Juliana Photographs at Starlette on PRIDE Night at Angels and Kings

WE SUPPORT OUR LESBIAN SISTERS DURING PRIDE!

The Lovely Ladies of "Red Ruby Photography"

WE SUPPORT OUR LESBIAN SISTERS DURING PRIDE!

Come celebrate pride with us at Angels & Kings' Starlette Sunday on June 28th! Let our all ladies Red Ruby crew provide you with an amazing image to commemorate PRIDE Day, NYC 2009.

We are simply taking RED COUCH PORTRAITS WITH RAINBOW FLAG TO BOOT!

Wanda Owner of Starlette at Angels and Kings and the Super Famous, Marga Gomez., 6/09.

Just take a seat on the a stunning red velvet couch, covered in tasteful plastic. A beautiful rainbow flag behind you! Now all you need to do is sit with your sexy MAMMASITA OR BIG DADDY or better yet, pick up the girl or boy of your dreams and make a fun, very fun memory!!!

This an opportunity for all gender orientations to support the purpose and meaning behind PRIDE. So, welcome! Come away with a keepsake. I've been known to pull out a Sharpie and sign the 4X5" print in front of your face...heee, heee.

Doors open at 7pm till ? !!!

Red Ruby Photography Serves the Gay, Lesbian and Transgender Community in the Tri-State Area. We are available for private parties, club soirees, weddings, bar/bat mitzvahs, etc.

Thank You Mr. Siskind! You Make Me Feel Like a Native New Yorker!

Friday I received the great news!

"Paddy and Seamus", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2003.

"Glamorous Isabelle", Rockaway Park, NYC, 2006.

I am a one of the six recipients for the Aaron Siskind Individual Fellowships of 2009.

The other photographer celebs are:

Eric Gottesman, Cambridge, MA
Deana Lawson, Brooklyn, NY
Andrew Miksys, Seattle, WA
Oliver Nowak, Elmhurst, NY
Lori Waselchuk, Baton Rouge, LA

Fab! 3 women in there! Thumbs up...up women photo folk like that!

Hurrah, Rockaway Park!

The sweet kindness of my friends and sister are credited for their support and seeing me through the good and bad. Of course, I would not have received this grant without the openness and grace of the people who I met over the years in the Rockaways.

Thank you Mr. Siskind for leaving behind your legacy of generosity, your love of NYC and you inspirational works.

This money will really help me during this difficult time. I am ready to finish this story but not without a sadness in my heart that still rests upon the NYC beach facing the Atlantic Ocean. The pubs like the now defunct Palm Gardens and the Kerry Hill are as indelible as all the people I met there over the years and those whom died there over the last six, seven years.

Now for the a bottle of orange soda!

Random Photos From the Rockaways, 2009.

"Boy Waiting for School Bus", Rockaways, 2009.

"Red Couch", inside a home in the projects of Far Rockaways, 2008.

"No Trespassing", outside a crack house in Rockaway Park, 2008.

Juliana is On The Boat Baby!

This might get the feeling right! I'm on a boat baby! Please click here to get to the You Tube page for a fun and exciting ride.

If you read this before Monday or Tuesday next week...hee, hee...just wait!

Here I am alone, happy as my dog Howard, sitting in a lounge chair looking outside the window like an old woman watching the urban action from above. Occasionally, a dog and his human companion will walk by and Howard will turn and spin and bark in madness...death to anyone who intrudes "his" territory.

I look around and my desk is scattered with papers, my bedroom floor disheveled in a mixture of winter and summer clothes. Transition.

In the break of a storm...I just need to hold onto the boat baby. And pass through another stretch of chaos before a couple of weeks might settle into the realm of routine and the peace of morning coffees at 5:00 am.

For now, it picking up pieces and putting them back where I think they belong. But, really who knows for sure?

Putting away my toys and amassing and compiling a to do list from all the scribbled notes on envelopes, yellow legal pads, and organizers meant to make me more organized. I consider all that is terrifying about the future seemingly planned out to perfection. But, that list always gets curtailed by someone or something that pops their messy heads in the way of certainty. And then again, I'm back in this never ending cycle of putting things back together again. This is what the Buddhists call Samsara. This is what I call a pain in the ass.

No sillies not the perfume!

Or what my mother would have called a "shit kicker".

I wish Edward Gorey could draw a picture of the irony and insane quality of my life, of all of our lives. I would have to ask him,

"Can I be the ballerina from the "Gilded Bat" steady on one toe and yet utterly bored?"

And then I would place it over my bed, replacing my original copy of the ever hopeful "Paper Moon" poster--tough little Tatum and the wheeler dealer Daddy, Ryan sitting in the crook of the moon.(a joyful surprise of winning the Oscar. Please follow "Tatum" link to see this awesome and sickly cute clip.

Winner of 1973 Oscars! I was 6 and in love.

Not tonight. I'm up on the mountain. I'm on the boat, baby!

For Gome and My Beloved Readers

Hi Gome!

I apologize! I do plan on finishing my story about Butchie entitled "Merry Christmas Rockaway Park".

Butch is a great guy and I miss him. It's been at least 4 years since I saw him last. I finally found his beat up home across the street from the old deteriorating bungalow houses out in the Rock. I had written the directions to the whereabouts to his home on a napkin in a local pub near 116th and not until this winter did I find his place, but no one home.

Gome, I got side tracked for a bit...maybe too Long. The next couple of installments--and I hope to make it in with more frequency-- will several events that are meaningful to me. Also, talk of a book. But, ssh, that is all I can say for now.

In the meantime, watch another mulittasker at his best. This one was sent by the fabulous Dustin Ross over at Contact Press Images. Thanks, Dustin! Check out his fabulous Blog, The Feral Eye



Bruce Lee at His Best!

Once that is done, I promise to you Gome that I will get back to my Christmas story. As most of us, photo folks out there we are manning many boats at once, not to mention trying to relax on the given day and maybe even socialize with our loved ones. No, kvetch, here, but thems the facts.

Night out With Jackie and Charlie

"Mr. Jackie Mason", NYC, NY. April 2008.

Early morning after the club left out, we walked down the avenue and stopped into a diner in the midst of no open restaurants...only bars full of late night drinkers and stink of spilled beer.

A blessing was bound to happen. Yes, it was a real slice of New York life...something that reminds me that some things are still around even if not forever. Things that remind of the old New York before every restaurant put up french doors and cheap posters of Montmartre and Pigalle on their walls. A reminder that a decent, just decent meal should cost more than 12 bucks at most.

There he was...Jackie Mason. As much the same as he is on television. We talked or rather he gorged me with a kind litany of interest and questions about my family and work. Across from him sat the gentile, Charlie. Scribbles and notes covered a paper in front of the writer who jotted down the charm and old Jewish wisdom and comedy of yesteryear's.

"Charlie" late night Diner. NYC, NY. April 2009.

I was happy to meet them after a night of plastic bodies and the "Gossip Girl" masses lost realities shadowing over the lost and fashion bent youth. Plastic vs. chutzpah. Chutzbah wins!

Christmas at the O'Leary's and a Visit to the Joe Mure's Winter Wonderland- Organizations That Help the Folks in the Rockaways!

"Joe Mure, Jr." in front of his Christmas Miracle of Lights on his front lawn in Neponset

in the Rockaways, Christmas, 2008.

I took the night off for some fun and laughs.

I went to the digital scanner at Print Space and scanned 4 hours worth of images from my a couple of summer days spent with stripper acquaintances in a rented trash house of kids in Belmar, New Jersey.

This past Christmas I met newfound friends, the O'Leary Family and Joe Mure, Jr. live in Neposet in the Rockaways. I spent a wonderful zitti filling Christmas Eve in a spectacular home of the O'Leary's and a tourist visit to the well-known Christmas Toyland of lights on the front lawn of Joe Mure's home.

Every year, Joe Mure set's up the Little North Pole. He told me today, "It's a holiday event that has two purposes. One, to put a smile on ever child's face and leave them a memory that we hope to last a lifetime and two, to help a special group of children who need our help those that suffer from juvenile diabetes . Juvenile diabetes is a disease that affects millions of children. Our goal is to find a cure and stop the complications associated with this disease.

The O'Leary Family equally works hard for the underprivledged for the non for profit organization "Rockaway Jetty" in the Rockaways.

The description on their Facebook reads:

SINCE ITS INCEPTION, THE ROCKAWAY JETTY'S MISSION HAS BEEN TO IMPROVE THE QUALITY OF LIVES OF CHILDREN IN THE ROCKAWAY COMMUNITY.

WE DO SO BY PROVIDING: FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE FOR MEDICAL OR EDUCATIONAL NEEDS. TUTORING, SCHOOL SUPPLIES, BOOKS, CLOTHING, VACATIONS/CAMPS/DAY TRIPS, AND TOYS.

If you are interested in joining their fight, please, go to the Facebook page and learn more.

"Friends of the O'Leary Family" (names to come) in Neponset

in the Rockaways, Christmas, 2008.

I wanted to get these up so, soon I will come back with more and something to write about this.

Peace on Earth at any time of the year!

Hard Heels Meet Hard Times

"It's really hard for me right now."

"Yes, it's hard for everyone right now," she said. I nodded slowly like a sprouting kvetch.

"Dancer in Manager's Office at Runway 69", NYC, 1993. Juliana Beasley.
Notice money safe in background.

Last night, Amy and I met a the Singe Vert , one of my favorite French restaurants. I rarely eat there, with my tight wallet, I just can't spring for pommes frites like I once could, but I always manage to lubricate or drown--depending on the mood--my taste buds with a dry white wine or two. That's less costly than a meal in than any place in NYC with nice faux French caffe posters and no more than 5-6 points on the Weight Watcher's rector scale.

I can always depend on banter and a cackle with the stunning and down to earth, Maia, a bartender with lovely Caribbean curls surrounding her delicate face. For that moment, that first sip, I am in heaven, and the lure of a drink seems healthier than daydreaming about future negative predictions of me rolled in a sleeping bag on the streets of NYC next winter. I hope, at least, I will take the Greyhound out to the Cali coast before I tank, jump on a plane to Honolulu and go couch surf at my friend, Debbie's apartment.

I am queasy. I've been stuffing my face with bread all day...my first excuse to go to the restaurant and gobble down two baskets of French bread. I arrive at Singe Vert, sit on the bar stool near the open door, and take off my jacket.

"I can't drink," I say as if I am walking around with a gaping bleeding wound.

Maia offers a wonderful potion of seltzer, fresh ground ginger and the bitter stuff in the small bottle. With ice. I sip away and gorge myself away to the other place--Land of Carb Denial. Anything to fill that wound. By the time, Amy (yes, the Miss Amy Stein) has arrived, I have started to rock back and forth on my stool to build up some heat in my body. I'm chilled. It's the first signs of spring and people are sitting outside and the door is wide open. I think it must be 57 degrees out there.

"Jessica and Her Boyfriend", Jersey Shore, 1995?, Juliana Beasley

"We gotta' get out of here. I'm freezing."

She suggests the perfect anecdote, sake in a Japanese restaurant nearby and happiness, it's empty. Empty enough for my nauseous stomach. And better yet, happy hour--sake at half price.

After a couple of petite ceramic bottles of sake and the gush of my latest drama, my stomach feels a lot more basic than caustic. I tell Amy, that just last night, I went to the bathroom half asleep, then fell asleep on the toilet and awoke bruised on the tile floor. I'm really proud of this...that I fell asleep on the toilet; despite the probable indecencies, most nights, I can't find a reason to sleep.

John, her super duper husband (no, it's just not fair and accept it) arrives, we have gone through so many little bottles that we forget how many. One thing is certain, we feel a little giddy--that's normal in each others company--but, not in the least bit stoned. Yep, for $2.50, no matter how many thimbles, we drink, we still sit straight up in cushioned hideaway lounge in the back corner. I, however, now have a headache, rumble through my bag of notebooks, prints and pharmaceuticals and grab for those fast acting liquid Motrin.

John is hungry. Outside, we say good-bye.

"I miss you guys", I say. They walk away and I walk towards the Path.

As I walk away, I remember, I didn't bother to tell her, I chipped an important and private tooth that day while eating a bagel with tofu vegetable spread. I had already sent out the alarms to Tia. She suggests the cheapest place in town to go to have it repaired. NO INSURANCE.

I'm home. I turn on my non digital t.v. with the bent rabbit ears, go into the bathroom and fill it with a think layer of hot water to soak the feet. I have learned how to give myself a pedicure at home. One evening, the kundalini teacher named Gurmukh Khalsa at Golden Bridge Yoga inspired the class to massage and give love to your feet at the end of the day. She and her husband do it together, so, I begin to think I should start doing it to myself. I doubt it's the same as incense burning and lovingly looking into a partners eyes and chanting "Sat Nam", but this is all I might get for a while.
Days past of trolloping off to the East Village nail salon for a mani/pedi. Dancer days done, of scooping hands into a sock drawer reaching for crumpled twenties and dollar bills. Dancer days done, of never having to visit the ATM. Done.

"Dancer Sitting on Customer's Lap", Runway 69, NYC, 1993, Juliana Beasley.

I sit up on the coach. A towel lays beneath my tender freshly soaked feet. I grab for that callous razor, I bought the other day at Duane Reade. I teased and flirted with the cute boy with acne who led me to the foot section.

Yes, I had arrived. I am in the old foot person's section. My pedestrial future ahead of me. Callouses, corns, genetic features of bunions from mother, falling arches, in grown nails. The day will come when I will be a Sleestack.

"If I can't put this razor together, I'm going to come back and you can teach me," I said.

He smiled, said he would be there to help and actually, I thought he looked as if I had brightened his boring evening of stocking adult diapers and tampons, side by side.

April 3rd, 2009. The latest news. Senseless maniacal murders in Binghamton. How many of these murders happen a year in this country, I wonder.

I've done it again. I've applied too much pressure on the handle and the razor shaves off too much. In any case, I'm enjoying this, watching the slivers of flesh fall onto the towel in little perfect Parmesan shavings.

I wake up this morning, a dream fresh in my mind...I will go to esthetician school. I need a job. And in hard times, everyone needs their feet to be groped and coddled.

**I took the above B&W photographs in a NYC club called "Runway 69" back in 1993. I knew one of the dancers from the Paradise Club on 33rd St., also in NYC. I was still shooting in black and white before I moved over to color. I actually photographed very little over the beginning years of making "Lapdancer". I feel inspired to scan some of these negatives from the past.

I want to mention that I put these 5X7's up and 11X14's up for sale at Melanie Flood Projects for meager prices. No one bought anything.

Alas, the other night at the wonderful opening of Shen Wei's opening of the "Almost Naked" show (more to come on that....), dear Rubin Natal-San Miguel of the fab Artmostfierce bought two of the 5X7's that I toted along with me that evening to Randall Scott's Gallery, newly opened in Dumbo. And he has preordered another.

"Three Dancers in Dressing Room at Runway 69", NYC, 1993, Juliana Beasley.

"Juliana's Secret Stash"

ART FAIR! A Group Show At Micheal Mazzeo Gallery.
Opening, March 4th from 6-9.

Come See Me at Micheal Mazzeo Gallery!

"Juliana as Amanda with Anonymous Customer", Naked City, Queens, N.Y., 1993?

This series of Polaroid’s is lovingly called, “Juliana’s Secret Stash”. I have kept this work hidden in a shoebox away from light and away from sight of others—except the occasional friend—for over almost two decades, until now. I will show part of this collection, in the form of larger sized scans of the Polaroid’s, for the first time at the Micheal Mazzeo Gallery from March 4th through April 11th 2009.

Other fabulous artists include:

Yong Hee Kim
Sebastian Lemm
Chris McCaw
Will Steacy
Leah Oates
Cara Phillips
F&D Cartier
Josh Quigley
Robin Schwartz
Rachael Dunville
Lucas Foglia
Timothy Eugene O’Tower
Lacey Terrell
Christopher Rauschenber


For more info on the show go to: http://www.michaelmazzeo.com/

What is "Juliana's Secret Stash About?"

"Juliana as Nico with the Ray Sisters", Naked City, Queens, N.Y., 1993?

During the 1990s, I was dancing and photographing in strip clubs in the tri-state area and around the USA, paving the way to completion of my book Lapdancer. Stuffed away into my duffle bag of g-strips and spandex costumes, I also toted along the SX-70 and Joy Cam Polaroid cameras to photograph dancers, take portraits of myself with other dancers and self-portraits.

"Juliana as Nico in Bathroom Stall, Self-Portrait", Naked City, Queens, N.Y. 1993?

Throughout my career as a dancer, I often took the opportunity to be photographed with well known and not so well known feature dancers and porn stars. Feature dancers are performers who come to the gentlemen’s club for the week to perform a "special" routine on stage, bringing in elated customers.

I had many chances to have my portrait taken with these weekly performers. When I worked in Honolulu for half a year, I found a club where porn stars and features were a common part of the program, night and day. They would fly in just to parade their specialty, whether it was grotesquely large implants, the size of three human heads smushed together in one globule, or a bubble bath on stage. They performed several times during a shift. In one week, they definitely earned more money than I did, or at least, this is what I heard from other dancers who estimated that in a year’s worth of work, they grossed 200K and more.

Between stage shows and meeting with adoring groupies, they hid in their personal dressing rooms. The “house” club dancers wondered what they did in there? I imagine apply more make-up upon sweaty made-up faces and calculate the day’s earnings with their traveling managers.

They were the rock stars of the business. We were the supporting actresses.

"Celeste", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002.

Part of the fanfare was not only an effort to promote their unique performance, but also to sell their fanzines and offer a lasting memory to the customers in return for a nominal fee. After a performance, the male fans would line up in a corner of the club and pay to have a Polaroid taken of themselves and their favorite glamour queen. Instant gratification before the days of digital! The adult starlet would then scribble the customary signature on the Polaroid with something brazen such as the classic "Cum See Me". Sometimes, when they had the time, they would write something more original and address it to the customer.

I often went and took my place at the end of the cue to pleasantly ask the performer, “Can I have my photo taken with you?” Whatever they thought of me, I always walked away charmed and delighted with my new possession. All I wanted was a bit of nostalgia from my dancer days in the form of a celluloid Polaroid to hold onto for future days and laughs.

During the final years of working on Lapdancer, I was no longer dancing myself and traveled the United States simply to photograph. I went to Colorado, Las Vegas, Tampa, Ft. Myers and Miami. I began shooting “house” dancers with my newly bought Polaroid Joy Cam. I had an idea: I would photograph a dancer and ask her to sign the bottom of her portrait with a Sharpie just like the feature and porn actresses had done, elevating her to a higher level of stardom. Instead of the formulaic one-liners, I asked them to write what they were really thinking at that very moment while working a night’s shift at the club.

Many of the dancers wrote the ubiquitous “I want to make lots of MONEY” or something close to it. However, sometimes a dancer would write very personal ironic or sad one-lined commentaries. An older dancer from Ft. Myers named Pennie wrote under her portrait, “Thanks for seeing something in me that I no longer see”.

My concept was a simple. I wanted to create a visual pun mimicking the feature dancers’ flagrant self-presentation, a juxtaposition of fantasy in relation to reality. I knew from personal experience that behind every dancer’s smile and agreeable affect are thoughts far from the external trimmings.

I am intrigued with this frank inner monologue within each dancer and how it compares to that of the feature dancers’ contrived scribblings upon the Polaroid’s white edges.

This dichotomy is not singular, nor a detached phenomenon existing only within strip clubs. We are all tempted to pass through life euphorically embracing the consumption of fantasy, rather than facing not only simple joys, but also the reality of pain.

Eyes of Salamanca Work in Bridge Art Fair, March 5-March 8

"Maria and Two Friends", Mexico, 2007.

This year during the Armory Art week in NYC, I will be showing my work at the fabulous Bridge Art Fair with the group Station Independent Projects. This is the first year Bridge, the ever growing popular art fair will settle in at the historic Waterfront Building, located in Manhattan’s Chelsea’s Gallery District. Bridge has already shown in Basel, London and Miami.

The eclectic and fabulous and always on the move Leah Oates is not only partaking in the fair with Station Independent Projects, but is the curator as well.

The following are a list of the other participants in my group:

Iris Klein, Photography

Miles Ladin, Photography

Yeni Mao, Collage

Leah Oates, Photography

Pierre St- Jacques, Video Installation

(Please, note that due to technical difficulties at the moment, I was unable to create links to each of the artists sites. Hopefully in a day they will be posted.)

I will be showing works from my project "Eyes of Salamanca". And a great preview and omen because I fly off to live on the farm community with my friend the Schmitts in Mennonite country in April!

"Blonde Braids", Mexico 2007.

Here is the schedule for Bridge:

SCHEDULE ::

March 5 7 pm-10 pm Opening-Night Vernissage March 6
12 pm-8 pm General Admission Fair Hours March 7
12 pm-8 pm General Admission Fair Hours
March 8
12 pm-7 pm General Admission Fair Hours

For further info and tickets: go to Bridge Art Fair

http://www.bridgeartfair.com/newyorkindex.html

The Million Dollar Question

"All Nude Shows", Tampa, 2002.

The following interview with John, a manager from T&A's Club in New York is excerpted from my book, "Lapdancer" published in 2003 with powerHouse Books.


“I started out working as a bouncer at a place called Erotique back in the early '80s. It was the first big club to come into the area, big strip club. And it was not nude. It was just topless and there was no alcohol and no lapdancing. Then I went to another club called Pleasure Palace. Again, it was alcohol, no lapdancing. I came here in the early '90s and it was totally nude. And so the girls were up on the bar getting their money and stuff. And then one girl came up to me and said: "A guy wants a lapdance." I had never heard of it. So I went back to my boss and he knew less than I did. And so what we did, we put about six chairs towards the back of the club and we said: "These are chairs you can lapdance in." And at that time we told the girls to charge 10 bucks per song, and we would get three bucks out of it.

They were fully nude lapdances. Yes, they were. No, I'm sorry, excuse me. They had the G-string on, yes, they did. And it got so popular, it was like a mad house; a line to get to sit on these chairs. And the funny thing was, they did it in front of everybody else. Nobody got shy, nobody was embarrassed. I would have been embarrassed with an erection with a pretty girl sitting on me and everybody else gawking. Because at that time you did have people leaning against the posts or whatever just looking at the customers. And the girls didn't seem to mind, and they were pretty girls.

Eventually my boss, he got this idea. We took out part of the kitchen and we turned that into a lapdance room. We put like little cubicles up, with no doors because we wanted to see what was going on; and made like eight to nine stools. And then the girls were charging 25 bucks and we would charge the customers five dollars just to get into the room. It just took off. People were coming here not to see the girls on stage, but would come to do the lapdances. And I always said lapdancing is probably going to put prostitution out of business. And what I mean by that is: If a guy comes and gets a lapdance and he puts on a condom and if he does spill a little bit, it's not going to get on his clothes. Now there's a plus, you call that safe sex. I think that's what a lot of men look at it as. They're not going to take any disease home. They're going to come to a place like this and if it happens, it happens -- you know, if they have an orgasm. Then they go home to their wives.

"Jillian and Customer", Tampa, 2001.

I'd never heard of it until we started doing it about nine years ago. I'm sure it happened before. But I think since we started doing it, word of mouth got around and now all the other clubs around here are doing it. And we advertise: “The best lapdance around.” And that's what really works for us. We're known as the club with the lapdance. We used to be called "Up Close And Personal" -- the way the girls got on stage and got up in front of the guy. Believe it or not, some of these guys spend thousands of dollars a day on getting lapdances -- a day.

Now we've even got V.I.P rooms, where the guy can go back there in a little private room. There's cameras in there. And these guys are paying a buck and a quarter for a half hour, so they can get a private lap with a girl. It's amazing. It really is.

They don't know I have cameras back there. I have two different cameras. I have a camera that they think if they turn the lights off I can't see them. I have infra red cameras back there. Because let's face it, I got to support my wife and kids. And knock on wood, I've never been shut down or raided. And a lot of clubs that have total nudity and the lapdances and whatever and they have the private rooms, they've been shut down several times. And we haven't because of that security system.

The girls go back there. The guys tell them stories about how they like their wives, the position of them when they're making love. Because I have sound too on the cameras. And the guy will say: "You know, my wife likes it when she gets on her knees and this and that." And the girls, you know, they talk back to the guys. Some of the guys like to be insulted. They like to have a girl put their high heel in their balls, you know, inside the pants, of course. Some guys are just really weird. They don't want to get off where other people can just walk by them or whatever. So it's worth it to these guys. And some of these guys are like bankers, or big shots in computers and chemists and all this. They come in, they have women's clothes beneath their own clothes. So they undress; they got a woman's bra on or whatever. And the girls spank them a little bit on their rear end. Things like that. But no sex goes on. Some guys don't even want sex.

Several times I have caught a man taking out his penis. And I have a buzzer back there. I hit the buzzer. I send the bouncer back there and he tells the guy the dance is over, and the guy has to leave. I tell the guy he can come back another day. But if I catch again -- which has never happened -- he's out for life.

Don't forget, I used to bounce before I became a manager. I was a bouncer out there for about three years. And what that means is, I was right next to the customers. So I had relationships with customers coming in and talking about sports, about wives, kids, work, etcetera. And a lot of guys that came in, I got to be close with, to talk to like once or twice a week. Some guys even come in three or four times a week. A lot of guys just like to come here to get away. By that I mean -- I've been married 17 years myself and I can understand -- well, I can't understand to spend that kind of money on these girls, but I can understand when they say they want to get away for a while.

"Jets", Monsey, New York. 2000.

I get to see and hear why they really come here. A lot of guys get in an argument with their wives; they walk out and they go to a bar and drink. The next thing you know, they get drunk, they go home, they're having violence or whatever. Here, it's a juice bar. So when some guys get in arguments with their wives or whatever, they come here; they see a pretty girl. They know they're not taking a girl home. The girl will make the guy feel like he is royalty. You know: "Hi, honey. How are you doing?" A guy could be a fat slob with no teeth in his mouth, which a girl wouldn't take a second look at. But if he came in here and he spent a couple of dollars on a soda and paid the admission to get in at the door and tipped the girl a couple of dollars, the guy would be treated like he was Brad Pitt.

And so he spends a couple of hours in here. And when he goes home, he feels like he's took 10, 20 pounds off his shoulders. He comes home and he's in a much better mood. He speaks to his wife in a much different tone. He probably makes love with his wife that night because he came here and got aroused by the pretty women. And he doesn't tell his wife where he was. Because if he ever told his wife, his wife would call him all kinds of names and think he was coming here and whoring around and whatever.

A small percentage of them do release; the most of the other ones, they come here just to get away. It's just to get away where nobody else knows you -- not your boss, not your wife or anything. And you come here and because you have a couple dollars in your pocket, you get treated like you're the boss. You know: "Could I get you a soda?" "Hi, honey. Can I get you a match?" "What's your name?" Every girl comes around to you asking your name. You know, they'll listen to your story about what's going on. And even if it sounds like you're completely wrong, the girl's going to tell you you're completely right. And that's what you really want to hear. It's sort of a therapy. I'm not a therapist. I'm not a psychologist. But you know what? I would think, let's say people that rape girls; I'd rather have a guy come into a strip bar and get a couple lapdances and whatever and go home than go out looking for a pretty woman and raping her. You understand what I'm saying? That could help them also. There's a whole bunch of really good reasons why clubs like this should be allowed open and lapdances are going on. Because there's some guys, let's face it, there's some ugly guys out there ... their grooming is not ... they smell or whatever. And these guys can come here and get a beautiful woman that would never give them a second look, that give them a lapdance, wrap their arms around their neck and whisper in their ear. It's almost like a date.

"Lipstick", Tampa, Florida, 2002.

Don't forget, some of these guys are not married. They will probably lay in bed for weeks at a time while they save up their money and think about: "Wow, I know Vanessa's going to be there on a Wednesday. I'm working overtime this week. Let me go there and see my baby." They call them regulars.

I don't think guys comes here because they're going to come here and have sex and all that stuff. It's not like that. These guys think that they're the only guys in these girls lives. You know what I mean? They send them flowers, candies, Christmas gifts, all that sort of stuff.

I sit back here with my two bosses and sometimes we'll see a girl in the lapdance room with a guy, and he'll get put like $1,200. on his credit card. And our question will be: “Well, Jesus, he's back there for all this while, why don't he just go down to Atlantic City and get an escort?” I don't have the answer to that. That’s the million dollar question. Maybe the answer is: He does not want get laid. Maybe the answer is that in his mind he really likes this girl and he'll go home maybe and give better sex to his wife.

"Gary and Porshe", T&A's, Monsey, New York, 2000.

The million dollar question. We often wonder about that around here. Because I can speak for myself. If I was not married or I had problems with my wife, instead of coming here and spending four or $500. and then go home with a big old hard on; I would probably go somewhere, down to Atlantic City or to New York City, so that I can get an escort that's kind of classy and pay the $500. for I don't know how long. And then I'm definitely going to get what I came there for.

I've seen some of the girls that travel around here in the local little towns, that stand by bus stops and taxi stations. They have no teeth in their mouth. They look like they've been smoking crack for the last two months. What guy'd want to get something ... like that in his car? Or a guy might be afraid if he goes with this girl to release himself, he's going to get knocked over his head and get his wallet stolen. You get AIDS if the condom bursts or something like that.

It could be a safety factor, a feeling of being safe in a place like this. You know there's a bouncer here. You know the girl's not going to reach down and take all your money. You understand what I'm saying? A guy can come here with a $1,500. suit on, with a $100,000.-a-year job and feel safe here, and come and get himself a lapdance and not look like he's weird and not be gawked at by everybody.

Maybe a guy doesn't want to have an orgasm. And maybe another reason is because he is a masochist-- I'm not talking about masochism like sado masochism; I'm just talking about psychological masochism. Maybe his big thing is to come to a place and get abused, verbally abused by a girl or get pampered by a girl and then go home and masturbate to the memory of it.
Or they probably go home and screw their wife, because they're not too appealing to them. I'm a guy, I can speak from experience. I would argue with my wife; sometimes I would go out in a bar and I would get drunk and them come home and try to make love or whatever. Guys just want different ways of getting frustration out of some sort. You know what I mean?

If I was stressed out one day and I road by and said: "There's that place. Let me just stop in there and see what's going on." And all of a sudden I meet this girl. Let's say her name is Girl X. And I talk to her for about maybe an hour and I spend maybe 50, 60 bucks tipping her for an hour. And I really think that I have a chance with this girl. I'll come back and I'll probably come back and back and back and back. And you know, you don't know the kind of games these girls run on guys. Some of these girls can tell guys that: "Yes, I really do like you. I'm in an abusive relationship. Can you help me out? I wish I could live with you." It's all a big game here. The guy plays a game because he's telling the girl: "Yes, you could probably live with me and I'll take care of you," because he wants to get in her pants. And the girl plays the game with the guy because she wants to get into his wallet. Most of the time the girl gets in the wallet but the guy never gets in the pants.”

The Lapdancer Book Edition Now Available

I am presently selling Lapdancer, the book as part of an 85 collectible edition series on my website. With every signed book you will receive an 8X10" print(also editioned) of "Stalls", a favorite image of many.

I am selling the first 8 in the edition at $225. and then the prices will go up. Collectors this is your time to get in on it!

You can look through the gallery section of Lapdancer on my website to see other images in the book. Reviews are available on Amazon.

I work hard to make sure every signed book is personal addressed to the buyer.

Go to www.julianabeasley.com to buy.

I am Your Biggest Fan!

"Self Portrait as Nico. Counting Money in Dressing Room", 1995

In the winter of 1995, I was sitting on the cold tile floor of the dressing room in a strip club in Rockland County. I was doing what I did every night--counting my money midway through my 4pm to 4am shift. I was tired. I needed a dancer's working vacation in the sun. I set my sights on Hawaii since my friend, Kaylani and a friend of hers named Bella were going out there anyway. I had my dark hair cut into a bob and had it perfectly tinted a shade of blond that realistically matched the color of my olive skin or at least I thought so. I decided to go from the harsh east coast stage name of "Nico" to the softer and more cutesy name "Jesse" to fit my new hairdo.

Over the next 10 months, I flew back and forth from NYC to Honolulu about 3 times, breaking up my time between the two cities as if I was living between two neighboring states. For months at a time, I lived out of an inexpensive high rise hotel with a weekly rate on the less touristy side of Waikiki.

It was sunny everyday in Hawaii with the classic rainbow over beautifully volcanic chiseled mountains and yet, my mood remained as sallow as the color of the room where I lived. With or without my dangling chili pepper lights, candles, incense and the magazine cut outs, that I had plastered all over the walls to make it feel more homey, my days before running off to work felt like I was living in solitary. In a room, full of beige and orange interwoven cushions on furniture to match the variant bedspread, I felt the lingering presence of some malicious hotel interior designer who thought it would be the most practical to maintain an aura of hideous ennui for many many years to come.

The following Polaroids are bits of my personal treasure-trove, memories of working in a "theatre" strip club in a strip mall on Kapiolani.

Two of the photos are from Queens and New Jersey, but all have one theme in common. I decided to have a "fan photo" taken with various feature dancers as a mimicry of customers who often paid for the same service, in order to take a token of the nights evening, and the dancer, away and home with them.

"Nico and Scandalous in New Jersey", 2006.

"Jesse and Minka", Hawaii, 1995

"Jesse, Braven and Unknown Feature Dancer", Hawaii, 1995

"Jesse and Unknown Feature #2", Hawaii, 1995.

"Jesse and Unknown Feature #3", Hawaii, 1995.

"Nico and the Ray Sisters", Queens, NYC, (1993?).

"Jesse with Unknown Feature Dancer #4", 1995.

The following is an excerpt from my book, "Lapdancer" from powerHouse Books, 2003.

"The stripper lifestyle has its own comforting and predictable routine. Sleeping until 11:00 a.m. (or later, as the week progresses), I drag my tired body out of bed across my studio apartment. A sore body is a reminder of a night well spent, money made, counted, and stashed in forever changing hiding places. Mysteriously browned and callused knees and elbows offer further evidence of my nightly pursuits. Some mornings, I awake still brooding over a night when I have fallen below my average, and berate myself for my lack of motivation on the job or some other possible personal defect that might explain falling short of my quota.


A shower would follow, then a walk into the daylight to a local restaurant where I would sit alone, ponder my future, and reward myself with a sensible non-fattening meal in my trendy Manhattan neighborhood. I hardly had time to hand wash my costumes. They smell of cigarettes, sweat, and the sweet perfumes customers complement me on. Instead I opt for a nap, awake, pop three Advil, and an hour later pick up a double espresso on the run, toting my work duffel bag filled with my best moneymakers—a tight leopard-print dress, a silver Brazilian bikini, a sequined mini, and stiletto heels. One might have thought I was just another ballet dancer running off to a class in the middle of the day.

At first it was buses, trains, and taxis; then later, private drivers like Aman, the yellow cabbie who doubled as my therapist, forever bolstering my spirits like a trainer with his boxer before entering the ring. We would make the usual stops: coffees, brownies, bottles of Jack Daniels. Several blocks before arriving at the designated club, I would let out a sigh. No, I don’t want to go. I’m too tired. I’m sick of the men and I’m even sick of the girls.

He teases me, “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” I reply.

Next came Aramis, the crazy-eyed driver from Uruguay who charged less than Aman, but with him there would always be the risk of getting into some sort of collision, like the time we hydroplaned across three lanes on the Westside Highway, hit a marker on the side of the road, and flipped his Suburban. But the price was right and I was determined to keep expenses low, even at the risk of dying next to a man whose conversational skills consisted of “Hi, Nico.”
The structure I’d created for myself was satisfying for the most part because I immediately saw the results of my hard labor. Here I was, an unskilled worker, earning double what my friends in “straight” jobs were making.


I loved the music, dancing on stage, and the instant connections I made with fellow dancers—and at times, even with customers. For eight hours on nights I danced, I was taking a break from my own complex and contradictory life. In reality I rarely dreaded going to work, unlike with other jobs I had had in the past. Dancing felt emotionally cathartic, empowering, and at times just like another creative extension of myself. I developed my dancing style partially by mimicking other dancers and partly through trial and error. I performed five days a week to a normally adoring public. Sometimes it felt like being a rock star, or what I imagined being a rock star might feel like: discounts on hotels, personal drivers, and makeup."

Victoria Number 1

I Miss You Victoria Blue

You let me tie you up in
spaghetti strap camisoles
and buy you a flowery dress.

Except for that once,
I promised
to sit and stay besides you
at the hairdresser.
Your hair cropped in layers
every four months.

"Victoria on My Parents Couch", 2008.

Not even a year ago
you lay rigid and softly
upon my parents divan
I steadied the strobe light
above you.

You are regal white,
shockingly blue.
What makes you look like this?
You didn't know what to say.

Sweet fragility
found a new home
only three blocks away.

I held on
behind my new camera
with no more secrets
left to tell you.

A Tell All On NYMPHOTO!

What made me do it?

Check out a slice of my childhood memories, not to mention, the early influences of photography which led me down the road to a life of a destitution.

It's all up on NYMPHOTO,
a place where the other photo gender (yep, we are still around dammit') has the place to show off her work and talk about it! The list of fabulous and talented photographers whom have talked about their work is daunting...and personally, I find them really inspiring and hopeful as a W-O-M-Y-N!

Support the women who support wayward PhotoWomen such as myself.

Thanks, to the women of NYMPHOTO for giving me the space to speak!

I-Gavel Auction Ending in 23 Hours

Hi Brothers and Sisters:

The Daniel Cooney Gallery with the I-Gavel Auction will end approximately in 23 hours. So, fly like the dickens and shop for cheap savings on beautiful work! And of course, look at my photograph of "Joshua and His Brother" which is still very reasonable.

Just a sweet reminder.

Farewell Dr. Sonner

X-Ray from abdominal view of my dog Moishe's, heart.

X-Ray View of Moishe's Heart from lateral Position.
Notice light white areas showing possible first signs of Mitral Valve Disease.

January 14, 2009 @ 7:16 PM

Dear Dr. Sonner:

I decided not to come and see you anymore. I can't afford to see you because I no longer have enough money to pay for health insurance with Oxford. Therefore, I can’t pay out of pocket for once a month visits with you. We had spoken about this on several occasions. Despite, my fears of economic destitution, you have not been willing to change your policy, allowing me to come less frequently. In the past, I worked with doctors whom only expected me make visits 4 times a year, in order to check the status of my condition or fiddle with my medications. I would see the psychiatrist more often should my depression become less manageable.

Presently, I would self-diagnose my condition as a clinical depression with the occasional massive mood shifts towards mania. I am certainly not in remission, and definitely, beyond the state of my usual Dysthymia.

I have not called you or in your case, e-mailed you, about my emotional upheaval because I learned from the past that it was absolutely pointless. I have become accustomed to sitting in your waiting room many times over the last couple of years, in a depressive state, but made a clear decision before entering your office that I would not share this information with you. There were times that I feigned happiness in your presence when I could do nothing more than lay on my sofa and cry for days.

After three years plus, you never changed my medications in order to find a way to ease me from my emotional pain. The best you did was up my Lamictal or increase my Nardil by 15 mg. This is the same recipe of medications, plus the others, that Dr. Silverstein had prescribed me when I left his care years ago. What was the point of telling you how I felt or filling out those redundant Xerox sheets with my improvement or my decline, when I knew I would walk out the door with the same ol’ prescriptions? In other words, my old feelings of helplessness increased and I started to believe once again that no doctor could help me, let alone you. Perhaps, I am drug resistant.

I don't believe in my heart that everything has been exhausted...I need to work with a sensitive and creative physician. Someone who can work in tandem with my therapist.

There were days, I walked into your office, considering how quickly, I could get out of your office with the prescriptions in hand. I would put a smile on my face, bite down on anger, pick up the recipes and get out the door as quickly as I could. Perhaps, to you, my depression/anxiety or as you had yourself diagnosed me, on my first intake, “Bi-Polar 2 Disorder” seemed under control. In fact, I was exhausted and resigned to feigning my emotions in your presence.

I have never had to talk with any doctor through e-mails, nor has my therapist. Natasha whom also agrees that it is bizarre and unprofessional you did not want to communicate with her on the phone. It's frankly impersonal and on a fundamental level, I don't feel like you care about me. As you know I have a long history of terrible neglect. Yes, it would have been reaffirming if you could have simply picked up the phone over the last months when I did not make any appointments.

I created a lie and told you I was leaving the country for France and never mentioned a word about picking up my prescriptions prior to this fantasy trip. Instead of hearing directly from you, I began to find messages on my voice mail from one of your revolving intern secretaries. Maybe at least, a detached e-mail from you, would have made me feel like my presence and my health mattered.

I am now in a daily struggle and yet, I refuse to come back to you. This is not a personal problem with you, but completely professional. I have decided to see one of Dr. Silverstein’s colleagues who has made himself available when I need him. Again, as you know, I no longer have insurance, and having a doctor available when I need him or expects only quarterly visits is a relief to my financial worries.

Juliana