I hope you don't mind, but I wanted you to see this photograph of yourself from Brazil. Please, contact me as soon as possible with your e-mail address.
I took this photo in Brazil when I went to see a healer this summer for emotional and mental cleansing. I will return. There are other portraits that I have shot and stories to be written but, for now will remain unpublished on my blog.
I look forward to sharing them.
We all came to be healed, whether it was of physical, mental or spiritual affliction. Some of our dreams will come true. And some won't. I'm ready.
I photographed her in natural light... this is new for me and I can't wait to do more!
Daniela Uribe and Juliana Beasley, Mexico City, 2010
Juliana and Workshop Students, Mexico City, 2010.
During the course of the 3 day workshop, we critiqued, viewed the work of other photographers, shared our own work and got personal with our students. And they were open hearted and shared their work and stories with us.
I strongly advise all to check out Gabriella Gomez-Mont's website/blog for Toxico Cultura . She has had some wonderful photographers present and teach down in Mexico City. Some of the photographers include Martin Parr and Amy Stein. She promises many more interesting guest teachers.
In the fall of 2010--yes, this year--Tema and I will be teaching the extended version of this class at the ICP in NYC... please, join us and we will all be very intimate and share stories.
Attached our some fun photos from our trip... in and out of the classroom.
Thanks a lot to Gabriella and to our students who all made this a memorable and wonderful experience.
Tema on her day off in a local market, Mexico City, 2010.
Next Wednesday, 25th through Sunday, 29th, Tema Stauffer and I will be teaching a new and exciting class called "Truth or Dare". We will be teaching at Toxico Cultura in Mexico City! And yes, we are thrilled and very excited with this wonderful opportunity.
The class will be about how both of us have worked on building intimate relationships with our subjects in our photographs. We will also talk about photographers who have confronted the same issues in their own works. Students will not only confront these issues in their own work but will also incorporate journal writing to explore their personal process of photographing in the field.
Yes, we are thrilled because we have planned to teach the extended version at ICP in Manhattan in the fall. If you live in the area, I welcome you to join the class.
Please, take a look at Tema's writing on her blog and follow it then to her site... you should have it earmarked since it is fabulous. She has written a piece on her blog about our performance in Mexico. Her description is more detailed... and hits the class theme on the nail!
For now, I would love to give the hash on Toxico Cultura , the organization headed by Gabriella Gomez-Mont.
Her is there statement! They have had some wonderful photographers teach there like Amy Stein and Martin Parr to name a few... oy! I guess you'll read this in the next paragraph.. hah!
Tóxico Cultura is an independent cultural project based in Mexico City: a creative think-tank. Among other things, we organize exclusive workshops and open lectures, led by world-renowned and/or talented emerging artists, filmmakers, photographers, designers, editors and writers, such as Martin Parr, Stefan Ruiz, Amy Stein, and Chris Boot. We also do film screenings, exhibitions and collective art projects. But even though Tóxico’s projects change constantly, they do have certain points in common: the relentless belief that imagination is not a luxury. That excellence is contagious. That intoxicating ideas are the best fuel for the creative mind.
Tóxico Lab is a new series of exciting workshops created for (and by) talented emerging visual artists.
About the stellar director:
GABRIELLA GOMEZ-MONT was born in Mexico City. She is the founder of Tóxico, and divides her time among different projects as a writer, magazine editor, cultural curator and documentary filmmaker. She has won several awards in different disciplines, such as the Best Art Practice Award (given by the italian Goverment), and the FOPROCINE grant for Mexican Filmmakers. Gabriella is also currently a TED Senior Fellow (2010-2012).
Sorry to have been off the map for a while! This has been a hectic summer for me.
I moved to a new place, went to Brazil for some healing work, and now, am off to Mexico City to teach a class with Tema Stauffer! By the way, we are teaching the extended version at ICP in the fall... rock on!
The next entry is about the class and about the organization where we will be working.
"Tara at Rockaway Beach", Rockaway Park, NYC, Date Unknown, Juliana Beasley
The day started too late. I should count my blessings that despite the drizzly cloudy day, it is warm outside. But, I am inside trying to motivate myself to do the unthinkable--that is what has been sitting on my hutch for months. Yes, that wretched task of organizing paperwork.
I can wash dishes, I can make my bed, I can even create piles of paper to clear off surfaces--all self-taught in adulthood-- but, I become terrified and befuddled and lost when it comes to going through papers, making order and putting them away in files.
This is my dire attempt at hitting those piles of receipts and I don't even know what anymore... since as they say, out of sight, out of mind.
I need to trick this sneaky mind that will find anything to do that will distract me from the inevitable of organizing these sheets of hell that continue to infiltrate my attempts of keeping a still and unpolluted mind... as they say, "Quiet Mind". My mind however is still not quiet or still and might never shut up. But, even if to live in the delusion that I have some kind of control over the material things around me... I am determined to put these blaring nuisances away in folders.
The trick is this:
I put up photographs on my blog to cheer me up. Every photographer knows this. Sometimes, a refresher of looking at past images taken can lift the spirit, especially, if fond memories are attached to them. And always the reminder of "Yes, i am a photographer"! That ego bolstering can then be transferred into the courage to fight that bastard called procrastination. Or at least, it has been helpful medicine in the past.
So, I present photographs from the Rockaways.
Yes, the Rockaways, that never ending seaside retreat that has been part home, part sadness, part sweetness and love. I have not been out there in a very very long time. For a variety of reasons of which I regret that I will not inform you at this point in time. As we all know, with the passage of time, any event can seem less intense, it mellows and a whole new interpretation is found.
I will return to my adopted home, however. The Atlantic and sand beckons me and so, do the stories and voices and hugs of my friends out there. Upon finding these old files of negatives scanned, I unearthed my seconds... pictures that I have not shown publicly.
Photographs that I took with 35 mm film, with my fab Contax( I forget the number of it actually) and some with the Contax T2.... damnation! I miss the Contax.
So, here goes.... I hope to continue to pull out some of these "seconds" till I can come to reckon with this past year... a new book, a new home shortly and a relationship rekindled.
I plan to put up more over the next couple of weeks.
All of the following photographs have shoot dates but I haven't taken the time yet to look through my notes and negatives to tell you when. All I can tell you is that they were taken more than 3 or 4 years ago. Things have certainly changed out there since I took these photographs.
"Charlie Sleeping", Rockaway Park, NYC, Date Unknown, Juliana Beasley
"Charlie's Sink", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley
"Frieda Smoking at the Palm Gardens", Rockaway Park, NYC, Unknown Date, Juliana Beasley
Last week, I went to a remarkable gathering in Sete, a small fishing port in the south of France. A gathering of hard working documentary photographers organized by CeTaVoir.
The festival is 3 years old and called "Images Singulieres". It was a simple event organized by Giilles Favier, Valerie Laquittant, Christian Caujolle, a hard working staff and many many volunteers... Bravo to all of them. We had a blast! Wow, delicious home cooking served to delicacy from the talents of Francoise Davidenko and arduous staff!
Last year in September I lived in Sete for 5 weeks... I previously mentioned the work while I was still working on it in 2009. It was a crazed idea that we actually pulled off-- make a book of something in the order of 60 images to publish as a book within 7 months time, from the time I began shooting 120 rolls of 120 film from the time that the work went to press in April.
Unbelievable, right? Or at least, I thought so. I still can't believe I survived, that we all came together to do this and now have an object. We have a book of portraits of the people of Sete and the tourists that pass through the city, parking their campers on the edge of town along the French Mediterranean.
As I sit here in my dining room, listening to the soothing tunes of Krishna Das lulling me to peace, I am far away from the challenge of last year of creating a piece of work in a short amount of time without losing my crackers or returning home with a acidic hole in my stomach.
That said, I did it! Just like the other two residents before me, Anders Petersen and Bertrand Meunier, given the same honor of working with free film to shoot, a book to be published and a show at a welcoming festival, I survived the the fear of coming up short, of the day to day, moment to moment, of meeting new subjects and captioning a personal vision of Sete. I found it without much intellect, but in chaos without reason or structure. I rolled with the punches and the truth of the moment. Perhaps, making art is putting the cerebral aside and just feeling the internal as well as the external and bringing them together in a clear moment of connection between model and subject.
In the end, I learned a new skill that made it all the worthwhile... I learned to make connections quickly with subjects and began to trust my creative intuition. Well, spent time!!
The week went quickly. I must make note of others who helped along the way.... Andre Frere of the French fine art publishing house,Images En Manoeuveres. We worked tediously over the last couple of months through Skype conversations, winter colds, his busted foot, and other unmentionables. I also have to thank my photo agency, Contact Press Images of which so many members, editors, photo directors stood by my side on this side. And I need to thank the city, the subjects in the book and mayor of Sete who let me scramble around, take their photograph and with great dignity!
The show was a success... the curator and writer of the book, Christian Caujolle did a lovely job of bringing the work to life at a historic site on a hill above the ocean. All good, all very good.
Not, to mention there was a wonderful line-up of photographers from abroad whose work was equally blessed to be hung in enchanting historic building around the center of the city. Some of the photographers include:
Sete is a wonderful place where the average non photophile has a curiosity for art and photography. It was a pleasure to see some many of the natives come to the shows and slide shows that Gilles Favier and Valerie Laquittant organized.
Please, take the time to look at the sites of not only the photographers that were part of the festival, but also, the festival itself. I felt proud to be in their company.
"No Comment", Ft. Myers, FL, 2001. Juliana Beasley
In one topless no-contact club in New York City, a fellow dancer in the dressing room suggested I allow the customer to touch my breasts for a minute or two in exchange for a good tip. And so one night I was pimped out by an overly zealous and greedy club hostess and sent up the black-lit stairs to the champagne room with a polite and very drunk Japanese businessman. We were escorted to our cheap cafe table in the corner while the hostess, using the finest etiquette, presented the label of the bottle to the customer. After ensuring her own tip on his credit card, I was left alone to entertain the gentleman. Eye on my wristwatch, I went through the usual routine: fifteen minutes of champagne drinking, party chat, and a half-hour of table dancing and neck massage. As a grand finale, I reluctantly tried out the minute-grope ploy. For two brief moments he touched my breasts. Then with a cheerful grin I said that was enough. It was the beginning of the end before I left that club.
"Stage Work", Las Vegas, NV, 2001. Juliana Beasley
Come with me. I really want to dance for you.
When I discovered lap dancing, I was delighted because my job description was cut and dry—no more conniving for tips. I provided a service and was paid upfront. I had the freedom of choice to interact with customers verbally if I cared to, but my income didn’t depend on me making conversation with men or developing regulars. If they were difficult, I always had the option of turning my back and walking away. Since alcohol is not served in nude clubs, I never felt the pressure to sit with a customer for drinks, which invariably left me with a hangover the next morning. I personally found it less emotionally taxing.
Besides doing the obligatory dance sets—either sharing the stage with other dancers or performing alone—I made the majority of my money walking up to customers and soliciting “private dances”—lap dances—and taking them into “private” areas of the club. Private dances are really not so private: they are often wedged between undulating couples biding for space. During peak hours on Fridays and Saturdays, customers and dancers wait their turn outside the lap dance room.
A lap dance has a beginning, a middle, and an end. First, I would systematically lay down a cloth on the customers’ laps, then grind against their crotches, either by straddling them frontally or by rubbing my buttocks against their groins. In nude lap dance clubs, many dancers carry around personal wraps or leave them in the lap dance room. They lay the material across customers’ laps to provide a hygienic barrier between themselves and rough or dirty pants and unwanted fluids.
"Pregnant Dancer #1", Las Vegas, NV, 2001. Juliana Beasley
In a way a lap dance is like being a teenager again—rubbing one’s genitals against another without actually having intercourse. Customers keep their clothes on. I do remember one unusual occasion when a drunken customer pulled out his penis, and I politely told him “to put it away”—which he did. I felt more like a mother scolding a child than an erotic dancer.
Once in a while the customer was too obese to wrap my legs around, making me feel like a splayed chicken awkwardly bobbing up and down. So instead I would kneel between his legs and rub my breasts against his crotch, mimicking other more well-endowed, voluptuous dancers. This method was also a relief when my hip and knee joints began to fail me at the end of the night. After wearing stiletto heels for eight to ten hours a night, I preferred to do most of my work sitting down.
"Neon Sign", New Jersey, 2001. Juliana Beasley
For several years I worked in a lap dance club where customers were allowed to touch my ass, and at the time it didn’t bother me (sometimes the kneading even felt like a deep tissue massage to sore muscles). In another “hands-on” club in Jersey, which I nicknamed the Inferno, beautiful dancers would fly in from all over the country just for the chance of working a three-day booking where they would make $3000 plus. Because the manager had a penchant for large-breasted blondes, I actually felt fortunate to be hired. But after the three-day stint, burning candles and incense trying to meditate it out in my hotel room, I decided to quit, no matter how great the money was. I couldn’t just smile through it. I was completely enraged by men touching my breasts. I felt out of control, violated. I was relieved to finally find clubs where customers were told to keep their hands braced to the sides of their chairs, bouncers at the ready. I had found my own personal boundaries—every dancer does.
On a conscious level I discovered I could turn myself off emotionally. I then worked on automatic, transforming every man that followed me into the lap dance room into a twenty dollar bill. Sometimes it seemed that the only way I could tolerate the monotony was by focusing on numbers. As I methodically went from customer to customer, I slipped into a mental trance: a rhythmic meditation of counting songs, counting dances, counting singles, counting twenties, counting customers.
I habitually performed the same sequence of moves for each customer, whispering to him in his ear near the end of the song, “Would you like another dance?” Lap dancing had become an intense physical workout and an emotional no-brainer. I felt victorious as I kept each succeeding customer underneath me, knowing that with every gyration I was closer to emptying their wallets—and filling my garter. A positive attitude, a good sales pitch, and the physical stamina to keep hustling until the club’s last call were vital in meeting my nightly goals.
However subversive my job might have seemed to the outside world, for me it was just another day at the office. I provided a service and was well paid. I often compared lap dancing to waitressing in a diner. “Turn and burn ’em” became my personal decree; my earnings were based on bulk rather than on quality. For $20 a song, the key was to keep the customer hard. Or not hard, depending on the customer. After years of dancing, if I were to conjure up one of these customer’s faces today, besides a few memorable regulars, I would permanently pause on the image of a blurred face wearing a baseball cap.
I’m going to give you the best lap dance you ever had.
When the monotony of the job began to wear me thin, and the customers seemed to be getting bored watching me dance five days a week in my “home” club in Jersey, I convinced a dancer friend to hit the road with me. The options were endless—Florida, Texas, Hawaii, Guam, Europe, Japan. The geographical solution was based on the theory that, at least in the short term, being the “new girl” in a chosen club might increase my income.
Many of the dancers traveled back and forth from Florida—like Michelle, who owned several condos near Miami and rented an apartment in Jersey. There I might meet dancers from all over the country and abroad who might convince me to come work at their home club, or who might offer insight into clubs in other cities. The names of good clubs are highly coveted pieces of information. It makes sense to only tell your closest confidante where the money is being made before news runs like wildfire and every dancer in the vicinity floods the club, destroying business for the lucky few who got there first.
"Cowboy", Tampa, Florida, 1995. Juliana Beasley
One February, when the low season in New York set in, a dancer named Kaylani and I took a working vacation to Tampa where high season was just beginning. Driving from the airport, we plugged the driver for valuable stripper information—where the strip clubs were, which ones were the best, which ones we should stay clear of, phone numbers for take-out, and the nearest tanning and nail salons. Taxi drivers, often independent contractors like strippers, are reliable allies in unfamiliar towns. We set up our home base at the local Indian family-owned Howard Johnson, unpacked our makeup, and prepared for that night’s auditions. Within a day or two, we had pinpointed the most lucrative clubs and agreed on the one that seemed the most tolerable.
With every new club came a new stage name. I changed my name as often as I changed the style and color of my hair. Nico sounded too butch outside of New York. In Tampa I was Sophie; in Hawaii I was Jessie; in Reno I was Amanda; in New Jersey I was River—and so on. Traveling to different cities definitely broke up the assembly-line quality of the business (bend over, smile, grab a dollar), but after expenses proved less lucrative than staying home and working at one particular club as a “house dancer.”
Working in Hawaii proved in particular to be a painful experience because most of the house dancers at the club despised me. I was accused of selling dances at half-price and allowing customers to touch me. True, I didn’t socialize much with the other dancers, but you had to be a dedicated hustler to make up the costs of hotel rooms and flight tickets and still return home with some savings. When I walked into the dressing room, conversations would halt. When I finished my dance set on stage, none of the dancers applauded. It was incredibly alienating, but I was determined to stay despite friends in New York urging me to return to the mainland. Eventually I did make one friend, a fellow hustler. And then I left town.
Coming home to a lonely hotel room, I suspected, was not a far cry from what many of the customers on business trips felt—just another hour, sit with the pretty girl until last call, then back to an empty room with over-bleached towels, stiff bedding, and a remote control, dreams and fantasies left behind.
