If The Skirt Fits...

I woke spontaneously. What the hell? I never do this. Ah well. I can go to the post office. I bought a really nice photograph from a fellow photographer; it should be in. I can't wait to put it up.

It's been a while since I've done any updating; perhaps I should correct the condition. I've carved out a little area in the apartment for a studio. My desk is here, my mattress is on the floor behind me, there's a dresser set up to my right; it's almost home. Pictures soon, I promise.

I finished overhauling the web server yesterday. Two more machines to go. Once that's done, I may actually get around to overhauling the web sites. I have started a mailing list; if any of you would like to be on it, try sending a message to diana-news@fnordnet.net with "subscribe" in the header. If I like you, I may even approve you.

Photography languishes. Two sales and one trade in three months is not my idea of a good time. Maybe I should walk up and down Forbes avenue with a sandwich sign. Have a look at http://dianaclarion.etsy.com anyway?

Also denn. There's a pile of cables at my feet that needs a home.

There is nothing. There is no hope for a rational life, no hope for even a bearable life. Why even continue, then? I suppose I continue for fear that I will screw myself up even worse than I already am, that I won't be able to try once more to get it right.

It's quiet now; the bustle of LiveJournal is behind me. I'm just waiting for a clear day; I'll go back out to Heinz Chapel and shoot more exteriors. Sometimes it gets to feeling lonely, other times it's blessed solitude. I wonder which it is today.

I've finished the bookkeeping for the day, after a trip to obtain supplies. Who, though, am I kidding? Without a major miracle, I'll see my "net worth", as I jokingly call it, slip further into negative territory. Yes, I know, I've only been at this for eight weeks, but I'm not sure I do know how to put myself "out there" without driving everyone away. I'm not even sure I know what they want.

I think I'll go cry now.

I'm not sure if InsaneJournal is where I'll ultimately hang my babushka. It's a place to be while I work out what to do from here. At any rate, I've discovered Wordpress, and have set up a journal there. I may select one of these two, I may use both, I may ultimately use none. I just don't know yet. If you would, please, have the occasional look at each of them?

I spent some time retouching shots for the set I'm tentatively calling the Heinz Chapel Project. It's interesting to see a less-than perfect shot become just a bit better with a few rather simple manipulations. All the while, though, I find myself fighting the feeling of being a ridiculous parody of a "photographer".

I make no claim to being an "Artiste". I started this because I need cash. It is quite clear that I am considered unemployable, so doing something on my own seems the way to go, and trying to sell pretty(?) pictures required the least investment of time and money of all the options I could imagine. I don't, however, want to be some moo with a PowerShot. I need that I be reasonably good at what I am trying to do, that my output be worth the asking price. I honestly don't know whether or not that's the case. Perhaps I'm my own harshest critic, perhaps I know that I am engaging in a fantasy. Perhaps I'll never know which.

I've been looking through the first set of shots, and of the 109, there are fourteen that hold some promise. Not all of these are good as-is, but the germ is there. I need to back out and do more hard shooting, this time without the three-hour appointment break in the middle.

Outdoor exposure settings is a priority, if the sky agrees. If not, there's still a lot of interior work I can do. Honestly, the "preview window" isn't as good as it could be, but I can learn the differences between the preview and the final result, with enough practice. This is as much about learning as it is about output, after all.

Speaking of "output"...

I really take issue with these... I guess I'll have to call them "moos", because most of them are... that castigate anyone who may ask "Is my output good?" or "Is my output worth my asking price?" Their reply of "Your output is art because you made it" doesn't fly with me. I offer, in response, an example rather close to home, namely me. My output is a commodity. My output is a commodity precisely because I offer it for sale. Whatever intrinsic value it may have pales in comparison to the value it has to a potential buyer. Not only am I justified in wondering if my output is any good, I am required to perform self-review. The point of the exercise is simply "If nobody wants my output, why in all Hell am I producing it?"

What is it, then, that raises the moo-hackles? Given the almost fetishistic concern these people have with issues of self-uh-steem, could they be afraid of critique? Do they fear critique of their own work because an unfavorable opinion would challenge their existences? Do they fear someone else seeking critique because, if their requests are valid, it is also valid to critique their own work, and there we are back at the self-esteem again?

I'm not sure how it works, but one thing of which I am certain is that I have a lot of work and a lot of learning ahead of me.

Crossposted to dclarion.livejournal.com/

The seat of my pants is dusty and my index finger is numb. It's kind of nice, actually. I offloaded the lot to this machine and have been looking at random shots. There are a couple of interesting interiors, from low points-of-view or neck-straining angles. There's some GIMP work ahead, though. If I can't correct my exteriors for exposure (they're all under-exposed), I'll have to trash the lot and try again over the weekend. It would get me out of the house a record two days in a month, though, so I guess it's not all that bad.

I'm looking down. I pulled off my clothes virtually upon walking in the door, but my tits are still cemented to my chest. It's weird; were it not for the siliconeish appearance, they'd look like they belonged there. I may not want to get my dick chopped off, but a boob job would be in order if the cash were there. How's that for strange? It's not fetishistic, I promise, but for some reason, tits plus dick just seems right. I'd love to know where that comes from...

Crossposted to http://dclarion.livejournal.com/

Cried myself to sleep last night, clutching a stuffed tiger. I wish it could love me. At least it can't target me; that's the advantage of inanimate friends.

At any rate, I'm going through the checklist, trying to remember what I might have forgotten for today's shoot. Two gig of flash memory; I hope I have enough electrons on two batteries. I wish I could remember what I did with the third. Maybe Winston ate it. Yeah, grab a portrait of Andrew Jackson from the money machine; I can take the rent check to the post office, too.

Did I forget anything?

Crossposted to http://dclarion.livejournal.com/

Being on the leading edge of a migration is never easy. It gets bad enough at the old encampment that you decide to look for a new home, but the herd remains in place. Oh, they'll moo and bleat about how bad things are at the ranch, but their faces stay shoved into the grass while they endure what they characterize as all manner of indignities.

Be that as it may. I'll take a few days to see if this journal is worth an expenditure of money, but I'm pretty sure that I'll be winding down at LiveJournal over the next few weeks.

Hey, Jonathan, where did you say those tasty insects were?