I see you. I see what you do. Your books are on my shelves. Mitt Romney would call it binders full of women. It must be tough, getting all these great looking girls in various stages of undressing in front of your professional camera-eye. I know, I understand, it IS work. But admit, it beats cleaning lavatories by a monsterous margin.
I admire your savoir-faire, your métier: the eye for detail, perfect lighting, the choice of angle and accessory. You have great skill, close to perfect craftsmanship. But only… each time another of your black-and-white pictures checks into my Facebook stream, I feel a little less oomph,…. that is a sad sign that the magic is dying Frank.
I think it’s your subject: girls. When I browse through your work, I see pages and pages and pages of skinny, perfect, young girls. You pick them, what, between 18 and 25? Caucasian, Easter European? Untainted by life, with all kinds of perfect sizes for a harmonious tailored young puppet. Nice. Smooth. But no soul.
Apparently, you think people are not lining up to see models nearing 40, or steaming 50-wards. I beg to differ. Showing off your skill with girls in their early twenties is easy, and does not do your magic any justice. How about real women, Frank? Moms, women who work, saw life-in-action. Women with breasts, hips, houses, dogs, cats, kids, jobs, sorrow, happiness, mortgages, husbands, lovers and ex’s? Women with curves, lines, personalities and history? How about portraying the radiant energy of a mother of two in one shot? Or the cool mystery of a 40 something?
Here’s a free idea, call your next book 40licious. I’ll buy a signed copy.