Shelley Marlow

 

Here are two photographs shot in 1981 at my apartment at 222 Franklin Street, Cambridge, Mass. In the left photo I look angry, hungry, and hopeful. In photo on the right, I’m propped up on my fist, with head tossed back, joyful, transcendent, seductive, and humorous. This photo sat on my studio mantel, while the photo on the left hid in an old notebook. I present them both in the spirit of integration: left and right, masculine and feminine, but most important, shadow and light sides.  In 1981, I meditated, wrote letters on behalf of prisoners of conscience, made collages and paintings, played guitar, danced at the dyke discos and scoured job listings in the local newspapers. I lost my job phototypesetting because people still smoked in the office. Diagnosed with pneumonia, I had to take too many sick days. I got on the bus for the Women’s Pentagon Action in Washington, DC. Before returning to art school, I hitchhiked with friends to NYC. I wanted to pass as a male in a fashion shoot. A friend with connections brought me to a modeling agency.  Even though I had lost my adolescent grimacing twitch of a face tick several years earlier, I was still shy and left before the agent came out to see me. I also see in these photos the wings I drew in pen on the corner of a book cover. The book is probably written by either Marcel Proust, Hazrat Inayat Khan, or Jill Johnston.