My face is shrouded in shadow, my t-shirt is wrinkled, I hate the way my hair looks, and you can see the bandaid on my hand. My most frequent collaborator, Jerran, hates that I am this critical of myself. He travels to my house on his off day–personal time that should be spent reading or lying on the couch in central air–to take my photos. If he shows up and I’m not dressed he waits patiently for me to paint on the last coat of lipstick or decide on the perfect piece to complete a look. He stands in the sun holding the heavy DSLR, taking my demanding directions. “Up! Up! Hold the camera up! Angles matter!” I shout out at him as teenagers in baggy jeans and dread locs eye us inquisitively on their walk to the corner store we stand on the side of to take photos.
