Sinful Sunday Weekly Round-up 440
Reminder that the October prompt is out now.
Nooky’s Top 5 Pics of the Week
Here are my favourite 5 pictures from this week’s Sinful Sunday!
I was first of all struck by this one because I so rarely see non-photographic submissions to Sinful Sunday, but the more I looked at it the more I liked it for its own merits: the use of colour, the line-work — simple and yet so true to the weight and pull of real flesh — and the way the vulva is at once the centre of the piece and a part of the whole. I would hang this on a wall.
This is just gorgeous on lots of levels, some of them at first glance — the shadows across the knuckles, the play between foreground and back, the lazy scrawl of hair down a torso — and some you only notice once you look at it awhile: the slight twist of muscle over the hips, the wash of light across the wall. I rarely prefer photos in black and white over colour, but this one is a very strong exception.
This picture feels like a song — a silly thing to say, maybe, but the best that I can get at the impression that it gives me. It’s whole is more than the simple sum of its parts, though those parts are lovely too: the curve of a heel, hint of painted toenails, a shadowed ankle. I love too the brush of her soles against each other, skin on net on skin, and the single colour makes it all the more striking.
If you know me in real life you’ll know there was really no chance of my not choosing this one the instant I saw it — nudity amidst ruins hits all my buttons. Part of the loveliness here comes, for me, from the juxtaposition of living flesh against old stones: a person stripped down to their most vital self in a place so many other bodies have lived and breathed. I like too the feeling of a moment apart from the world, the angle of her pulled-up knee, the tan of her arm against the cream of her breast, the easy brace of her foot against the uneven rocks.
The right words to explain why I so like this image keep eluding me. I keep typing and then erasing different things because nothing quite gets to it. I suppose the closest I can get is that it feels like a palimpset, a page that’s been written over and over with different tracings of life: freckled and tanned by the sun, inked with tattoos, pierced through with needles, and marked in tiny ways as distinctly *this* body, a specific and beloved one: a mole, the set of muscles in her shoulder, the colours of her areola like muddled berries. Nudity not abstract but particular.