A Radical Act of Self Reclamation

I remember being introduced to this project from a random tip from a friend. I was talking about wanting to be a figure model for a sketch class, and instead found myself outside of Anastasia’s studio on the hottest February morning that Oakland offered.

I tried to prepare myself by having a plan. I always have a plan. Today, it was Self Reclamation. First, I would expose and empower myself through a strangers’ looking glass. Next, I would rectify my metaphorical dick from the bedside table of my ex lover. Lastly, I would saunter through a steamy first date with a sexy Colombian pilot. Planning to have a day full of me, my identity, full of life and fear and zest.

She opened up. The evidence of her blossoming flora, her encouraging hospitality, the smile in her eyes, the song in her voice all enveloped me with warm familiarity. The studio was penetrated with white hot air. The light thick as milk. It cast no shadows. Only the deep, still stare of honesty. I got naked and stood there like a kid on the first day of school.‘Act natural.’

I fixated on the forest of leaves and petals around me. ‘She grew all of these.’ I felt safe here. Safe, but my body was stiff. It knew it was naked. I shushed the raising hackles.‘

We’re prepared for this!’ Countless experiences with exhibitionism, but I was not prepared for this. It is one thing to consent to being naked for myself in a public space. It is another to be naked with a person who is going to help me see myself this way. Maybe to hold my space, as I encountered the roots of the relationships I have with myself, hold that space until they all rise to the surface of my skin, presenting the boundary between all that is in me, and the world through which it moves. The boundary where light touches me and I become real. I cried my eyes out. I laughed as hard as is possible. My face twirled and my hands twisted. We spoke of consent, of boundaries, of power, of language, and trauma, and vulnerability. I felt like her student, it felt so easy to leave my body and just be there with each moment. I find comfort in knowing I get to be a student of myself until I die. She noticed I adored her plants and she gently plucked a few precious life-lings for me to grow on my own. The gift was a gesture of trust, of nourishment, and learning. Something is similar, I think, about giving my naked truth to her camera lens. Still naked, sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, I looked up. She handed me her camera, “Take a look at yourself,” and left the space.

I met my eyes on the screen. It felt like a bucket of water was poured over my head. I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t mad. I was just there. It was just me. That made me so uncomfortable. I was obviously expecting something. And instead of whatever I deep-seededly believed I was going to see, I saw exactly what I was promised: my bare-skinned walls, gently pulled down and neatly tucked away, the glaring and untouched truth of my life drawn on my body in scars, ink, imperfectness, and asymmetry. I swallowed this moment like a solid rock of gold, melted it inside of me. I was free of fear. I was free to claim myself, just as I am. Not sexualized, or objectified, or judged, or scrutinized. The solid rock of gold melted, and set me on fire. All of my hatred of self, my pride, my confidence, my jealousy, my neglect, my obsessions, I was ablaze anyway. A Radical Act is Self Reclamation manifested not when I got naked knowing the world would see me, but more so the moment I saw myself, grabbed her hand, and took her home.