june 15, 2021
this photograph was taken two days before my first anniversary on HRT. I'd finally trekked from my then-home of Houston all the way across the plains of Texas to Amarillo, where Cadillac Ranch, a relatively famous art installation composed of 10 1950s-era Cadillacs buried nose-first in the ground, can be found.
I painted my little pride piece, did some photos, and felt extremely satisfied. I was not a subtle woman, and I was just fucking thrilled I was alive, and I needed to scream it to the world.
later in life (all of a year later), I've wondered if maybe I should be more subtle. perhaps I needed ways to represent my ideals and imagery that was less on-the-nose. I struggled with this when I made The Pilgrimage, my photobook with similarly obvious themes, and I felt almost childish about it.
and then I've been reading a lot about the Roman Galli, or the Greek worship of Hermaphroditus, or Woolf's Orlando, or a million different moments throughout history of the most obviously transgender/nb identities and art, and the complete cluelessness that cis culture has for them. So many cis readers/historians/critics seem unable to recognize a human being different from them, and if it were not for the efforts of trans historians, they would have completely tried to erase our existence.
As a result, being blatant no longer feels childish. It feels like a necessary tool to keep in my kit. Not everyone will need art that slaps them in the face, but clearly, some do - so I will slap them when they need it.