A little taste treat I'm trying for a google ad. No idea how this is going to work, but google says everything "integrates."

Okay, maybe I am a Luddite *s

Lyssie says the fact that I can code an entire website on a napkin does not save me from being a Luddite. So . . .

For those of you who have been laughing at my recent . . . erm . . . forays . . . into facebook . . . yeah . . . I'm a little slow with gadgets . . . mm hmm . . . and? *s

The fact of the matter is: I find most things unnecessary, therefore uninteresting. If it doesn't capture my attention immediately, I can fairly well determine I'm fine living without it forever. Ask my grown children, who never could convince Mamí of the "need" for a microwave (or get her to read the labels on microwave popcorn, when we stayed in hotels . . .). We have a popcorn maker. Por díos.

Yes, I'm laughing . . . *s

M'kay, so . . . I'm dividing my time between polishing View Shock, my new site; adding fairly regular photos to my Flickr gallery (most of which you can't see, if you're not a member of the site, due to flickr monitoring standards, which cause me to put the majority of my works on either "moderate" or "restricted" status, and those aren't available to the general public, sorry); trying to redesign and add content to the new issue of Standards, the journal for which I'm Arts Editor; spending time with my crazed and beautiful 5-year-old (the smartest person in the forest *s); running around to physicians here and in Baltimore; preparing for my teen, Elle, and my ex/comadre La Lenni to turn up, next week; doing the business end of View Shock; trying to catch up with a few of you, for shoots; and deciding when to move to join Altaira down on the beach in North Carolina.

In short: I'm mad busy.

It's 5 something to the a.m., gente, and I'm typing with eyes at half-mast. Is that a mixed metaphor? *s

Wish me luck.

Emmanuela

new site!

de León Photography has a new home . . .

When we first added my galleries to the same site as the journal Standards, I never expected my hand on a camera would ever amount to more than an incidental aside, leaving the journal as the prominent focus of the Dust Jacket site. In the last few years, my work has come to interfere with the goals and presence of the journal, so I'm moving to my own zone on the web *s

I've also come to recognize that I actually like working for free; the collaborations with models in Claiming Masculinity and the Art of Scars portfolios are my most rewarding photographs. Thus, I've taken the leap into not for profit photography (or just started admitting that's what I do, as some friends tease *s).

Going through the process of filing for 501(c)(3) status is arduous, and would make me a corporation. I'm not certain I'm up for all that. The only benefit would be so that your donations are tax deductible, and we're really only talking the Five Dollar Freedom Fund, or the cost of the prints.

You all will have to let me know what you think about this. I'm content working under the international guidelines for not for profits organizations (NFPO) with charitable intent.

Oh, wondering why the domain name "viewshock"? That's because the most frequent exclamation I hear from models, when I photograph them, is "That's me?!"

Mm hmm. That's you.

And I like the sound of "viewshock." No idea why.

Let me know what you think of the site. It's probably still a bit buggy.

You'll have to be patient with the load time of the larger flash movies . . . but hey: google analytics tells me my site has a 65% faster load time than the average website *s

Happy Holidays to everyone, if I don't post before then.

xo,

~Emmanuela

Photos, Photos, Photos

Hard to tell by my website, I know, but the project is still going strong, and keeping me very busy *s

Last month, I shot the first in a series with Calyb, who will begin transitioning in December. Peace and blessings, Calyb *s The early photos show a very nervous person, who just started getting a bit more comfortable, as we were losing light. A second session is scheduled for a coming weekend.

Oh, and Calyb is the Incredibly Kind Person who's been working toward creating donations to the project. Much love!

Next, PJ and I were down in Philly on a cold Autumn afternoon, where I shot 18-year-old Meg outdoors, in a park near her dorm. Meg is the youngest person to join the project, and I welcome her thoughtful commitment and generosity of spirit. We'll be doing a second session, after Winter Break . . .

This past Saturday, author TJ Fleming made an appearance at my home, where we were able to complete a quick session, between various holiday commitments. TJ is stunning; I'm hoping to have approval for those photos within a couple of weeks.

Sunday brought great light, after several days of snow and clouds. PJ was once again willing to grace me with her modeling skills, in a new set of figure studies . . . with guitar.

Beyond the second sessions I currently have scheduled, I'll be taking a bit of a hiatus from working on the project in December: my family will be with me, and I'll be photographing all of them *s

Thanks to Joe, who reminded me to post an update . . . you're a sweetheart.

~Emmanuela

The End of Summer

August and September simply consumed me with work, so I haven't had a moment to blog. Don't hate me because I'm dutiful *s

The first weekend in August, Dre and I finally got together for a session. And what a remarkable journey that became.

Although Dre's initial idea was to be photographed in his natural environment, the gym, we went first into a tiny, airless yoga studio. The only ambient light was provided by overhead fluorescents. Of course, the amazing PJ Whitt, my co-conspirator, was on hand to hang backdrops, move what little furnishings were available, and—thank all good things—find a fan.

I have to say publicly and earnestly that Dre is one of the best natural models with whom I've had the pleasure to work—his devotion to creating the right photo ranks alongside professional models . . . without the attitude *s

What we were able to create together is available in Dre's portfolio in the Claiming Masculinity gallery.

Note: my site is down for the weekend. The way things have been going lately, I'd give it until the end of next week, before expecting its return. But it's not lost; there's just been a glitch. The geeks are working. All blessings to geeks.

The following weekend, PJ Whitt herself was the subject of yet another session. I'd been holding her photos in private stock, never quite certain which ones should be added to the project, but I finally selected three sets. Check out her portfolio, too.

I did website design and development for the next two weekends, uploading the recent sessions, and giving my whole site a new look and feel. As some participants are requesting family portraits, I wanted the site to be more inclusive, and less singularly focused on my work in figure studies. The Claiming Masculinity Project now has a direct URL of its own, and is accessible from the front page of my site.

Over Labor Day weekend, PJ and I drove to NoHo for a hot, sweaty butch-on-butch shoot . . . that just happened to feature a stunningly beautiful femme. I'm unclear, at this time, whether all three participants are in agreement as to whether that session should be made public.

In the main, all I legally need to show my work in public is a signed Release Form. However, as this project is hugely personal, I'm taking the extra step of asking each participant to approve all photos to be seen by the public. There has been far too much in the way of inaccurate and unwanted portrayals, for the queer communities. I said in the beginning I wouldn't work that way, and I stand by that.

The next session was structured in many parts: a single butch; several sessions with his wife; family portraiture; and individual family member portraits. Eight hours in the Bronx, with some loving, open, truly amusing people. PJ and I were happy to partake in a meal with the couple, then continue working.

When I processed the 2,000 photos, I was beyond annoyed to find that I'd lost over 500 shots to poor lighting. That's on me: I didn't want to ruin the coloration by using a flash, and I didn't request more lighting. Lesson learned. Sigh.

That session should be available online next weekend.

After that, I was once again in my element, shooting figure studies in my home studio. The model had a bad case of nerves, so we're discussing a second session, to ensure we have everything we want. Already, there is such beauty.

I still have to finish processing the 1,600 photos from that day. And that was just last weekend.

There is perhaps one weekend available in October. I'm really hoping not to work through the holidays, though I have a session scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving . . . and I'm actually looking forward to that *s

I should mention my pleasure with the willingness and grace each participant has brought to writing themselves into the project. For each narrative, I receive many emails praising the author. Thank you all for that.

~Emmanuela

An AG in the Forest

So, I had a shoot recently with a handsome AG who's a dandy. A "prissy boi," she calls herself—"dandy" is my descriptor; I just think it's nicer.

She lives in Brooklyn or the Bronx; I forget which. Says she wants to come here for a photo shoot, because she has enough urban images of herself.

I send her a note to remind her to bring insect repellent. There are biting gnats ("May flies," my lover calls them) and mosquitoes, out here in the forest. For liability reasons, I can't provide things like insect repellent, in case my models have allergies.

The AG writes back, and asks me to just please promise her there won't be any spiders. She can't even look at spiders, she tells me. They make her scream.

I laugh, even while responding:

You want me to tell you there are no spiders in the forest?

Um.

Okay.

There are no spiders in the forest. They all moved to the cities, in 19 and 95.

There might be some things that resemble spiders, but we'll just call them leaves moving in the breeze.

How's that?

She laughs and apologizes for being so "prissy."

Then she writes to ask me whether it's really a nearly three-hour drive from her girlfriend's house to my house. I'm terrible with maps, so refer her question to my partner, who says the answer is yeah, pretty much, but don't follow the map directions you sent; follow these other ones, instead. I'm typing for my partner, because she's walking around, up and down the stairs, doing stuff around the house, while I'm answering email.

"Tell her don't stop around here to ask for directions," my partner calls from downstairs. "And tell her not to look for street signs." She says she's sorry about the lack of street signs, and to warn the AG that, if you ask directions in the back woods up here, people will say things like, "You know Johnny Major's place? Not the old one, but the new one. You know, the one he got after the divorce. The second divorce, not the one from Thelma. That would be Thelma with the two good eyes, not the one with the glass eye. What? You don't know Johnny? Well, how'm I supposed to tell you directions?"

Living in the woods is just a riot.

Around the expected hour, we hear a car in the drive. It's relatively soundless out here, so we're never uncertain when we have visitors. My partner bounds down the stairs to greet our guests. At that precise moment, the AG and her partner are gaining the exterior steps. The pretty femme gasps.

They're embarrassed and apologizing to one another for the startle response, as I slowly descend the staircase. "Don't scare the Black people," I tell my partner, patting her arm in faux sociability.

Everyone laughs. We all stand in the living room for a few minutes, while the guests take in our odd décor. Everyone who visits here is momentarily taken aback by the large artwork and other strange items about the place.

The AG has brought several changes of clothes, and decides first on linen slacks and a dress shirt. Part of the reason she's doing this shoot is to show that all Aggressives aren't hip-hop thugs. She walks cautiously out onto the back deck. Asks whether I want her to go down the steps, onto the land. Lifts one foot slightly and says, "Black suede shoes don't go in dirt."

"You do recognize you're in the forest, right?" I tease her. "And you wanted nature shots?"

"Well, maybe just a little bit of nature in the background," she smiles, ducking her head a bit.

I take photos of her shoes. Then she changes into soft, maple-brown, Italian leather loafers. Those apparently fare better in "dirt."

We walk out onto the land a few steps. She's nervously eyeing the neighbor's house. I tell her no one's over there; they were here the previous weekend, and rarely come up two weeks in a row.

"They're city people," I continue. "You can see how hard they work to manicure their 'lawn,' as if this is a house in suburbia."

"Still looks like the woods, to me," the AG murmurs, not really paying attention.

The nervousness in her body hasn't ceased. I ask her why her shoulders are hunched up around her ears.

Her entire face brightens with a combination of excitement and amused disbelief, as she tells how she and her girlfriend got lost on the way up here, and had to stop at the run-down shack of a local bar down the road.

My partner and I both stare in amazement.

"I've lived here six years, and even I've never been into that bar," my partner laughs.

"I was told that was a bad place for a woman, so I've never even considered it," I smile.

"Well, we were lost," the AG says, in exasperation.

"Neither one of us could get a signal on our cells," her lovely girlfriend adds.

I'm trying to picture the tall, commanding AG nervously approaching that dive with her sumptuous, orange-clad femme partner. It's already a joke waiting for a punch line.

Then they're both talking at once, telling about how they saw all the trucks parked outside, so they figured it had to be some kind of public place but, when they got closer, the AG couldn't hear any sound, and thought it was either closed, or maybe it was a house.

"She made me go up to that door and knock!" her girlfriend laughs.

"Well, I wasn't sure!" the AG offers, in mock alarm.

"Then she tells me, 'Okay, this is the signal: if I tap my foot on the floor, that means we got to get the hell up outta there,'" the girlfriend says, still laughing.

"And we go in," the AG continues, "and do you know there's a beaver on the wall? I'm serious. A dead beaver. And a big ol' deer head. With antlers" she says, spreading out her hands to show the size. "Just hanging on the wall! I said, 'Where the rest of that deer?' And oh, those people lookin' at us in a big hush. I mean: everything just got quiet all at once, and they all just stared."

The femme partner rolls her beautiful eyes. "There were only about seven people in that place, and only half of them even looked at us. The rest were drunk," she says.

"They were staring," the AG insists.

"That when a saloon door opened at the back of the room?" I joke.

"I'm sayin'! I was waiting for some shit like that! Never know what kinda beaver they gonna wanna hang on they wall next!"

We all giggle and shake our heads.

"We told them we were looking for the country club," the AG continues. "You know they were peekin' outside to make sure we didn't have no U-Haul, before they gave us directions."

"Don't let the sun set on your ass around these parts," I agree.

We shake our heads.

The AG looks at my partner, and asks, "They use real guns up here for hunting, huh."

"No," my partner answers, without cracking a smile. "They hunt with sticks."

"You know that hurts," I say, trying not to laugh.

"I used to go camping all the time," the girlfriend says, waving her hand dismissively. "What you really gotta watch out for are the coons. They get into everything."

"Your people aren't from the South, are they?" I ask.

"Did you say you people?" she answers, feigning insult.

"Your people, Mr. Perot," I smile.

"Nope. All East Coast."

"Black girls from the South rarely use the word 'coon' the way you just did," I laugh.

"True," the AG smiles.

My partner, slightly out of sorts whenever she's surrounded entirely by women of color, tosses two crackers from the table over the side of the deck.

The AG watches, and says, "Some bird's gonna be happy tomorrow about that cracker."

"I think she just called you a cracker," I deadpan to my partner.

"I keep tellin' you about puttin' in the pauses for the white people!" the girlfriend gasps.

We all laugh so long and loud there are tears streaming.

"Girl," the AG summarizes, "you know this ain't no place for a big, Black, AG. What kind of people want a dead beaver on a wall?"

Mm hmm.

A week or so later, I write to give the boi this summation of our session.

She replies to say she loves the beaver, and plans to return to the bar to host a queer-straight roundtable discussion on the thing.

Fine, I answer. Just bear three things in mind.

1.) Define what you mean by "beaver." Point to the thing on the wall, for reference.

2.) Define what you mean by "roundtable." Drunks have a tendency to walk and talk in circles, and may become disoriented, if they think you want them to sit spinning.

3.) Define what you mean by "discussion." People around here often speak aimlessly, and may be surprised to learn they're not actually responding to what you asked.

Those caveats in place, it should be fine.

I'll keep the car running outside *s


~Emmanuela