Reflections
I open the window to greet a winter morning. I cannot yet feel the chill in the air but across the street I see a tiny person, swaddled in a down purple jumpsuit moving her short legs down the sidewalk. Only her white face is exposed to the cold. A mother strolls behind her. Now I can tell how cold it is, by the way the child is bundled. So much of the queues we pick up is from what we see.
In the winter of 1986, my mother and I walk through the city streets. I am bundled up in a similar jumpsuit, I’m sure it wasn’t purple, probably government issued blue or brown. It is night time, because I remember the city lights flickering and reflecting of the glassy surfaces of cars and buildings. We stop in front of a department store, a display window called VITRINA. There are three distinct windows, each in its own color; red, green, yellow. We stop and look. I try to re-imagine what may be on display in the shop, but I imagine it wasn’t a lot. It is the first time
I catch the reflection of myself in the mirror. There I was in versions of each color, like a hologram, a prism. Somehow, I recognized they were all parts of me, but not me. They were fragments that would forever join me on my journey forth.
Sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror now, it is less about a drive for vanity and more a confirmation of existence. Traversing the world alone in so many circumstance, even in something as simple as walking down the street, I see myself and acknowledge, yes, I am still there. My body is still present, my limbs attached, my face still my own. It is an act of refusing to disappear from myself. Perhaps verging on obsessive, narcissistic if I trek down the curly path of amateur self analysis. I need to know I am still there.
Each room has mirrors on the walls so we can watch ourselves enact our roles. I look at my reflection and notice the way my body has changed over the years. I watch the flexion of my forearm as I lean into him, putting him in restraints or grazing his nipple. In the reflection I watch her, who is just one part of me. I used to treat this as a kind of disassociation, where I was watching myself out of body, but now it is more of an intentional schism. As an adult woman, my body dodges and weaves in a dance of seven veils before my client’s blindfolded face. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror again and it excites me, pleasured by my own vision, my articulated body, the way my costume fits, my hair cascading over my shoulders. When they are not blindfolded, I instruct my clients to look at themselves so that they can imagine who they want to be, simultaneously confirming they are not that person. It is a game I like to play. All session rooms have mirrors for catching a glimpse of the Other.
Reflections
I open the window to greet a winter morning. I cannot yet feel the chill in the air but across the street I see a tiny person, swaddled in a down purple jumpsuit moving her short legs down the sidewalk. Only her white face is exposed to the cold. A mother strolls behind her. Now I can tell how cold it is, by the way the child is bundled. So much of the queues we pick up is from what we see.
In the winter of 1986, my mother and I walk through the city streets. I am bundled up in a similar jumpsuit, I’m sure it wasn’t purple, probably government issued blue or brown. It is night time, because I remember the city lights flickering and reflecting of the glassy surfaces of cars and buildings. We stop in front of a department store, a display window called VITRINA. There are three distinct windows, each in its own color; red, green, yellow. We stop and look. I try to re-imagine what may be on display in the shop, but I imagine it wasn’t a lot. It is the first time
I catch the reflection of myself in the mirror. There I was in versions of each color, like a hologram, a prism. Somehow, I recognized they were all parts of me, but not me. They were fragments that would forever join me on my journey forth.
Sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror now, it is less about a drive for vanity and more a confirmation of existence. Traversing the world alone in so many circumstance, even in something as simple as walking down the street, I see myself and acknowledge, yes, I am still there. My body is still present, my limbs attached, my face still my own. It is an act of refusing to disappear from myself. Perhaps verging on obsessive, narcissistic if I trek down the curly path of amateur self analysis. I need to know I am still there.
Each room has mirrors on the walls so we can watch ourselves enact our roles. I look at my reflection and notice the way my body has changed over the years. I watch the flexion of my forearm as I lean into him, putting him in restraints or grazing his nipple. In the reflection I watch her, who is just one part of me. I used to treat this as a kind of disassociation, where I was watching myself out of body, but now it is more of an intentional schism. As an adult woman, my body dodges and weaves in a dance of seven veils before my client’s blindfolded face. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror again and it excites me, pleasured by my own vision, my articulated body, the way my costume fits, my hair cascading over my shoulders. When they are not blindfolded, I instruct my clients to look at themselves so that they can imagine who they want to be, simultaneously confirming they are not that person. It is a game I like to play. All session rooms have mirrors for catching a glimpse of the Other.
EPB
EPB is a writer, visual artist, performer & researcher who plays in the space between theory and practice. In her writing, she parallels her observations of the art world with academic discourse and the politics of sex work.