There's far too much to see, my friend
I shall sleep when I am dead
I will do the things you only dream
while you pass your time in bed

After yet another direct, personal attack aimed at me for being a Fine Art ("nude") model, I find myself contemplating more than just merely quitting my career.
I should not be expected to be conditioned to have thick skin because of what I do - I am not made of stone. I am human. I have feelings and words hurt.
Sometimes they scar.....

I have been called a slut and a whore.
I have been accused of being pornographic, cheap, and sleazy.
Yet, I don't bend over and spread my verticle smile, I don't try to touch my tongue to my nipple or shove my fingers up my crotch. I don't make 'fuckfaces' at the camera while touching myself suggestively, and you won't catch me eating at the 'Y' with a nude counterpart. I don't wink my brown eye at the camera and I don't touch my ankles to my earlobes.
But it doesn't matter. I'm nude, - so that makes me a whore.
A shameless, disgusting, blatant whore with no modesty or self-respect.

Deemed a whore, for doing nothing more than you would see on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or in a John William Waterhouse painting.

I have been an art student all my life, and was raised a Southern Baptist by a strong Christian family. At five years old my standard Bible had scattered among the scriptures, glossy prints of Adam and Eve nude in the Wilderness, and even nude children clinging to their mothers before the alter of sacrifice. It was not filthy or appalling. It was pure and beautiful - and holy. In my Art courses every year, before I was even twelve years old, - I saw the Statue of David, The Birth of Venus, Lady Godiva, The Three Graces...
and there was never an enraged parent attacking the teachers, never even a muffled snicker from the class. We were in awe. Because these depictions were glorious - and they were of our very own form. It spoke to us, about what we are - Art by God. The perfect design by the master artist, no matter the shape or color, age or sex. From the matronly stomach and ample curves of the Reniassance women, to the sinewy muscles and chiseled jawlines of the athletic, proud men in the statues of Greek and Roman tradition. This was not pornography. We saw nothing sexual... we saw purity and grace, strength and beauty.

This is what I was taught, and what I carried with me throughout my life. A profound respect for the vessel of life, self-awareness, and comfort within my skin. Nothing to feel shame or guilt for. It is merely nature - which existed long before the constraints of social order - and will be long after the law and rule of man.

Circumstances from my teenage years stole my passion for paint and charcoal and led me away from wanting to be an artist. Yet time led me back to art and I found that I was only inspired to paint or draw the human form. By happenstance I became a model posing in a bikini for calendars and wearing lingerie for magazine and newspaper advertisements. It was exciting and gratifying to an extent. But it certianly had no artistic substance... so it was lackluster and bittersweet. I realized when offered one day the opportunity to model for a world renowned artist in Miami - that I could return to my roots and immerse myself in a passion long dead. I did not need charcoal or a paintbrush... my flesh, my limbs, -- my vessel -- was a medium, canvas and clay. Mutable, dynamic, flexible and ever evolving, the human body has been revered since the dawn of man as Art in its highest form - and I had one at my disposal. My own.

Now, by today's standards, I am not considered beautiful at all. I am "unconventional" at best. Why? I am VERY short despite the way I seem to photograph.( I am not even 5 '2".) I have an ample rear-end and chesticles to match. (which are heavily frowned upon in the couture and high fashion industry - it seems clothes look better on a twig.) I have thick thighs. (Damn you, butter! Damn you!) I have a three inch scar on my forehead and two scars on my chin from a near-fatal dog attack when I was 4 1/2.(never let your toddlers watch westerns. They might get IDEAS...) I am heavily flawed and not up to snuff for much more than glamour modeling for your average men's magazine.

Sounds so great to some of you - but here is where the lines seems to obscure. I don't get how I can bend my ass over a the hood of a classic Mustang Shelby in a black thong with "do me" written all over my face and never hear one cross word spoken. But you see my ARTISTIC work on this ARTISTIC community site and call me a whore. So it's ok to slut it up for the camera for mass-consumption like FHM and STUFF - but I'm a whore if you see my bare breasts, regardless of there being any sexual connotation or not?

I don't much care for the glamour modeling - but I do it and take it with a grain of salt, as it is what feeds and clothes me. I am far less proud of this work than I am of my Fine Art modeling. I model nude for the sake of art - not for pay. PRINCIPLE. So if I were to throw myself into my art as many of you may do -I myself would be the proverbial starving artist... Not so much a whore.

WHORES GET PAID.

And they do it for the love of money.
I model in my natural state in my natural habitat for temporary peace, and a tangible reflection of something that is sacred to the one who made me.
Gosh, - does that make me a slut?

Well, then, folks - let's enjoy some vintage porn and give a nod to those classy whores who inspired me in my youth to become JUST LIKE THEM, and those world famous smut-peddling pornographers that painted them.



'Lady Godiva' by John Collier



'A Bather II' by Lord Frederick Leighton



'Hylas and the Nymphs' by John William Waterhouse



'Lillith' by John Collier



'Girl In A Basin' by Paul Delaroche



'A Hamadryad' by John William Waterhouse




'Painful' by Antonio Parreiras



PURIFY deviantART / KILL THE NONDEVIANT PROPAGANDA

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February is just around the corner, and it holds two omenous and dreadful occasions I should just as soon suck on the barrel of gun before I look upon them with any anticipation and welcome.
Valentine's.
And my birthday.
I haven't a damn thing to celebrate.
I am a widow in my mid-twenties and I have lost all will and reason. I buried more than my soul one a year ago. I buried my every hope and dream, and my happiness.
Sure, I smile on occasion, and I laugh. And I am still a smartass with a sense of humor. But it is sarcastic, morbid, and dark now.
And so am I.
Appearances mean absolutely nothing - do not allow yourself to be so easily fooled.
Just as an alcoholic can be sober - a severely depressed and suicidal woman can still laugh. It doesn't mean she isn't depressed anymore. It means, " that was damn funny. Now fuck off and die. "
I'm still dead inside, despite what you want to convince yourself. Or me.
This is the very reason I take huge risks and am drawn to danger now. And please don't EVER dare me. I aim to tempt fate and God himself, and invite any situation that will increase my chances of being maimed or killed. And it is not my indifference to death that lures me - but putting myself in imminent danger is one of the few times I feel even halfway alive.
I'm not scared. I know I should be. But nothing scares me anymore.
That has to be a bad thing. A very bad thing.
And that's all that interests me these days.
It is not a cheap thrill, or a rush that seduces me to subject myself to such precarious acts - it is simply to feel something. SOMETHING. Rather than nothing at all.

*****Pics are back from Puerto Rico shoot with photographer Cristobal Rivera Ayala. Will begin posting Sunday.*****



PURIFY deviantART / KILL THE NONDEVIANT PROPAGANDA

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I am back from my excursion to Puerto Rico, with a unique and memorable souveneir.
Cristobal constantly looked over his shoulder and extended his hand as we climbed the mountainous terrain of his property in Trujillo Alto. Each time I denied him, knowing I could manage on one leg blindfolded. I don't know why I become so agitated when men treat me as though I am so frail and delicate. Perhaps it is because those same men think that because I wear lipgloss and high heels I couldn't possibly carry anything over five pounds without whining or form a complete sentence without saying "Like, you know.." at least three times. I relish being underestimated. I cannot describe the satisfaction of the reactions illicited by defying the laws of physics with my petite girly frame. And without breaking a nail and mourning its loss for ten minutes.
So, when we wrapped shooting and headed back down the rocky slopes Cristobal was several feet ahead of me... and I thought it would be funny to tease him... so I moaned out loud in pain. He spun around and looked back at the ground, expecting to find me there, collapsed in agony. His eyes traveled upward and met mine, as I stood covering my mouth to hush my giggles. I began laughing. He was quick to warn me, "Very funny, Shelly -- but do remember the story of the boy who cried wolf." No sooner did the words leave his lips did I bite down on my own. I stopped laughing. But I thought I had only landed on the rock a bit hard and hit a pressure point. It was not until I was dressing by the vehicle that I saw the raw, scarlet flesh screaming from beneath a hanging flap of skin. I slapped that meat down and threw on my sock and boot and thought nothing more of it.
Til this morning. When I found that I can't seem to walk. At least not as a lady should.
More like I'm strolling the track, dragging my heavy hand and heavier pockets as I keep my hos in check and put asses to work on the boulevard. "Bitch, where's my money?" "Pimpin ain't easy" "Don't make me slap you, bitch!" "Bring mommy the paper" and "I don't love these hos" are just a few of the phrases that have now been officially incorperated into my vernacular.
So pardon me while I pimp this limp here and handle my bidness.



PURIFY deviantART / KILL THE NONDEVIANT PROPAGANDA

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