Transgender biography photojournal

When I was in high school, every Thursday after class, I would take the metro to the big public library in downtown Montreal. I was filled with a voracious hunger for images, although unsure of what I was looking for in them. The first time I saw queer bodies in a photograph, I got my answer. I became obsessed with the book. In it, I found an intimacy.

My life exists in two parts: before I saw these images, and after.

Follow the photographer Mariette

It was like seeing myself in the mirror for the first time. But as time went by, and I began to document myself, my friends, and my own transition, I started to question what it meant that all the images of trans bodies I was exposed to growing up were shot through a cisgender lens. What is left unsaid? The idea was to explore the intimate dynamic that manifests when trans individuals witness each other or themselves.

I wanted to know: Why do we document ourselves? What does it mean to be seen? What happens when see each other? Below are their answers. She washes them every week even though they are no longer used; I have no idea how they remain lively after that many washes. Rough like pumice stones, I remember the ritualistic rubbing and scratching myself raw after every bath with my tiny hands, the door closed and locked quietly, waiting for my new skin to bloom.

The platano as a cultural touchstone is a hallmark of Puerto Rican cultural production, however, almost always the fruit and never the leaf.