This is a rough sketch.
It feels like a cop-out to admit that right away, but it is the literal first translation of thoughts I'd been chewing on, and it's a bit hard for me to watch now knowing that "it" is not complete. I know though that it does exist in this shape, or one like it, and so I had no choice but to beat it out of my head one afternoon in March, even though I remember just how hard it was that day to carve out the time to make even these tiny pieces. When I finally did, I caught the last hour of some lovely light.
Looking back, I feel that the threads here are tied to something about loving this body for its health and strength, and learning to love it for all its shapes and its funny play on masculine and feminine. I'm embarrassed to be the millionth woman going through this self love battle, but, constantly, in my head, is this thing someone once said to me: “dance is a visual art form.” And I have a critical eye.
So. This is an unfiltered study of some images I've had on the brain.
As far as credits: It's all me here, except for the tunes, which are by Bonobo.