I take photos of myself and other women in lingerie or varying states of undress pretty often as part of my work. And I had recently began to rub up against the fear that I was photographing from or for the male gaze.

A big genesis for this fear is that though my work is created for women, a lot of the online responses I get are from men. My fear was that in posting these images, I could somehow be isolating women. That my photos were being seen less as a cheerleading inspiration to feel good in your body and celebrate that and more as an offering to the male gaze.

I post nudes and half naked photos because I do not always love my body, but when I able to capture myself feeling confident and powerful, I want to share that feeling.

I post because I am a victim of the patriarchy and the beauty industry and have felt at many points that parts of me should be thinner, pinker, hairless, airbrushed. And when I see women’s bodies looking real, curvy, hairy, wrinkled etc., it makes me feel freer to also be those things…or to be myself.

I post because my body is so often sexualized by others that photographing myself and choosing to share gives me an agency over my image and how/when it is consumed that I don’t have otherwise.

The Female Gaze = Freedom

I met dóri varga, an artist, poet, and lover, at a perfect moment: she ushered me into the female gaze through fostering a sense of safety, trust, and mutual vulnerability.

I went on dóri’s podcast a couple months prior to our meeting—it was more like a phone call, natural, easy, like we’d been friends a long time though we’d never met in real life. When she told me she was visiting New York and that she’d like to photograph me, I was insanely flattered. Her work is gorgeous, and there is something different about a woman wanting to take a photo of you. Kind of like how a compliment on your outfit from a woman hits different than from a man. I trust that women are appreciating my essence, my being beyond my body.

Before our photo session, we went to the park with tea. It was the kind of late September sun that feels like seeing a lover for the last time, you want to soak up every bit. We talked about heartbreak, betrayal, art, children, travel, and belonging. We went deep quick, like a leap, like so often women do when they feel the other is there to catch them, to understand.

Then we went back to my apartment and got naked together. But first, she stripped my bedroom—we moved out all the unnecessary adornments, the art from the wall, pillows from my bed, all the life things until it was just me, the bed, and my lamps. It was a peeling back of layers, there was nowhere to hide. But hiding wasn’t a thought. I felt equal, comfortable, sensual with her.

She put on a soundtrack of ambient noise, a nature scene, and invited me to channel an animal for my movement. I thought of a wild cat—a leopard, a jaguar, a puma—I wanted to stretch and slink. My movements began sultry, sprawled across my bed, long strides, but then my prowess gave way to something much less sinister: I became a house cat. I played with the dangling fringe of my lamp, coquettish, mischievous. I wrapped myself in the curtains. It was over too soon.

I think it’s important to share that after our photo session, we went on my balcony and had a drink and several cigarettes and debriefed. It was…so much like aftercare. And when I think of the whole experience—the getting to know each other, the foreplay of verbal vulnerability, the delicate asking to go further, the photo session as climax, and then the slow, caring, connection after, it is… such a good model for sex!

And that trust, that relationship and respect comes through in the work we made together. In the photos Dóri took of me there is a softness not detectable in others I’ve taken or had taken of myself. An unposed, unselfconscious vulnerability that I don’t usually want to show or feel safe enough to—certainly not for strangers on the Internet.

Just as sexual surrender is so enticing to me because it means I can fully let go, there is a surrender very visible to me in these photos and I know it is the result of feeling truly seen by the artist as a whole human being—not just tits and ass.

I started writing this essay before the news of the atrocities at Cornell surfaced and if you’ve been following along my writing, I hope you are also enjoying the deepening and recurring theme of wild cat vs kitten in my life. For those who missed it, you can catch up here: I don’t want you to think I’m sexy, I want you to think I’m scary.

Reflecting on my two sides and the softness in the photos Dóri took of me vs the ones I take for the internet, I’ve realized: I am not photographing from the male gaze—I have been capturing myself looking intimidating, larger than life, untouchable.

Perhaps an attempt to channel power that doesn’t always feel mine or a kind of bracing for the inevitable, the photos I take of myself tend to be more overt, challenging. I am daring the viewer to think they are worthy to reply.

But… I want to be softer. I want to let go. I want to be open to receive.

And I want men to do everything they can to make that possible not just for me, for all women. During sex, while walking home alone at night, when simply existing online.

And how might you do that as a man, you may ask, if you’re still reading? Well, being here is a good start. Supporting my work and the work of other female creators. Listening to women about their very real fears and all the SA they have endured, and being extra careful during the very real retraumatization that happens during news cycles like these. Educating yourself on the experience of women and keeping consent top of mind in all interactions, online and IRL.

And to the women and femmes reading this—Dóri and I are dreaming of an entire day together where we write and reflect and eat and do photoshoots just like the one I described for a small group of women. I want you to see yourself like this: soft, open, free. Los Angeles this February—reply if you’re interested and I’ll send you details.

And, finally, a question for all: Do you notice the male gaze in media or are you accustomed to it? Have you also found yourself viewing your own body and sexuality through this lens? Can you pinpoint works that feel different, that capture the female gaze? How would you define the female gaze? Share in the comments. xxx