We did my hand shots a couple weeks before school got out, at Essex Studios in Clifton. Essex is an old button factory-turned "artist group" warehouse. It is divided into 15 x 15 rooms with cement floors, separated by cement-brick walls that don't quite reach the ceiling. Its age is... Continue reading

I am working on my next post. But now, to hold you over until I get around to it, I present early evidence I found in my basement of my inherent talent at modeling. I have no idea why my mom indulged my impressionable self in such a photoshoot; I... Continue reading

In order to sign with Cincinnati’s main modeling agency, you need two types of photos: a close-up and a full-body shot. Since I was doing hands, I figured I would have my sister take a picture of me holding shit (it becomes increasingly clearer that hand modeling is about holding... Continue reading

My mother has always said that I should be a hand model. “You should be a hand model,” she says as I flex my long, shapely fingers, which are useful for things like holding teacups daintily and winning thumb wars. “Oh Mother,” I demur as I inspect my cuticles and... Continue reading

My father detests any job-related complaints. When he was my age he would stand on girders and sandblast paint off of bridges, or work the midnight-to-five at the nearby plastic factory for a dollar twenty-five an hour. “That was the seventies, Dad,” I like to complain, as I prance around... Continue reading