So I have been talking about finding your creative voice, but what the hell does that mean? Your creative voice is your unique point of view and your way of seeing the world. These are influenced by your life experiences, your high points and low points, hearkbreaks and happy times, all those experiences that make you, You.
To find that creative voice, you have to be able to feel as art is expressive and emotional. Everything from subject choice, camera settings, lighting choice, styling, is all part of the creative voice, it’s not random.
Your point of view, your loves, your preferences, your experiences are all raw material for that creative voice. The more you understand, the better and more meaningful your art will be.
Another ethereal portrait of Julie, my kind of work, moody and layered. Model Julie from Lenis Models, Styling by @riledbystyle , Hair by @reginameessen Makeup by @yallizbeauty
I was not allowed to skateboard
or rollerblade or to do anything my mother considered dangerous to my
fragile female body. I did however own a bicycle. I played mostly with
my younger brother and his friends and we would race throughout the
neighborhood. My younger brother was allowed to leave the
neighborhood and bike along the creek trail, and I was not.
twelve, my younger brother was given his own chainsaw. There is a video
of him doing a kickflip on his skateboard on the roof of our 2 story
home. There were no rules or boundaries for him, and he could accomplish anything he wanted. he was always taught to believe in himself. He was taught he could do the impossible.
At 16 my mother took a soda can away from me when I was kicking it in the street. She scolded me because the can had sharp edges from being kicked around, and I could injure myself from it.
are lower middle class and never had money for me to pursue any interests (though I was taught that I should never tell people what my interests are–my mother would often tell me that wishes came true for you if you kept them a secret, and being annoying would just hinder you from getting what you want out of life). I
was told karate would be too rough for me and too expensive. Both of my
younger brothers were enrolled. Both of them played sports.
The only contest my mother ever entered me in was a beauty pageant.
I was 5 and that was the day that I learned I was ugly. At this beauty
pageant I learned that my gender was judged on how good we look and that
was all that is important. And I learned that I was not valuable.
was enrolled in piano lessons along with the older of my 2 younger
brothers. It was hard for me to practice at home because we had one
keyboard and my brother was given preferential treatment, which is standard for male children. They bought
him other instruments, an accordian and a violin. He wasn’t interested
in the violin. I was. My brother smashed the violin so I wouldn’t be
able to learn it, and my parents said that was OK because it was his
violin, after all.
When I was 8 and he was six, we were swimming
at the community pool when he cannonballed right on top of my spine. I
still have lower back problems. I know he did it on purpose but he was
never punished because my parents always took his word over mine,
because “girls over react.” My brother was taught his word is objective
fact, that is how he was raised because he is male.
parents talked about my future, it was about what kind of man I would
marry and when I would get married and how I should get married and how
to be a good wife (serve the man I married) and how many children did I
want and when my parents talked to my brothers about their futures it
was about what did they want to achieve?
On my fourteenth birthday
my dad asked me why I couldn’t be more feminine? Why did I hate make up
and the color pink? And I told him it was because I didn’t want to be
weak. Because my parents taught me that these things mean you are weak.
That to be feminine means to be weak. And I read Sojourner Truth’s poem,
“Ain’t I a Woman?” to him to show him that womanhood is not about weakness.
And my father told me that I am
weak and that’s just how it is, because I was born a woman, and I
should accept that and learn to enjoy being placed on a pedestal.
have suffered from an anxiety disorder since a young age. I have gotten
panic attacks from a young age. My father would always tell me that I
am just exaggerating things, that I am being overly emotional. My
brother picked up on this and still does it to me. My brother tells me I
am weak, I am overly emotional, I am illogical, when I have a panic
My brother has bullied me throughout my whole life, but my
parents never did anything about it because “boys will be boys” and his
maleness is a free pass for him to treat me however he wants.
was socialized without any rules and allowed to do anything he wanted.
He was told he could be anything he wanted, do anything he wanted.
a teenager he stole my friend’s cell phone and smashed it in the creek
bed. My parents did not punish him because they thought having to talk
to the cops was enough punishment for him. The cop told him, “boys will
be boys” and he got off Scott free.
Right now, he sleeps in my
bedroom with my furniture on my mattress that I paid my money for.
Because while I went away to Finland, he decided to take my bedroom. I
have been living out of my suitcases for a year because my younger
brother said “finders keepers” to my furniture and my mother doesn’t
give a shit.
He broke my laptop, he lost both of my GPS’s. And
when I ask him to be quiet at 3 am, he turns up the volume on Mario Kart
so I can’t sleep, and tells me that it is my problem and I should just
“get used to it” because I am the one who is entitled if I think he will
change his habits to accommodate me.
As a teenager I hated being a
woman so much. It felt like a cage, because being a woman meant all of
these things I was NOT allowed to do. Being a woman meant I was barred
from all of my areas of interest. Being a woman meant I was punished for
not being meek. I would be the one to be punished if I defended myself
against my brother because I was older so therefore I should know better
and nobody ever let me get away with something and said “boys will be
boys.” When I would come to my father with a problem he was always too
busy or I was bothering him. he did not have time for me.
When my grandfather died he left the most to my younger brother. none of us were close with him.
used to want to cut off my breasts because being a woman made me so
angry. Being a woman closed in all around me, it defines my life by
telling me what I am NOT allowed to be or do or say.
But I never
identified as a man or wanted to be a man. What I wanted was to be a
woman without the barriers. What I wanted was for the cage of gender to
be lifted away from me.
This is what transgenderism does to women and their identities. It supports the idea that the more time and effort that a person puts into their appearance, the more of a woman they are.
Woman doesn’t come in degrees. It isn’t conditional on the use of nailpolish, hair straighteners, and make up.
Women can present as masculinely or femininely as they like and they are still women. They are still whole women. A butch lesbian is no less of a woman than a feminine presenting heterosexual woman.
It is internalised misogyny to think that a man is more of a woman than you because he paints his nails and does his hair.
Women are adult, female, humans.
Defining womanhood by female biological experiences liberates womanhood from gender roles. It means no matter who you are or what your personality is or how you dress or behave or what your interests are, your womanhood is valid.
Two years after Angelina Jolie wrote an op-ed in the New York Times explaining her decision to have a double mastectomy, the actress haspenned another piece to announce her more recent choice to remove her ovaries and Fallopian tubes. Throughout it all, the 39-year-old actress has challenged society’s assumptions about what it means to be a desirable woman.
The word “woman” describes the body I move through this world with, not my personality.
There’s no such thing as a “womanly personality” womanhood is the lived experience of existing in a female body. There is no right or wrong way to be a woman. A woman can have any personality, any hobbies, any interests, and still be a woman. The only requirement to be a woman is a female body.
Thus humanity is male and man defines woman not in herself but as relative to him; she is not regarded as an autonomous being… She is defined and differentiated with reference to man and not he in reference to her; she is the incidental, the inessential as opposed to the essential. He is the Subject, the Absolute – she is the Other.
“Do you have a boyfriend
yet?” my grandfather asked, and when I shook my head no he turned to my sister
and asked her the same thing. He must have asked me this question dozens of
times over the bittersweet span of adolescent life stretching from seven years
old to eleven years old. Of course my answer was always no. I wasn’t concerned
with boys; I was concerned with the garlic mashed potatoes my grandmother had
just placed in front of me, or her pot roast and famous rhubarb pie. Boys were
an alien concept, one I frankly had no time or care for. I was seven years old.
Boys? Dating? What about surviving high school, or building miniature
ecosystems in science class?
Plato once wrote about a
group of men attending a drinking party in The
Symposium, each one making a series of speeches about the nature of love. I
don’t know about you, but I would have much preferred a group of women
discussing love instead, but the civilizations of Ancient Greece aren’t really
known for their superior treatment of women, especially since philosophers at
social gatherings back then used to compare men to the gods and women to the
animal kingdom. Plato wrote that “According to Greek
mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head
with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts,
condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.” And as I
grew older, and my grandfather died of an aneurysm and passed out of the world
and into what I hoped was some form of afterlife, I began to wonder why I didn’t have a boyfriend yet, or why I
wasn’t even trying to search for my other half. Shouldn’t that have been my
highest priority? Surely Plato knew what he was talking about. After all, he
was one of the greatest philosophers to ever walk this earth.
So, as many women
do, I began guilt tripping myself for not having another half. I would see all
the other girls holding hands with their significant others in high school, or
sneaking makeout sessions behind the bleachers. When a woman doesn’t believe
that anyone is in love with her, she comes up with reasons why. Sometimes I
think the umbilical cord doesn’t really get snipped at birth for women, but
instead stays attached for the rest of her life. The air supply of some babies
gets cut off when the umbilical cord wraps around their necks, and this is what
it’s like for women a great deal of the time. We constantly have to work twice
as hard as men to earn the air we breathe, and if we don’t feel like we’re
earning it, we pull the cord a little tighter.
But lo and behold,
after several years of feeling misunderstood and unlovable (and after writing a
short prose piece about twenty-year-olds who have never been loved that
instantly skyrocketed to fame on the popular blogging site Tumblr), I became
involved in my first relationship ever as a freshman in college. I was sure I
had found the other half that Plato wrote so eloquently about after the first
several wonderful months full of sappy goodnight and good morning messages and
nights spent ordering pizza over movies. It soon turned out to be the most
traumatic experience of my life. I was raped and abused emotionally to the
point where I became a stranger even to myself. And everyone else
around me was going on with their lives, but I felt petrified and stuck. I felt
like all those bodies encased in lava in the ruins of Pompeii, some of the
bodies with their arms around each other like lovers, except I had no one left
to put their arms around me, or I shook them off because I was now afraid of
touch. Everything was just torn. There was so much tearing and ripping and
taking away, and so much dark. I just wanted someone to remove all the pieces
of broken glass that had been placed inside me, but at the same time I was
afraid that without them I would collapse. Funny how my rapist had always made
such a big deal about how uncomfortable I used to be with anyone touching me
until he met me and helped me overcome it.
But then he reversed
I lost a great deal
of weight, was hospitalized five times, started antidepressants and therapy.
Trauma is second nature to many women, and like many other women, I invited it
into my bed. I needed it to replace the person I had wrongfully assumed was my
second half. I made trauma my companion. Like many other women who have been
abused, I sank. That was a year of misery I’ll never forget. The worst part was
that I had been so sure. I had trusted this person with my life, and I had
truly believed he was my other half.
So I set out in
search of another half. I wanted to believe in the concept of soulmates, but
the person I once thought was mine was a monster, and I was tired of searching beneath my bed and in my closet for claws
and dark shadows. I told myself that each person in this world has multiple
soulmates. Plato had written, “Love is born into every human being; it calls
back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of
two and heal the wound of human nature.” Well, that obviously hadn’t happened.
A wound had been created, not healed.
Long story short, I
had a lot of hookups after my rape. More than I’d care to admit to, but I was
just hoping one of them would click. Sometimes online dating sites really do
come in handy. All of this searching took several months, but as time passed,
and my trauma began to ease, something strange happened. I began to be okay
with being lonely, or at least being alone. I enjoyed my solo pizza nights in
front of my laptop screen watching Netflix. I could get crumbs all over the
sheets and not worry about embarrassing myself in front of a significant other
by eating the whole pie. I could watch whatever I wanted. I could do whatever I
wanted. And I didn’t feel owned. Because of my work with abused women through
my literary magazine Persephone’s
Daughters and my advocacy work for them through my poetry and books, I have
come in contact with a lot of women who admitted they felt like an object to
their partner. You might say, “No shit, Sherlock,” but in the context of my
previous relationship and my readings of Plato, I could finally see that Plato
was wrong. Someone who treats a woman as if they own her is not the kind of
person a woman deserves.
Plato argued that
“Love is the name for our pursuit of wholeness, for our desire to be complete.”
And even though I’m in a healthy and happy relationship of several months now,
I can still appreciate what my trauma and my time alone taught me as I searched
for my other half.
Platonic love is
sometimes just as rewarding as romantic love, and every kind of love comes with
wholeness pre-packaged. I was never a half or anything less than full. I’ve
always been whole, and so has every woman on this planet. The next time I see
my grandfather in whatever kind of afterlife comes after this, I’ll tell him
Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, The Harpoon Review, Melancholy Hyperbole, and more. She has won national medals for her poetry and a writing portfolio in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and was the Macalester Honorable Mention recipient of the 2015 Academy of American Poets Student Poetry Prize.
Women are blamed for having low self-esteem, and we’re taught to blame other women for that. As if thin fashion models are the main reason we hate ourselves, and as if the models themselves are running their industry, as if women are responsible for the fact that our flaws and their solutions are sold to us constantly even though there are social consequences for not buying.
And then we’re told that men leering at us is supposed to be our primary source of self-esteem (beside the elusive self love out of nowhere). They don’t understand why it’s not flattering. Well, I don’t know. When I was a child and I had to see myself through the sexual thoughts of adult men, and I had already learned that this was my fault despite the fact that I as yet had no sexual awareness of my own, how was that supposed to make me feel? Proud? No, of course, it made me feel disgusting. And now I have had over a decade since that welcome into womanhood in which to purchase the products necessary to supposedly take power over this horrifying situation, but despite the products and despite the daily encouragement from men, I am still just learning to love myself as a human being. And I am supposed to blame this on women and on myself.
In June, I spent some time in Jamaica. It was one of those trips that really taught me a lot about myself and how I adapt to foreign places, people and cultures. I found myself utterly relaxed and stress-free. It was two weeks after my college graduation and I felt so liberated. A great weight had been lifted from me and I began to see the world in vibrant colors again. I looked at the world and felt no fear, only abundant curiosity.
These self-portraits were taken a few days before I left Kingston. They are different then my previous portraits. In the past, I expressed my sexuality and sensuality overtly as a form of validation that I was sexy an sexual.
In these, my confidence in my sexuality and sensuality comes through subtly. There’s no sense of desperately needing validation from others because I hold that within. In these, I finally manifested my own power.