I Was Not Always Like This Picture

Mr aegian writes: My model and muse wanted to see what could be done to an ordinary photo with extreme treatment in Photoshop. This is the end result of a series of processes that involved outlining the model, re-hueing and solarising the background and then running the whole thing through the line finder filter in PS. and re-hueing again, etc. This wasn't the absolute end result, but by then I'd gone a step or two too far.

Miss aegian jnr. says:

I have always seen my parents as artists, haunted by their own muses. I am not implying that my mother is the ghost in this piece, or any other piece, the muse to which I refer is my grandmother. She did not have a huge part in the theatre of my life and we rarely spoke, perhaps for good reason. She was not the nicest of people: that is all that needs to be said. This picture, a combination of my mother's striking beauty and input and my father's extraordinary talents in composition and photography, is the embodiment of both their struggles against this seldom seen and often talked about ‘mythical creature’.

Behind my mother, I see a path in dull white and bluish grey. In my childhood, I remember fragments of cartoons, usually their basic structure: before the colour is added. Parts of this piece, such as the branches of the tree and her torso, are reminiscent of these nostalgia immersed memories. Beside her shoulder are garish feathers of red and blue, much like a tacky boa, the kind of 1920s paraphernalia (but most probably something thrown together in the late 80s) my grandmother adored. Nothing she ever liked or did was real; in some ways, this brings her and my own mother closer together. I see Mumma as unreal in her beauty and personality; I see my grandmother as a compilation of rumour and muttered nonsense.

Even after her death, even when the world of black and white argument is gone and we return into colour, there is no escape for the inspired. While her face is hardly pleased, it is not dissatisfied; it has not reached freedom with disappointment because it has not reached freedom. She has only stepped into another world of tricks and deceit, cleverly disguised by colours and textures. She has grown listless and tired and despite the huge different in the morphology of this new world, she cannot leave behind the mythology of its predecessor.
Continue Reading: The Muses