Muse: here
shame is irrelevant
curiosity isn't

Muse: what if I told you where to look?
Photographer: then I'd ask if you want to dominate the frame ... or me

Muse: you don't want me soft and
open
but also sharp and wild
Photographer: exactly
I want all your versions
at once

Photographer: you reflect parts of me I never wanted to see
Muse: that's why you keep shooting me

Muse: you need me to create
Photographer: no
but with you
I burn when I do

Muse: you called me your muse
but all I did was mess you up
Photographer: exactly
that's when the work got honest

Photographer: I look for you in every frame even you're gone
Muse: then maybe I wasn't a muse
maybe I was a drug

Muse: why me?
Photographer: because you make me want to destroy the rules I built to stay safe

Muse: you don't won me just because I moved something in you
Photographer: no
but I will never look at anyone the same way again

Photographer: the way you looked at me in that frame
Muse: wasn't for the photo
it was for you
and you missed it

Photographer: people will look at these photos and see beauty
Muse: and you?
Photographer: I will see the moment I broke open

she:
You used this project to hide. Admit it.

you:
No.
I used it to survive.
Hiding was before

she:
Why didn’t you stop?

you:
Because stopping meant I’d have to feel everything I was avoiding.
And I wasn’t ready.

she:
Are you proud of yourself?

you:
I respect myself more than I used to.
Pride is for people still looking for applause.

she:
What did you sacrifice?

you:
Commissions.
Naivety.
Fantasy.
A few good women.
One very real one.

she:
That one.
If she’s reading this — what would you say?

you:
That I saw her too late.
And loved her in a language she never asked to be spoken in.
She wanted presence. I gave her mythology.

she:
What are you ashamed of?

you:
That I turned pain into performance.
And people clapped.

she:
What do you want now?

you:
Peace.
A clean table.
Someone who doesn’t need to be photographed to be seen.

she:
Do you still want to be desired?

you:
Yeah.
But I’m done begging for it.
If it comes — good. If not — I’ll still sleep at night.

she:
What’s changed?

you:
I don’t confuse attention with love.
I don’t confuse silence with safety.
And I don’t confuse your voice with my truth.

she:
And what’s left?

you:
Me.
Not the Photographer. Not the project.
Just the man.
And that’s enough now.

I’ve spent most of my life moving.
From city to city. From one intense connection to another.
From version of myself to the next version — always a little louder, a little sharper, a little more performative.

Some of it was art.
Some of it was escape.
Some of it was just a boy running so fast that no one could see he was bleeding.

I didn’t grow up with a map.
I built one through the camera — by watching, interpreting, seducing, documenting.
It gave me access. It gave me distance.
It made me feel like I belonged somewhere — even if only behind the lens.

But here’s the truth no one tells you:
You can’t photograph your way into being understood.
And you can’t love your way out of being lost.

So I kept going.
Book after book. Story after story.
Looking for something I couldn’t name — and sometimes breaking things that didn’t deserve to be broken.

I’ve been in love. More than once.
But I didn’t always know how to hold it.
I didn’t know how to stay.
And staying… that’s the real courage.

Now I’m older.
Not old, but older.
Less naïve.
More honest.
A little more dangerous — because I finally know who I am.
I know my voice.
I know my wounds.
I know what parts of me are still unfinished.
And I’m not scared of them anymore.

I’ve hurt people. I’ve disappointed myself.
But I’ve also listened.
And paid attention.
And done the work — inside, in the dark, where no one could clap for it.

This project, these ten books — they’re not my legacy.
They’re just the smoke trail of a man figuring himself out in real time.

The next chapter won’t be louder.
It’ll be quieter.
Cleaner.
Built not from hunger, but from choice.

And when I move now — it won’t be to run.
It’ll be to arrive.
Fully. Finally.

And this time,
I’ll stay.

You asked so much of me.
To open.
To trust.
To feel safe while being looked at.
To speak while being listened to — and sometimes not heard at all.

I offered you everything I had, not because I was weak,
but because I was curious.
Curious about what would happen if I said yes.
Curious about what would happen if I didn’t run this time.

Sometimes I felt like a mirror.
Sometimes a performance.
Sometimes I forgot where the real me ended and the version you wanted began.

But I kept showing up.
Even when it hurt.
Even when I hated how much I needed to be witnessed.

This wasn’t just your project.
It was mine too.
Because while you were trying to find yourself through the lens —
I was learning to exist without one.

I’ve learned that seduction is not a role — it’s a language.
That giving yourself is not the same as losing yourself.
And that being seen means nothing unless you’re also felt.

Who am I now?

I’m not your fantasy.
I’m not the girl on the couch.
I’m not the voice behind the moan or the eyes behind the look.
I’m the woman who said yes and meant it.
And then learned how to say no — and mean that too.

Who are you?

You’re the man who ran.
And ran.
And somehow, in the running, built something that held both of us.
Even when it cracked.
Even when it collapsed.

I don’t hate you for what you took.
Because you gave something too:
a space, a stage, a mirror — where I saw myself clearly for the first time.

What’s next?

Next, I don’t need to be anyone’s muse.
Not even yours.
Especially not yours.
But if I inspire — it will be without permission, without performance.

There is a future for all of us.
But only if we stop pretending this was just about art.

It was about becoming.
It was about remembering who we were before the posing started.
And who we still might be — when the lights go out.

— Her

Muse: you took parts of me I didn't know I was giving
Photographer: I gave parts of myself I didn't know I was losing

Muse: you never tell me what you really feel
Photographer: because if I say it
I will want something from you
and that ruins the work

By now, I know exactly what I’m doing.
And I still do it anyway.

I create the scene, seduce the frame, chase the spark —
then stand back like I had nothing to do with how it ignited.
Classic.

I say it’s about beauty, or energy, or emotional truth.
But half the time, it’s about control.
The illusion of it, at least.
Because when I’m behind the camera, I get to decide what’s visible —
and what stays buried.

I photograph women not just because they fascinate me,
but because I can’t stop circling the edge of that fascination.
It keeps me sharp.
Keeps me just far enough away from having to actually feel safe.

Every image is a question I haven’t been brave enough to ask out loud.
Every shoot, a confession disguised as a setup.

I used to pretend it was about them.
Now I know it’s about me —
and how much I still don’t trust what’s quiet, or simple, or soft.

I want the edge.
I want the tension.
I want the frame just before it falls apart.

That’s where I live.
That’s where the truth leaks out.

— The Photographer