I wonder about the value I give to my own beauty… as if beauty is a universal currency in the world. Inspecting myself in a mirror… I note the eye of self-criticism travel over every inch of my body and observe the marks it likes to carve on my body. Like a well-trodden path in a forest, over time I am leaving scars; they happen so gradually I adjust to the changes as if they are a natural occurring features. Why? If I look carefully enough I can see the same scars in others; self-imposed scars made with our minds against a template that doesn’t actually exist. I wonder… who is it exactly in my mind with such opinions? Why do I listen as if it’s the truth?
Photographed in New York