14” x 11” — Photo print on Canson Platine Fibre Rag 310 gsm.

I was about 23 years old. Fresh to Los Angeles. Broke and living in my art studio on Hollywood Blvd illegally. In many ways it felt like the dream, and in many ways it felt like the end. I was lost but so inspired, broke but so rich with adventure. It was a late night; I had painted that day and felt like taking the edge off, so I decided to have a boy over. More like a man. We had our fun, and afterward I said, “Your body is beautiful; can I take a photo of you?” he obliged, and I snapped his photo in front of one of my paintings. After he left, I remember looking at his body, analyzing it over and over again, then looking at mine and comparing. What he didn’t know that night was that during our entire exchange, I was sucking in my stomach, angling my body in ways I felt suited me, and kept the lights dimmed for most of his stay, because I didn’t like my body. I wanted to look like him. That fixation festered and grew inside me. To this day, I think about that experience and how much I’ve let others' perceptions of me control my narrative and actions. How much I wish I had just loved my body and understood that it comes in all shapes and sizes. The mold we are forced to fit into isn’t universal, but the struggle seems to be.