by Dana Stamps II
“When I say I want to photograph someone,
what it really means is that I’d like to know them.”
—Anne Leibovitz
Objects, subjects, the brazen anonymous porn star, whose audacious nudity is not faked. I wonder what brought her to pagination, and no clutter of tattoos, no butt inked—classy, probably the poor kind—and I wonder how she is coping with her life after the shoot, the shutterbug cranny searching analysis, the scrupulous worldly focus, the judging eyes, though I must say my habit is tame, and I mostly look at girls thoroughly alone, impossibly posed, too unlikely, too heavenly, and when I turn the page, all consumed,there she is, a favorite, and sometimes … I linger, take in the ecstatic circus of ads, the audacity of these perky paper slaves, but it is all pretend interest, a show of lust, and this fact makes the whole thing a nude sacrifice (because the nudity is hot-damn-spotlight-real), a true sacrament, a generous gift for sure, and these girls are all secular saints.
And I imagine them famous for their goodness, more respected than movie stars, and I like the magazines best, rarely look at the videos, for the frozen moment, perfect—too good to be true, but there it is—continuing to be, teasing me, and I notice her blue veins in thin hands, elegant feet, her teeth bright, and straight, and white—her voluptuous life—with her human rights, right there, naked as intimacy, relentless, but only in my murky mind, fooled that I am worthy of a captured glossy soul, wild, so beautiful, lovedbeyond snapshots, beyond time.
And then there is Marilyn Monroe, and I fantasize … Sex symbol, legend, the only picture I have of you is of a two story broken down house in the background, letting us see to the frames, and you, wearing a bikini with a trench coat unbuttoned, and it seems lewd, out of context, half nude, for if you were at the beach, the lacy bikini (maybe it is lingerie?) would seem fine. But, here, in this photo, you seem like a stripper, and I would be fine with that, Marilyn Monroe, if it were not for the stupid laws that make seeing you so interesting. The law should not protect us from nudists, it should protect a nudist’s perfectly innocent right to be nude. Think just how much porn would be bought from Hugh Hefner if nudes were available to look at anywhere in the public domain. I cannot imagine Playboy selling us Marilyn in the nude if it was commonplace, as it should be, to see men and women as nature intended. Intended? We are lost in clothes! And you knew that, Marilyn, you knew, and ate the forbidden. Why have we forgotten?—we are all nude. And you, too, are just another pretty girl, and finding yourself naked, Norma Jean, is Zen. Your pictures become spiritual. Naked is good, you say, back from Hollywood, and grave in my photo, revealing truth.
How I came upon this next prized photo on my wall has roots, for owning the erotic photograph is almost worth more than clear air, whoa! Listen, picture Bjork naked, but covering herself with three large leaves from God knows what kind of plant, but the two top leaves just cover her areolas, the bottom covers her bottom half, leaving only an outline of her skin to show she is nude as Eve, before the fig leaves, before sin, before sex. She is sticking out her pointy tongue, not at me, or you, but in general, and all I can say is that somehow her gesture is plant-like, a photosynthesis, lewd as pollination, as vegiality. And I have this image on my wall, planted, in clear view of where I sit, not in the lotus position, and, knowing that this is Bjork we’re talking about, I think it’s thesexiest image of plant sex that I have ever seen. But I am not a green thumb. “I always wanted to be a farmer. There is a tradition of that in my family,” says Bjork.
Naked as a girl in a bikini with a towel half wrapped around her waist as if ready to swim away is Princess Leia, photographed in a fantasy outfit that was probably exposed in 1979 or so, just before the release of the film The Empire Strikes Back, but I cannot remember if this was the exact costume Carrie wore in the slave girl scene, rescued by Luke, but it certainly could have been. I refuse to fact check my experiences. So look for images of sexy celebrities on Amazon (like I did), and you will find this picture of Carrie Fisher on sale for 10 dollars, an 8 x 10 glossy that I look at every day, and admire how strong she appears, her suede boots laced up tight, showing all she’s ready for action, her left leg, like a Victoria Secret model, totally exposed, along with her perfectly flat tummy … but it is her royal face, feisty control that made me her loyal subject, before the Death Star, before the destruction of her home planet, leaving her a vagabond without a kingdom. And why not, for I would join the rebels, and fight passionately for her. Yes, that great performance made me fall in love with Leia when I was just 13 years old—a groin, a dork, a boy—and when she kissed Luke Skywalker, and said to Han Solo: You have a lot to learn about women! I thought she meant me, too.
“I don’t think I was ravishing, but I think I was pretty,” says Tina Louise. Ginger, you were my first lust, and when I got the idea to buy a picture of you, I didn’t know how much I would love that picture. It is autographed by the siren Tina, a little sloppy, but decent, a real-hand-signed-like-new-color-headshot-of-fiery you. You are wearing a lacy white dress, that, if it hung any lower … and to think, my actress friend, this was your go-to photo to send to your fans, autographed to anyone (for free) who requested one, and I understand you were generous with your time, kind with your shipwrecked, stranded fame—and now, even I have one!—but since I did not see you sign it, Tina, how can I be sure? Anyway, I paid 75 bucks—and if you think I am a sucker now, wait until you hear that I thought Ginger was a real person, and Gilligan’s Island was a real place, and that everything shown about sultry Ginger Grant was really happening. Naïve, yes, but true; this innocent fantasy lasted at least until my puberty. The Professor, The Captain, and Mary Ann, and Mrs. Thurston Howell III included. Who, did I think, then, broadcasted all this? The millionaire? Listen, I didn’t know a camera was involved. God? No, I didn’t think to ask Him. But I know this: all my friends liked, no, dreamed of the always friendly, modest Mary Ann (Dawn Wells), the brunette, but I only had the hots for carrot top Ginger, my star.
Love Letters was the name of the play, and you, Helen Hunt, and actor Matthew Broderick were there, in person, and I drove from San Bernardino all the way to Hollywood to see you both perform. In the fifth row, seated dead center, I was in awe of the acting, for Equity quality theatre was new to me. I kept thinking that I could ruin the show, stand up like Cyrano, and declare my love … but I was too intimidated, humbled, by the whole experience, I being only 22 years old, and I had overzealous dreams of acting myself … but it was being allowed to stare, plain voyeur that I am, at you, Helen, that was worth the 50 bucks for the ticket. I went alone, so that I saved money, just a broke student in those 20th century days. But recently, I found a great headshot of you on Amazon, still young, and I would love to often remember being in awe of you that February on a blustery, shivering cold Valentine’s Day.
“I choose totally by instinct,” confesses Julia Roberts. Break a leg, pretty woman, for I think you are the best actress of your generation. (Can you blush for the rolling camera, Julia?) I make this claim, give you this status, this respect, as one thespian to another, and I know you are not a method actor (inside the self, then out) or a technical actor (outside control only), but an intuitive actor, which works for you, Oscar winner, and I say this, at long last, to all the goofballs, extras, and lame pretenders who put you down and never hit the mark themselves. Often, the conversation at amateur auditions is how “bad Julia Roberts is,” and I recognize you have the best smile in Hollywood. So what. For I now have the pleasure of seeing you, yes, in a sultry pose every day—not smiling, in a photo taken of you in the 90s by Sante d’Orazio, and you look damn sexy framed on my bedroom wall, and I don’t know how he does it, but you are wearing a see-through dress, risqué even for a tungsten lit star. But you haven’t lost that fun-kick-it-at-home-look-of-a-hot-friend-next-door, and if I could be your leading man, no bit character fantasy here, and kiss you, Julia, I would act for free (nothing new), and start a cozy theatre where you could play Pinter, or any part you damn-well desire to play … as you smile up to heaven, and even God applauds.
“I was also an incredible pair of legs,” brags curvaceous Elvira. Hell, you made celebrating ghoulish Halloween a lifestyle. Midnight 24/7 in Tinsel Town’s dank ruckus, wearing nothing but skimpy black for us, I nailed up a new photo of you, of course in costume, Cassandra Peterson, your left hand raised, rigid fingers aimed, as if to cast a spell on me, haunting my bedroom, laughing, your red plush lips spread in joy. Evil? I love you, love—for giving me the courage to go Goth, dress defiantly in all deathly black (with just a touch, or hint of purple, gray, or crimson). So, thank you for those jiggling heartbeats, a cleavage pulse, for it would be a sacrilege not to show gratitude for the serious décolleté, that hot flaunting of cool ass, and this crass picture I now have of you, in my bedroom, is no different. It is all part of the fun—your dark character of sexy doom now decorates my world like a tomb. No matter how many times you say … boo, I cringe with lust. Candy, suckers? I’ll take the trick.
Devil Horns—you shove at me, at the viewer, in this new picture I love of you, Amy Lee, now gracing my wall, in front of my tainted eyes, is—the Maloik. It is believed to cause a spell of harm on any recipient. This ancient gesture, made popular by Ronnie James Dio, and now you, fiery Amy, for the new meaning is “comradery to Heavy Metal,” a head banger acknowledgment, the good Evil Eye. But my love for your music goes back to your first album, yes, I said album, though I know sequencing is a thing of the past, I like just putting in a new CD of songs … and letting it play, beginning … to right now, for you are in my sights, my inner life, and in my ears, especially. Your band Evanescence still rocks, and the white hot operatic emotions are always at the moment of urgency. This is how the image of you giving me the Maloik makes me feel … respect, for you rock me out, Amy Lee, and I lust after you (the truth be known) far less often than I feel my soul is going to jump out of my chest, and you, your music, does that. Listen, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but I knew this guy who said you were his girlfriend, and that he was the Johnny Immortal, the lover you sing about often. Please, do me a favor, Amy, and say it is all true, and that this tepid, pathetic man is free to be under your spell. Maybe he did know you, your Evil Eye cast briefly at him, another God damned soul. Now, your stare falls … directly on me.
As if seeing Sinéad O’Connor, alone, at a charity event, “I’m proud to be a trouble maker,” she says. “Nice to meet you,” is what my new photo of her makes me want to say, offering my hand like I did before COVID-19. I purchased the picture on Amazon, but I am still waiting for it to arrive in the snail-mail, an 8 x 10 of her standing sideways, head turned, amid old TVs, a wall of them, synchronized behind her, broadcasting the word “AIDS” across the screens—though probably not in b/w, like my new photograph of talented Sinéad, which destines the scene to lose its colors. She looks civil, average enough to my 21st century eyes; though, for a woman, pretty or not, her shaved head was, and still is, a bit shocking. She seemingly just noticed someone looking at her, obviously pointing a camera at her. The illusion of just making mutual eye contact with the viewer, with me, is so good that it feels ordinary, as if she is just there, actually in the room with me, unaccompanied, and so I prepare to strike up a conversation. I’m a fan. For in this vintage photo, probably taken in the ‘80s, she looks just like she did in the MTV video, the one where she did the song Nothing Compares 2 You, and I wish I could go back in time, to when her young face told the whole story in an MTV video—and I say “her face” because the lyrics were written by Prince, yet the-excruciating-profound-hurt-she-seems-to-feel-no-agonize-over–is-real-to-me, still—and just thinking about my new photo, and seeing her look so ordinary, despite her bald head … I want to tell her, “Hello,” just that, and see if I can make a friend.
A self-portrait in progress, Frida Kahlo says, “Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I am just as strange as you are.” Frida, as you paint yourself while standing at your easel, holding a thin brush against the canvas, you glance over at the photographer, and this moment … is captured, preserved in time, and all this artistry seems normal to me, just another first Thursday downtown at Art Walk, a gathering of local bohemians, many hoping to sell a cherished piece, as I kick it in some friend’s art studio.
Most of my best friends are artists, too, and you can usually see a few of them at the coffee shop with their sketchpads, working. But we all party together, sharing ideas, drinking leftover merlot after Art Walk, and we tell about paintings, music, theatre, dance, or poetry experienced, just another Thursday night, as we finish the fancy cheese and crackers left for guests, and then talk, tipsy, about Nothing at all. Frida, you might be stranger than most, but you would fit well into my life, my art, making progress, making hope, making fine love.
Looking down at the cumbersome 35mm manual camera in her practiced hands, a 1950s model, probably the new Pentax K1000, Brigitte Bardot is about to skillfully lift the bulky camera to her famous face—in an actual photo I have of her—to take a picture, not be in it, maybe of the photographer taking the picture of her that I now enjoy on my wall. And how could Brigitte know what her photos would continue to mean over languorous time? “A photograph can be an instant of life captured for eternity that will never cease looking back at you.”—Brigitte Bardot. This collection of photos I have acquired is more than a mere catalogue, but represents relationships that transcend time. Some believe that photos steal your soul, and I would say that they are right—except the soul grows larger, and nothing is lost. Time stops, for the person in the photo, but continues to move forward for the viewer. This relationship is magical. The person in the photo, often famous or craving fame, usually loves to be in these lopsided relationships, often signing headshots for fans, adding to its personal value, an illusion of intimacy.
Look, I have often held one of those old cameras focusing, trying to become a successful fashion photographer, and these film cameras feel like tanks; they feel solid, permanent. This, compared to the advanced digital cameras that have overshadowed the old style of capturing images.
So now, with painterly applications, the click of a mouse, the style of knowing why depth of field, shutter speed, and light itself, mattered, has almost become obsolete, but this photograph of Brigitte will, still, keep looking back, back.
Dana Stamps II is a bi-polar poet and essayist who has a bachelor’s degree in psychology from Cal State University of San Bernardino, and has worked as a fast-food server, a postal clerk, a security guard, and a group home worker with troubled boys. A Pushcart nominee, poetry chapbooks “For Those Who Will Burn” and “Drape This Chapbook in Blue” were published by Partisan Press, and “Sandbox Blues” by Evening Street Press.