These, part practice for my Halloween costume but more specifically a tribute to how I’ve felt nearly this entire year, that my pain,
unknown yet monstrous, was obvious and plainly on my face every day, minute, second, when I talked and laughed, when I stopped dancing.
I became fascinated with this theory from Freud years back. Probably because of the attempts of some* men to shame me for my sexual behavior, etc. and the way I was raised (the way we were all raised) and it has stuck with me.
In psychoanalytic literature, a Madonna–whore complex is the inability to maintain sexual arousal within a committed, loving relationship. First identified by Sigmund Freud, under the rubric of psychic impotence, this psychological complex is said to develop in men who see women as either saintly Madonnas or debased prostitutes. Men with this complex desire a sexual partner who has been degraded (the whore) while they cannot desire the respected partner (the Madonna). Freud wrote: "Where such men love they have no desire and where they desire they cannot love."
The more academic outline: Madonna-whore complex | Applied Social Psychology (ASP)
I took more as the Madonna than I did as the Whore but the whore ones were the ones I kept more of either because I was wearing more makeup or because they were darker.
It was trying to force myself to recognize that people see me two ways, maybe at the same time causing confusion or maybe changing their minds when it is convenient to them or when they wish to be cruel without conscience.
I have other collections of pictures like these but with different themes. It was something I did throughout the end of summer into the fall when I felt chaotic and it helped me focus on the present and not the rawness of my emotions and their spiraling.
These were taken after I came home a day early from San Francisco where I had drank too much, wandered the streets alone, drunk as fuck, and stopping to make friends with a homeless woman and her dog at nearly 1 AM.
My first pictures inspired by La Llorona, the weeping woman. (Also filed in “Shit my dad used to tell me to scare the shit out of me”.) She inspired the sorrow, the fury, and the regret of a woman in love and scorned as well as parts of my childhood that remind me that half of me came from Mexico.
Also Countess Bathory, who has fascinated me since I was 6 or 7 years old. She inspired the vanity in these pictures.
The veil is not a wedding veil. It is a Catholic mass veil. This is another element of my childhood. Being raised in a strict Protestant religion through some of my earlier childhood and into my early teens, I was forced to believe that the Catholic religion was the religion that would bring the Anti-Christ out, that everything done in the name of the religion was both evil and against the Bible.
Because of this, I have grown to have a strange fascination with the religion and the practices. Though I have long left my childhood religion and believe all structured religion to be a cancer on humanity, there are certain things that I was told that have stuck with me, that I sometimes rebel against. And that is why the veil is in these pictures.