off the list with the requisite artistic restraint.

In my pursuit of erotica, I found a partner in Fitness101. We are on the same wave length. We wanted the artistic shot that pushed the boundaries of what a man and woman might reveal on camera. We traveled to Montreal to work with Andre Roussel. Our intent was to push things as far as we could without going over the line into pornography.

Andre e-mailed five images I asked him to finish while I was down in New Orleans. I showed the pictures to Joe and Michael Sui, asking for honest feedback. I got some meaningful responses.

Fitness and I considered our actions before the camera to be risk-laden. We knew what we were doing in that regard. What I had not considered, as someone who found the happiness of a lifetime in a marriage with an African-American, was the racial taboo crossed in our pictures. To further compound the "balls" of our pursuit, we added the age factor to the mix. A much-older woman and a virile young man partnered as we were could possibly inflame some viewers.

So far I have posted pictures of Fitness and me on both my Model Mayhem and deviantart sites with no signs of viewer prejudice in the comments. For that I am grateful. As far as response, I will say this male-female, black-white, age diverse pairing does not bring in the waves of hits I get when I post a crotch shot. "Bedposts" brought 5,000 hits in less than 24 hours. An image of Fitness and me will typically peak at around 400-500 hits and then viewer interest seems to fade away.

The erotica always brings more attention than a beautiful portrait, which is - in the end - disappointing to me. It surprises me that my work with Fitness, breaking multiple taboos as it does, gets only modest attention. Perhaps this is better, though, than a big backlash. I have no idea what the reticence to comment on these images means. Is there something communicated by the reluctance to click on them? I don't know. These are not my taboos, and perhaps they are no longer taboos fully embraced by the art community as primal taboos. Or perhaps it would just be politically incorrect to say what people are thinking.

More images from this shoot are posted in my deviantart journal and gallery.

Comments on them are most welcome.

Independence Day Scrooge

A world turned "Upside Down" - image of Unbearable Lightness by the incredible Michael Siu in his New Orleans studio
Read about this shoot and more about the artist at Univers d'Artistes

A good friend just sent me greetings for the July 4th weekend. I went Scrooge on him. Bah! Humbug!, said I.

This post is likely to make some of my readers angry. My intent is not to insult anyone, but you already I know I speak my mind. So, if the shoe fits, well, I'm sorry that it does.

It's not that I object to the Independence of a person, people, or country. No, not at all. I love the concept of independence. It's not that I object to the colonists fighting to become a separate country, and certainly I love the United States of America.

This is one holiday for which I have no use, and here are the reasons why. My epileptic dog suffers seizures every time this holiday rolls around, and she is not alone. Every year animals die from seizures or from dashing into streets in front of cars or running away and not coming back - all because of the terror the fire power of July 4th and its surrounding days inflicts upon them. One year a whole stable of beautiful horses here in the Midwest beat themselves to death against their walls trying to escape the sound and fury of the fireworks around them.

It's not just animals that suffer. In my old neighborhood, a father told me his little girl was seriously ill and in need of constant rest. She could not even sleep during the wee hours of the morning because their neighbors blasted off all night long. When the distraught father begged them to stop for his baby's sake, they laughed and continued blowing things up anyway.

After all, it is their right. This is the Land of the Free.

You can call the police and report these disturbances of the peace, but they don't have sufficient manpower or womanpower to send out to all the calls they get at this wondrous time of the year. Even when they do, it is just a civil infraction, no more than a traffic ticket - not enough incentive to stop the pyromaniacs, the once model citizens who overnight turn into crazed, murderous monsters.

The health care industry reported an estimated 8,300 people suffered fireworks-related injuries severe enough to require treatment in hospital emergency rooms in 1997. This does not include fire-related injuries and deaths. Most fireworks injuries involve children, particularly school-aged children. Injuries caused by fireworks suggest they are a lethal fascination for boys. Children ages 10 to 14 are at the highest risk, with older children ages 15 to 19 close behind. Male victims account for three-fourths of fireworks injuries.

The media blames everything on illegal fireworks, but 61% of deaths and injuries result from legal fireworks. Firecrackers account for 24% of injuries and deaths.

These lethal instruments of celebration are more akin to war artillery than anything else - cannon balls or rifles or land mines. In a country with 8 times the violent crime of its neighbor Canada, the United States really celebrates its culture of violence on July 4, not so much the original meaning of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, which asserted various human rights, among them "no taxation without representation" along with, yes, the right to bear arms. But nowhere does it say we should have the right to deprive our neighbors of life, liberty, and the pursuit of a good night's sleep.

Burning things and blowing things up and feasting on poor cuts of pork have become the American Way. The ugly Americans who disregard the rights of terrified animals and the safety of their own children strike me as less decent and intelligent than the once-quite-bright-and-noble pigs they roast on their outdoor barbecue spits. Watching other people eat good cuts of meat is bad enough for a vegetarian like myself; watching humans wallow in miscellaneous meat just overwhelms my sensibilities.

Slap some All-American ketchup on the hot dog and stuff it in with the other delicacies of this holiday, the fat-laden potato salads and slaws. Light up some firecrackers and explode spraying fountains of fire into the air. It's the Great American Way, a right hard won by the valiant founders of this country who spoke of high ideals and fought to make us godly and free.

Spare me your holiday greetings, at least for this one. I will hunker down with my beleaguered dog and play classical music very loud, hoping she won't hear the booms and bangs. There's no disguising, though, the explosions that actually shake the earth. As I tell my poor Sunny, there's nothing I can do about this or thunderstorms, which also terrify her. One is an act of God; the other is the perversion of the human race - what happens when every manner of man is set completely free to drink too much, eat unhealthy food, and enjoy gratuitous explosions.

How Have We Become So Small?

by Joseph Crachiola in his New Orleans apartment

An e-mail from Maria, a woman in Buenos Aires, Argentina, to South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford:

"I’am (sic) reading your last two mails sitting outside with a great seaview here in Ilhabela, a beautiful island near Sao Paulo. Have been thinking of you while watching the beautiful blue sea (a) great part of my day and remembering with a great smile on my face, the time we had spent together. As I told you before, you brought happiness and love to my life and (I) will take you forever in my heart. I wasn’t aware till we met last week, the strong feelings I had for you, and believe me, I haven’t felt this since I was in my teen ages, when afterwards I got married. I do love you, I can feel it in my heart, and although I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to meet again this has been the best that has happened to me in a long time You made me realized (sic) how you feel when you realy (sic) love somebody and how much you want to be beside the beloved. Last Friday I would had stayed embrassing (sic) and kissing you forever."

Reply from Mark Sanford to Maria:

"....Lastly I also suspect I feel a little vulnerable because this is ground I have never certainly never covered before — so if you have pearls of wisdom on how we figure all this out please let me know ... In the meantime please sleep soundly knowing that despite the best efforts of my head my heart cries out for you, your voice, your body, the touch of your lips, the touch of your finger tips and an even deeper connection to your soul. I love you ... sleep tight. M"

These e-mails were published by The State following the governor's post-affair press conference. In this press conference, Sanford delivered what has become a recognizable script of contrition for cheating public officials. Cloaked in a string of apologies was a subtext of denial - not of what he did but why he did it.

In the press conference, Sanford defines his wife as his long-time campaign manager and mother of his four sons. Nowhere does he mention his heart, love, or passion, the components of a true marriage. He casts the great love he felt for Maria, obvious in their e-mail exchanges, into the context of his Christian Right religious faith:

God's laws "protect people from themselves...sin is grounded in the notion of what I want...there are moral absolutes, and there are consequences when you breach them..."

He then casts his apology into the context of what it has done to his family and others who depended on him: "I have been unfaithful to my wife...it began very innocently...I hurt her [Maria], I hurt you all, I hurt my wife, I hurt my boys..."

The public has now heard endless press conferences in which a politician recites the requisite text...confessions of sin and wrongdoing, followed by the appeal for forgiveness. I am sick of it.

Have we as humans become so small that there is no place for true love - for that soul-deep miracle of the meeting and conjoining of two people that constitutes the love of a lifetime, the deepest, most profound spiritual-and-erotic experience on this earth?

Apparently, we have become that small, that insignificant in our ability to feel the explosive and all-consuming power and goodness - yes, please hear me out - the goodness and rightness of our hearts in the face of a world of opposition and moral codes and human judgments. "An even deeper connection to your soul" becomes reduced, deconstructed, to a terrible mistake, a grievous sin.

Whatever happened to the stories of great love, the love for which the great lovers of history were willing to rip apart institutions, change the world, die on crosses and wheels and in bonfires? Where are Lancelot and Guenevere? Where is Tristan and Isolde? Where is Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn and the powerful divide between England and Rome, and the historic Golden Age that followed in their daughter's reign over the British Isles? Where is Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson?

In his abdication speech, King Edward VIII of England said:

"But you must believe me when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love."

And he stepped down from the throne he had been born and raised to occupy, he chose instead a long and joyous existence with the woman he loved beyond measure, beyond material things and worldly power, beyond the judgments of anyone, including God. Such great love, such true and uncompromising and unapologetic and great heart, is the highest achievement of which human beings are capable.

Unbearable Lightness and Fitness101 by Andre Roussel

When I married my African-American husband, we did so knowing what to expect, especially from his community. I did not know how my white community would react, but I did not care. We did not care what happened to us. As Martin Luther King said in his Mountaintop Speech, "I am not fearing any man." We just had to follow our hearts.

Love transcends everything. It is the highest power.

What have we done to the grandeur of LOVE?

The script of contrition I have heard one time too many demeans the people who loved and makes them players in a sad morality play. While it demeans them and all they felt and all the possibility for happiness they have crushed underfoot for lesser lives, it demeans all of us. Each time we listen to these speeches and declare it is not enough and demand punishment for the sinners, we demean ourselves and what spark within us reflects the majesty of the God we assume this act of heart and passion offends.

Ask yourself why David in the bible was the apple of God's eye. He was a passionate man, a womanizer, a sexually charged sinner, yet, as I recall, God loved him more than anyone else. Who are we to ascribe our own judgments and narrow-minded beliefs to the creating and controlling force in this universe. How are we to know anything at all about the Christian-defined deity - unless we ourselves love truthfully and make the greatest sacrifices, the ultimate sacrifices, for the man or woman we love.

How have we become so small and ridiculous?

Back in the D

Burlesque at Bacchanal, New Orleans, 6-27-09

Driving to Detroit

On the road to a place

So familiar but

Suddenly so strange

Full of questions about what to say

And do

Knowing that no one

Will ever understand

How can I expect them to understand?

When I barely understand

I will forever wonder

If I could have done or said

One more thing

Such is the mystery of our existence.

At times I feel so alone

Yet when I think of my little girl

So lost and confused

My sense of aloneness

Pales by comparison

Why is it that now

At this time and in this place

Why is it that this challenge was

Given to me?

At some point the questions become

Irrelevant

One simply must do

What one must do.

A postscript, 6-30-09

Home.

That word should bring forth feelings

Of comfort and safety

Yet now that I have arrived

I find myself in a foreign place

Surrounded by strangers

Lost

Wondering if home is a feeling

About a place

That perhaps only exists

In my imagination

center photo - Unbearable Lightness in the French Quarter

bottom photo - Unbearable Lightness in the Marigny

The Death of Icons

More from my work with Joe on the streets of the French Quarter - I was going for Marilyn Monroe, one of the icons who remains in my heart as a woman who suffered as the public peered into her privacy. The look came out more as Audrey Hepburn, though.





This post is dedicated to Michael S., both Michael Jacksons, Farrah, and Chris, and all those who suffer in this world


While I was in New Orleans over the weekend, I heard news of the death of two American icons. Farrah Fawcett ushered in the look of the 1980s. She was always regarded as a lightweight, but then the 1980s were lightweight compared to the densely meaningful 1970s. An artist frequently reflects an era, and it was Farrah who became the icon for that time. For it, she suffered artistically.

Suffering is prevalent among our icons, but then it permeates the lives of all of us who have the good fortune to live very long in this world.

As we discover more about the death of Michael Jackson, who ironically has the same name as my nephew who died unaided from an overdose of prescription drugs in October, the similarities between his death and my nephew's become eerie. The name's the same, the suffering was the same, the solution similar, the death with some commonality, too. It teaches me much about suffering.

Yesterday I caught two biographies of Michael Jackson on TV. The sources of his pain were both psychic and physical. His life unfolds like a Greek tragedy. But it is an American tragedy. And a tragedy of the human condition.

The death of these icons coincided with my own crossroad with my own physical suffering. Perhaps it was coincidental; perhaps there is a karma created by the death of icons. I have scoliosis which, like my age, I have preferred not to discuss. After all, there is nothing to be done about either condition. They are facts of life. It's not that I am in denial about them - I just refuse to let them be focal points of my life.

I have dealt with scoliosis since I was born. In my 30s, when the pain began, I made a wise choice and refused to medicate. A lifetime of pain simply was not an acceptable option to me. To medicate the pain struck me as acceptance of it. My first doctor suggested I medicate and, when I refused, said to continue to dance, which I have, along with walking, swimming, weight lifting, and now Pilates. Something worked - either the long-term fitness commitment or the ability of my mind to overcome matter and block the pain. I admit I have discomfort most of the time, but the P-word is not in my vocabulary.

We have no choice about growing older if we want to live, and we have no choice about chronic conditions that bring us pain. I credit the adaptive abilities of both my body and mind with allowing me to function as well as I do with scoliosis. Someone recently told me that I write as though I have power, that I push too far. But I do have power, and I use it. Every person has it, whether they realize it and utilize it or not.

Honestly, if I had not pushed the edge my whole life, I would not have accomplished what I have. I always believe in the miracle that this time, on this try, I will be able to do something that has so far eluded me. Sometimes it works.

Occasionally a photographer asks for a pose I realize will emphasize my age or the curvature of my spine. I always try to oblige - some images are always throw-away, and I try to give a photographer plenty of good work to offset these. So far no one has dropped the camera and run.

But over time the trick, the disguising of discomfort or pain or the effects of age, becomes more difficult to pull off. At a recent shoot, for the first time, a photographer asked why my back would not flatten out when I bent over. Of course, it's the torque caused by scoliosis. And for the first time I admitted what it was. The ice has been broken. There are some poses I can't do. I have known that all along, and I guess it's time to admit it.

As we age, we hear time's chariots coming closer, and the cycle from birth to death becomes more and more apparent. Still, I am not one who longs to go backward. I like myself more now than I did at 20 when I had perfect skin and a straight spine. For that, I am blessed in a way Michael Jackson apparently was not. Pain overwhelmed his life and affected the choices he made.

Like my decision to live without pain, my decision to model is always an exercise of will. Why we make the choices we do is hard to say, even for the analytical. What I can say for sure is that life is a mixture of pleasure and pain. How we deal with each determines how we live, but I am not sure it can ultimately change our fate.

My heart goes out to everyone who suffers, whether known or unknown. But the icons are those among us who bear the additional pain of taking their suffering out before the whole world. I can see what a sacrifice that is, just from my small dilemma of admitting to all of you that I have scoliosis. I have resisted that exposure until this post. Perhaps through the examples of these departed icons, I have decided to risk people's perceptions about such conditions.

As human beings, we can be so unkind, so intolerant, so quick to avoid those who suffer. It is as though our world would slip away if we allowed ourselves to feel for all the fellow sufferers around us, but it is a mitzvah in this life, an aspect of grace if you want the Christian sense of it, to feel empathy and compassion. We need to be more courageous. We need to quit living with blinders to avoid life's pain.

We need the courage of our icons.

May whatever gods bless the souls of Michael, both my Michael and the iconic Michael, and Farrah.

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

Tomorrow I leave New Orleans for Detroit after a six week stay. Over the past three months I've spent more time here than I have at home, but of course we all know that New New Orleans is really home. Here are a few photographs from Dr. L's visit here this weekend.

Tuesday night at Bullet's

Tuesday night at Bullet's

How can you not love a city with street names like Desire, Arts, and Music?

Last night I did what has become my Tuesday night ritual since arriving in New Orleans. I went to Bullet’s bar in the seventh ward to hang with some friends, eat barbecue and listen to some of the best jazz in town, as performed by Kermit Ruffins and the Barbecue Swingers. Kermit performs with a joy and intensity that is rare, at least in my musical experience, and the audience responds in kind. He makes me think of a young Louis Armstrong. He is not only a great trumpeter but he is a natural born entertainer.

This week has been like every other since I arrived here, full of new experiences, new friends, laughter, good food and great music. There is, of course, a bittersweet aspect to all of this. My daughter is still struggling physically and emotionally and at times her situation seems almost hopeless. It tears me apart to see her struggle, but I refuse to give up. I savor the small victories and take the difficult days in stride. Somehow it seems appropriate that I ended up here, dealing with this personal crisis in a city that has at times been beat up and left for dead by the rest of the world. New Orleanians know better. They take the hard times in stride and refuse to give up. There’s always family, friends, good food and music to lift one’s spirits.

Tomorrow Dr. Lightness will be here for what will undoubtedly be a few more adventurous days. I have no idea what will transpire, but I trust that it will be good. Like New Orleans, my work has taken on a new degree of spontaneity. I know I will make some good images but I don’t know yet what they will look like. For me it has become about living in the present. The past is merely something that got me to where I am. It’s something I can learn from but I need not dwell on it or feel regrets about it or wonder what I might have done differently.

Sunday morning I leave to drive back to Detroit. By the end of next week I will be in Tuscany, where I will be meeting my childhood friend Mark and some other old friends for a weeklong celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of Mark’s and my thirty-fifth birthday. Then it’s off to Paris for two weeks before going back to Detroit. I won’t say I’m going home, because, at least in a spiritual sense, New Orleans is now home. I hope to be back here by the end of August to commemorate the fourth Anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and to spend another joyful night at Bullet’s.

photographs by Joseph Crachiola, ©2009, all rights reserved