the bunnycage

Sunday Edition. January 22.

2012-01-22T15:44:00.000-07:00

Sara LeeAnn Boudoir Photo Marathon - Carson, Iowa!

2012-01-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

I'm coming to Carson, Iowa. And I want to shoot you.
{Don't worry. It won't hurt.}

I'll be working my sexy boudoir photo-magic in Carson
Friday, February 24th and Saturday, February 25th

VERY LIMITED AVAILABILITY!

Spend a few hours sipping wine, laughing, and being pampered and made to look/feel like the sexy goddess you are, while I immortalize the experience, making artful pictures you get to keep forever!

- 1.5-hour photo session
- Make-up styling included
- Snacks and cocktails provided
- Shot in digital and/or film (B/W & Color)
- All retouched images uploaded to private, password-protected gallery
- High-resolution CD with copyright release available for additional charge
____________________________________________________________

View My Work

For More Details, and To Book Your Session, Get In Touch.

Sara LeeAnn Banevedes is a published artist and premier boudoir photographer from California, living and working in Wyoming (of all places.) Her images have been featured on the cover of Ireland's One More Robot Magazine, in the pages of OPEN: Erotica, and on the following online publications and blogs: The Huffington Post, Scientific American, Sex & The Suburbs, Oh Joy!, Radish Greens - Healthy Living and Apartment Therapy.

Sunday Edition. January 15.

2012-01-15T15:40:00.000-07:00

You're All Invited to Buy Me Polaroid Film and Then Come to My Birthday Party and Get One Picture for All Your Trouble. Oh. And Free Cocktails!

2012-01-10T07:17:00.000-07:00

I love Polaroid. It's a love that began at age 12, when I found a stack of Polaroid pictures stuck together in an old shoebox that someone - my mom, probably - had snapped of me when I was wee; that continued when I bought my first vintage Polaroid camera at a musty thrift shop in San Diego at age 21 (later stolen by the asshole ex-boyfriend of my vegan roommate. The vegan part is not relevant to the story, but I always think of her that way, so...); that deepened when I took up photography in 2008 and was given a Polaroid and some expired film as a birthday gift; that I fear will never, ever, f*cking ever die, and so I'll end up destitute, penniless and starving damn near to death since The Powers That Be no longer make Polaroid film. Sigh.

I woke at 3am from a recurring nightmare about an albino goat, and had an idea for a sort of collaborative art project. (I promise it doesn't include goats of any color.) That happens sometimes. Other times it happens that I wake at 3am from a nightmare and take a bubble bath, or swig vodka from the bottle, or watch a zombie movie, or clean my antique crystal decanter collection.

My idea is simple. It involves you. Keep reading.

I want to take Polaroid pictures for an entire year.

I want to pair them with nonsensical words like the ones you're reading now, into a story. My story.

I don't know yet what kind of story it will be, because I don't know what this year has in store for me. Could be an epic tragedy. Or a tale of redemption. Or a romantic comedy. Or an apocalyptic albino goat-slaying sci-fi thriller. Or some freaky combination of all of these things.

On my 33rd (sssshhh... don't tell anyone how wicked-old I am) birthday in December of 2012, I want to host a cocktail party where this visual story will be beautifully curated and displayed for your *viewing pleasure. That's right. You are invited to my party.

I want to give you a 'birthday gift.' An original Polaroid from my story that you can frame and cherish in your home, pass down to future generations, re-gift for Christmas or douse in gasoline and light on fire. (I'll sell prints of my favorites, too. You know... to offset the cost of all the alcohol I'm going to have to buy to get you to come to my party.)

If you can't come to my party in the flesh, I want to mail you your favorite Polaroid. Because it's better to give than receive. And because I like you. And because spending time at the post office during the holidays is super-fun and bears absolutely no resemblance at all to the 7th level of Hell.

And here comes the bit about the collaborative part of this project. Ready? In order to take Polaroid pictures with my beloved vintage Polaroid camera, I need Polaroid film. Which isn't cheap. So, I want my friends, family, complete strangers who cyber-stalk me, actual stalkers, random dudes who offer to buy me a drink at the bar and anyone at all I come into contact with over the next 12 months to find, steal or buy me some film.

Yep. Pretty cheeky, I know, but remember the part about giving and receiving?

If you're interested in collaborating with me to make art, and coming to party with me at the end of the year to celebrate my oldness, my story and our mutual love of cocktails and Polaroids, I want you to send me an e-mail. Or chat with me via Facebook. Or text or call me if you have my number. Or - if you're not a creep ass - come talk to me when you see me at the cafe, library or grocery store.

I'm super-excited about this and I hope you will be, too! Enough to throw down for film! Yay film!

*Please note: your viewing pleasure will be directly concurrent with how many cocktails consumed.

Sunday Edition. January 8.

2012-01-08T15:33:00.000-07:00

Sara LeeAnn Boudoir Photo/Video Shoot

2012-01-04T16:30:00.002-07:00

Video from a recent boudoir photo session. Thanks to videographer, Nick Perkins. You rock my socks, babe.

Sunday Edition. January 1.

2012-01-01T15:32:00.000-07:00

Boudoir Uncovered - Miss R Writes:

2011-12-30T11:52:00.001-07:00

"I had an amazing experience working with the lovely Sara LeeAnn on our Boudoir photo shoot. She is professional, but laid back and made me feel very relaxed and "at home." Her talent goes without saying. I cant help but smile and feel sexy EVERY time I look at my photos! Thank you SO MUCH, Sara!"

Sunday Edition. December 25.

2011-12-25T15:32:00.000-07:00

Sunday Edition. December 18.

2011-12-18T15:29:00.000-07:00

Promo Video

2011-12-17T14:04:00.000-07:00

Sunday Edition. December 11.

2011-12-11T15:27:00.000-07:00

Sunday Edition. December 4.

2011-12-04T15:21:00.000-07:00

Interview with a Vampire.

2011-11-30T11:22:00.001-07:00

Okay, not really. It's only me being interviewed for inclusion in OPEN: An Erotica Journal.

What have you learned from your subjects?

I was actually my own first subject. Self-portraiture allowed me to explore my alter-egos and the female archetypes, stereotypes that I've always struggled with. Through my self-portrait work, as well as my artful representation of others' on their own journeys to self-discovery, I learned that we are all inherently powerful, complex and oh-so wildly beautiful. I've embraced this beauty over time... years spent agonizing about my one breast smaller than the other, my new-found stray silver hairs, the roundness of a tummy that nourished and housed my only child, and the forever scars that tell a visual story of my survival. My subjects have taught me to honor the vulnerability and ferocity of myself, my fellow human beings, and the world we share.

What do you enjoy about erotic photography?

It's the playful spirit and evocative nature of erotic photography that most thrill me. While I don't create for the sole purpose of titillation, and don't consider myself a provocateur, I'm aware that the work is intrinsically sensual, sometimes powerfully sexual. My art is about what is authentic, and unabashed, and raw, and right there in front of me. The "erotic" is merely incidental.

When shooting nudes, are you able to separate your own personal sexual desire from your artistic process?

Although the environment I stage for nude and erotica work is certainly conducive to sexual play, and creates a heightened level of sensuality which I channel to create my art, I have never been affected by my own sexual desire while photographing. This may be, in part, due to my subjects being primarily female - as I simply haven't found myself sexually attracted to women. It's more likely due to how detail-driven my process is, and how incredibly cerebral I am. My focus is on the light, the lines, the tone and mood... all of the individual components that make up the "big picture," rather than my own relation or reaction to my subject.

Can you share a significant experience in life that made you "open"? 

My mother died tragically when I was 20 years old. Five years later I gave birth to my only daughter. Both experiences were startlingly (and paradoxically) similar, as they each required more of me than I felt I was entirely capable of; shook my concept of "self" to its core; and left me raw, vulnerable and seeking clarity in my new identity. Motherless daughter, motherless mother. My work is a looking glass, mirroring these experiences of feminine transformation, celebrating the nature of being open-wide and malleable, but also resolute. I believe I honor them both by doing what I do.

Boudoir Uncovered - Miss K Writes:

2011-11-30T10:22:00.001-07:00

"Being a stay at home mom, I don't usually have time to dress up and put make up on and such. I had forgotten what it was like to feel pretty, wanted by someone older than 5 for something other than the most fundamental of needs. In finding Sara, she wanted me to be "me". But who was I, other than a mom and a wife? This question plagued me for quite a while, until I decided to create myself for these pictures. I figured nobody would see them except for my husband and I, so I went wild. It was liberating and exciting to shop for lacy things and way too much fun. By the time my photo shoot was done, I felt quite heady. Did I just do that? In front of a total stranger? And she liked it?

She had given me permission to be sexy, and I ran with it.

When the photos were posted, I spent hours looking at myself. This was not the usual me, but I sure liked her. Sara gave me what I had needed to remember that I could be a super mom, and adoring, attentive wife, and a whore in the bedroom! In discovering this, I found the woman my husband fell in love with allover again.

Thank you Sara, for more than I can ever explain."

K, you are by far one of the most bold and inspirational ladies I've ever met. What an honor to work with you! I'm thrilled you and your husband are so pleased with your photographs. Best to you both.

xo.

Sara LeeAnn

Sunday Edition. November 27.

2011-11-27T15:18:00.000-07:00

Sunday Edition. November 20.

2011-11-20T15:15:00.000-07:00

Sunday Edition. November 20.

2011-11-20T07:27:00.000-07:00

Photograph by yours truly.
Model: Miss S

Pin-Up Photo Session Preparation

2011-11-18T10:03:00.000-07:00

TIPS:

+ Prepare your outfits carefully. From fully dressed to underwear. Make sure everything goes. For example bring a fifties looking dress, with the lingerie stockings and shoes. We will take pictures of the whole outfit and go from there.

+ Choose a theme: Housewife, naughty secretary, cowgirl, beach beauty, sailor, anything goes!

+ Research the greats: Bettie Paige, Brigitte Bardot, Betty Brosmer, Sophia Loren, Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner, Betty Grable, and Judy Garland.

+ Practice your posing and those classic pin-up style faces in a mirror so you can get them just right for your photo shoot. Always point your toes, pop a hip, and keep your hands busy.

+ Plan, plan, plan! What do you want? Prints? Something to frame? A calendar? Plan your outfits accordingly.

+ Bring props! It's perfectly natural to show up with a suitcase and wardrobe bag. :-)

Here are some of my favorite pin-up images of all time for your inspirational viewing pleasure:

Boudoir Uncovered - Miss R Writes:

2011-11-18T07:10:00.001-07:00

"Sara, I have been wanting to tell you - I was more comfortable having pics taken by you with hardly any clothes on than I ever am with other photographers and all my clothes on! I was so scared leading up to that day, I wanted to back out! After a couple minutes talking to you I didn't even think about what was happening. You and your vodka rock!"

R, thanks for stepping out of your comfort zone for this session, and scheduling another one! These soft, natural photographs of you are beautiful, and I can't wait to work with you again!

xo.

Sara LeeAnn

Reasons To Do a Boudoir Photo Session With Sara LeeAnn

2011-11-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

It's no secret I'm a big dork and love making lists almost as much as I love cake and vodka. So, I'm letting my dorkiness shine through by making a list - in no particular order of preference - of reasons you should do a boudoir photo session with me!

You're young and hot. And you're going to live forever! Right? Yep. Celebrate your young hotness, knowing you will always have these photos to prove you could once eat an entire bag of Oreos and still look uh-may-zing in nothing but your panties!

You've still got it. No, you're not 21 anymore, but damn it your boobs are still up in the general vicinity of where they ought to be, so show 'em off!

It's in your Bucket List. And way easier to check off than "Learn to speak Japanese. In Japan."

It's your birthday. Or someones birthday! Or Valentine's Day! Or Christmas! Or... Tuesday!

You are single. And proud of it! Or, you want to e-mail a pic to your ex because he's an idiot for dumping you. *Bonus: Said bitchy e-mail has less hefty consequences than lighting him on fire.

You are married. And proud of it! Or, you want to be proud of it and rekindling the romance is a great start. Marital counseling is up there too, but is way less fun because no one is naked.

You are about to get married. Lucky bastard.

Cosmo said so. Or Glamour. Or Brides Magazine. Or the internet. It's good advice, you know.

You are not young and hot. You realize that you were remiss in eating all those Oreos, but youthfulness ain't all it's cracked up to be. You're older, wiser, and you have that curvaceous booty, so shake it like a Polaroid picture!

You don't have to be naked to be sexy. So true. Spread eagle = NOT sexy. Use the power of seduction, and leave something to the imagination.

Your other half has a subscription to Maxim/fhm/stuff/. Proof that he likes sexy pictures! I mean, well-written articles.

Nobody thinks you would ever do it. Ha! Suckers! You'll show them!

You never thought you could do it. But you totally can. And you will. You will book a photosession with me right now. (Did you like that? I just used the Force on you. I'm way powerful that way.)

xo.

Sara LeeAnn

Boudoir Style: Duchess Babydoll

2011-11-16T07:40:00.000-07:00

Ok. So, I was drawn to this not because the Duchess Babydoll from LucyB is super-cute, black, sheer, dotted and "sewn with love in California," but because this chick is posing with pineapples. What on earth is she doing with those pineapples? I don't even know what that means! Is it some sort of sexual innuendo I'm totally unfamiliar with? (I have a hard time believing there is any sort of innuendo or double entendre I'm unfamiliar with, really.)

Back to the topic at hand! This whole look is darling. That's all.

Happy Hump Day!

xo.
Sara LeeAnn

Note To Lovers

2011-11-15T10:56:00.001-07:00

Here's an idea: Wrap a pair of stockings or a hot shade of lipstick for her (or a dress shirt or necktie for him) with one of my Boudoir Gift Certificates! Book my services and a night in a hotel room. Hire a babysitter. Take her/him for dinner or a few drinks to loosen up, then come spend an hour playing with me (um... in a strictly platonic sense, natch) and my camera! Obviously I'll piss off after that so you two can... play a competitive game of Scrabble or do your taxes.

Can you say "Hottest Date Night Ever?" Damn straight.

Big, fat bonus: Not ONLY do you get to rekindle your romance with pretty much the most uniquely awesome date there is, but you have the photos to last a lifetime.

Get a Gift Certificate and Book a Date: photo@saraleeann.com

Boudoir vs. Pin-Up. What's The Difference?

2011-11-15T08:33:00.001-07:00

Heya, dolls! I've been up and at 'em for four hours and am on my fourth cup of coffee so if there are an over abundance of run-on sentences in this post, I'll ask you to kindly pardon me. Yesterday I spent some time chatting via e-mail with a lovely new client-to-be who posed some pertinent questions regarding the differences between a boudoir and pin-up photo session. Some think its wardrobe, or props, or the expression and pose - all of which are pretty important; but, there are a few more key distinctions I'd like to make in helping you select the right session for you.

Boudoir is...

My boudoir photographs are designed to be sensual, intimate and sometimes erotic and voyeuristic. The image will show a woman inviting her viewer into a private world. Smoldering eyes and that 'come hither' look are all part of it - as are genuine moments of awkwardness and laughter. (There is nothing sexier than a woman who is having fun.) These images tend to be more overtly sexy in nature, featuring the woman wearing lingerie, hiding her lady bits beneath a sheet, topless, or nude. The attention is on the lines and curves of her body, with artful, medium to close-up views of her legs, her backside, and other parts she is most happy with. Boudoir photos are photographed in an uncluttered, elegant setting - usually the bedroom or other living environment - so the focus in on her.

Because I'm in deep, mad love with vintage tones and natural light my boudoir images are stylistically simple, happening in camera. Boudoir requires less prep-work in the way of staging, and generally includes only modest post-processing (i.e. editing in programs like Photoshop or Aperture) before turning the final photographs over to my client. I try to capture a woman during moments of authentic reaction to her environment or in mid-conversation, and often ask her to walk from here to there, to flip her hair, to move around, as movement and authenticity are critical to my boudoir work.

Boudoir is great for women who want natural, intimate, sophisticated photographs for "his eyes only" that showcase them at their sexiest and most beautiful. Women who have a few sexy pieces of lingerie and aren't afraid to show a little skin, but might have some performance anxiety and prefer to keep things simple are best suited to this style of photography.

Pin-Up is...

Pin-up sessions are reminiscent of the classic photos made popular in World War II. My pin-up photographs are about flirting, teasing, telling a story. While the images can certainly be incidentally sexy, they are not seductive. Poses and expressions are exaggerated and over-the-top, most often featuring a surprised look as the pin-up accidentally shows more than she planned. When its not accidental exposure, its a flirt and smile, as if to say "Hey there, boys! Look at me!" A woman is photographed wearing retro-style or vintage clothing and/or lingerie against a seamless backdrop with props that give her a sense of place and story, or in setting that suits the theme. For example, a football jersey, with a bikini bottom holding a football would be great for a sports fan. A nurse might wear a short white dress styled after the nursing uniforms of the 40’s and 50’s.

The main difference between boudoir and pin up photography is the amount of preparation (wardrobe selection, hair and make-up styling, set-staging, lighting) and the amount of post-processing. My client and I work together beforehand to create a few themes for her photo shoot and a vision for the finished product. Great pin-up photography nenecessitates the model being willing and able to "pose," and to have a playful, cheeky attitude that will come through in the images. I spend hours in post-production adjusting the color, retouching, applying filters, etc, so the final images are clean, bright, sharp and glossy.

Pin-up is the cat's meow for gals who want playful, styled, over-the-top images they can share with a special someone or the whole wide world. Ladies who have a flair for the theatrical and like to get dolled up and explore their alter-egos, but aren't as comfortable baring their goodies and don't necessarily intend to seduce choose pin-up photography over boudoir.

Book your session now.

As always, the real joy comes from working with you to create something totally unique and custom, so don't hesitate to e-mail or call or meet me for coffee or a martini to discuss your ideas.

xo.
Sara LeeAnn

♥ ♥ ♥ Featured! ♥ ♥ ♥

2011-11-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

My work featured on the Wyoming Weddings Blog! Thank you so very much!

Sunday Edition. November 13.

2011-11-13T13:34:00.001-07:00

Photograph by yours truly.
Model: Anonymous

Classic Pin-Up Christmas Eye Candy

2011-11-12T14:10:00.001-07:00

Some inspiration for our upcoming Naughty & Nice Classic Christmas Pin-Up Photo Sessions.

E-mail photo@saraleeann.com to book your photoshoot in time for the holidays!

Naughty & Nice Classic Pin-Up Christmas Photo Sessions

2011-11-11T14:35:00.001-07:00

I know, I know, I know. It's NOVEMBER. You don't have to lecture me about the wrongs of even mentioning C.h.r.i.s.t.m.a.s. before December 1st, because, seriously, I am the biggest scrooge in life, and I'm the first person to scream, indignant, when I hear a holiday carol or see a wreath or catch a whiff of peppermint before Thanksgiving leftovers have been eaten and the damned cornucopia is in the garbage.

But...

I don't want anyone to miss out on sending cutesy pin-up e-greetings or print cards this holiday season, and I need time to shoot and process photos for all the lovely ladies who want to sign up!

Naughty & Nice Classic Pin-Up Photo Sessions 

Scheduling NOW for December!

VERY limited time-slots available!

$250

Traditional theme set with retro Christmas tree and lots of kitschy, vintage elements. Props and accessories available. Sips, sweets and make-up artistry included. Delivering 25 retouched images in a private, password-protected gallery from which to share, make prints and order products within one week.

+ $150 for CD of ALL high-res image 

E-mail: photo@saraleeann for booking!

xo.

Sara LeeAnn

Sunday Edition. November 6.

2011-11-06T13:45:00.000-07:00

Photograph and model: yours truly.

Boudoir, Uncovered - Miss M Writes:

2011-11-03T11:19:00.000-06:00

"I walked into this photo shoot feeling very self concious about my body. The thought of getting pictures taken of myself trying to be "sexy" made me feel a bit uncomfortable. But, right when I walked in the door Sara made me feel so comfortable and so beautiful. As she took pictures we chatted as if we were just out for coffee. Then once I recieved the photos back all my disregards about my body went out the window. I have a lot of curves and am not the smallest girl but Sara made me look and feel like a movie starlett straight out of the 50's......Marlyn Monroe if you will. My first experience of a boudoir shoot with Sara was amazing, so great, that I am considering doing another one!"

M, thank you for your trust, your playful spirit, and for seriously rockin' that retro-style, purple halter teddy. I'm so happy to know you. I look forward to doing another session with you in the future!

xo.

Sara LeeAnn

Boudoir Sessions Home Studio

2011-10-22T07:27:00.000-06:00

It's today, it's today! The Boudoir Marathon, A Parte Dois is today! The table is set and the home studio is clean, lit and lovely. The new, handmade sofa-couch (a la' Holly Golightly's fantastic original in my favorite film of all time, Breakfast at Tiffany's) looks freaking awesome, and is the coolest boudoir prop ever. It's also my cat's new, favorite place to nap. Quite certain she thinks we made it for just for her. Narcissist.

3 Days Until The Boudoir Marathon, A Parte Dois!

2011-10-20T10:11:00.000-06:00

Three more days until our second Boudoir Marathon! Whoo hoo! I'm off to grocery shop for our sips and sweets. I'm thinking... smoked gouda, brie, grapes, marinated olives, rye krisps, fudge brownies, macaroons and champagne. Mmmmmmn.

I can't wait to laugh, drink, play dress-up and photograph the eight beautiful ladies who signed up!

xo.

Sara LeeAnn

Boudoir Style: Naomi Lingerie

2011-10-19T09:44:00.000-06:00

I stumbled upon these sweet and sassy handmade pieces from Etsy's Naomi Lingerie and had a personal moment. Aren't the sweet and sassy striped sleep boxers just darling?! I'd pair them with the cat-eye sleep mask and chiffon top for a cozy boudoir photoset in the white room.

Happy Hump Day!

xo. Sara LeeAnn

Boudoir Style: Antique Pink

2011-10-12T09:30:00.000-06:00

Ohhhhh my gaaaaaaawd, have you ever, ever seen anything so girly and flirty and delicate and silky and flirty and ruffly and pink?!

Phoebe Teddy from Ayten Gasson

Happy Hump Day!

xo. Sara LeeAnn

I Covet... Vehement Victorian Ivory Bloomers

2011-10-09T18:05:00.000-06:00

Oh my, my, my and mercysakes. Someone please buy these and wear them to a boudoir photoshoot. That lace is so pretty I can't even stand it!

Vehement Victorian Ivory Bloomers from Under The Root

What to Wear, What to Wear...

2011-10-09T16:35:00.002-06:00

Now that you've booked a boudoir photo session, you likely have a gazillion questions. The one I hear most often is, "Um... what should I wear?" Here are my top three essentials I recommend every client bring to her session.

1) Bring clothing you LOVE. Part of the fun of this experience is in the planning and preparation, so have a little fun, treat yourself, and go shop for some new lingerie! If you're short on ideas, watch my two favorite go-to films: Nine, and Chicago. Also, leaf through some fashion magazines like Vogue, Elle and W for inspiration.

2) Bring something in black. A black, push-up bra and pair of black panties that flatter your body, for instance. You can't go wrong with basic black. On the day of your photo shoot, you will sit down with me and go over your vision for the finished images, and I'll suggest a few accessories from my closet that can dress up your basics.

3) Bring an open mind. It is completely natural to be a bit nervous before your shoot, but I promise if you just come with the intention of having fun, those nerves will dissipate within 10 minutes of goofing off with me, and sipping some champagne.

I am passionate about my work. I am all about making women - everyday women - feel and look as beautiful as they are. Everyday. So, you "bring it" and I'll bring it out.

xo. Sara LeeAnn

Boudoir Style: Sexy Little Pirate

2011-10-05T10:35:00.000-06:00

I love everything about this Sexy Little Pirate get-up from Victoria's Secret.

Happy Hump Day!

xo. Sara LeeAnn

♥ ♥ ♥ Featured! ♥ ♥ ♥

2011-10-04T10:44:00.002-06:00

Featured in Wyoming Weddings Boudoir E-Magazine! Thanks so much!

Boudoir by Sara LeeAnn Photography

Last Boudoir Marathon of 2011

2011-10-03T08:06:00.003-06:00

E-mail photo@saraleeann.com to book a time-slot!

Boudoir Style: Demure

2011-09-28T07:00:00.000-06:00

This rosy-hued bralette and panty set is so delicate, so demure. I'd pair it with this equally feminine, handmade fascinator and birdcage veil.

Today's style from Anthropologie, and percyhandmade on Etsy.

Happy Hump Day!

xo. Sara LeeAnn

Why I Super-Duper Love Being a Boudoir Photographer

2011-09-26T13:43:00.000-06:00

Because I make people feel awesome, which makes me feel awesome. Awesomeness all around! Yay! Here is an e-mail I received yesterday, from a darling client I worked with during my Midsummer Night's Dream Boudoir Marathon in June:

Hey Sara -

My Little Black Book arrived last week in the mail while my man was still at work. (It's gorgeous and I'm sorry it took me so long to choose which pictures I wanted but they were all too pretty!) I put the album on his bedside table and of course he didn't even notice it until we were getting ready to go to sleep. His reaction was priceless, seriously. Mouth open, eyes huge... he couldn't believe I did this and just kept telling me how sexy and beautiful I was. He said it was the best gift I'd ever given him, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are so incredible to work with and insanely talented. If you weren't one of the nicest people I've ever met, I'd sort of hate your guts. ;-) Haha! Thank you so much!"

Love,
*A

*A has chosen to keep all of her images private - for her husband's eyes only - so, no photos to post this time! But don't fret. More to come later this month!

Speaking of Posing: Vintage Boudoir Pose Inspiration.

2011-09-22T11:51:00.001-06:00

Hot damn. That's all.

"...But I Don't Know How To Pose."

2011-09-22T08:05:00.000-06:00

As a boudoir photographer, I am often told by my clients in manner of desperate plea just before we begin, "...but I don't know how to pose."

Well, thank merciful crap. Don't do THAT. Posing will ruin our perfectly lovely time, and probably our photographs, too! Speaking from years of experience in front of the lens and behind, posing and natural beauty are not the keys to appearing photogenic. Posturing and awareness are.

So, with that in mind, and direct from me to you, here are a handful of fail-safe tips to looking your absolute best in photographs - whether you have your clothes on or are baring it all.:

Fake it to make it. If you're not 100% confident in front of the camera... you're like everyone else - including me. Fake it. You can fool the camera, but more often than not, just feigning confidence will make you feel more empowered. Action follows thought.

Create movement. Dynamic photographs require energy, mood and little movement. Run your hands through your hair. Cross and uncross your legs. Straighten out your stockings. Lean back and roll your neck slowly from one side to another. Trust your photographer to capture you in motion, at your most flattering.

Never stand straight on to the camera. Seriously, don't do it. You will look like a body-builder. Which is awesome if you are a body-builder, but otherwise... not so much. Stand with one shoulder turned slightly toward the camera with the other turned away.

Know your best side. We all have one. Go to the mirror and find yours. And once you've identified it, ruthlessly present it at all times. (Unless your trusted photographer tells you otherwise, of course.)

Keep your arms slightly apart from your body. You will automatically appear slimmer.

Don't stare directly into the lens. Instead, look just a little above and ever-so-slightly to one side. Or out the window. Or down at your own body. Even close your eyes for a few moments.

Exaggerate your posture. Arch your back, lift your chest, chin slightly raised. Really stretch out your wobbly bits. Taut looks better than flabby every time.

When smiling, touch your tongue against the back of your top front teeth and push. This tightens the jawline and makes your smile appear that much more dazzling.

RELAX and HAVE FUN! A woman at east and enjoying the moment is always beautiful and sexy.

xo. Sara LeeAnn

Boudoir Style: Pin-Up Polka Dots

2011-09-21T07:00:00.000-06:00

I swoon over polka-dots. Always have, always will. This spotty body-suit, paired with a girlie bow headband and fierce, red bow heels is a playful, pin-up style look that will really pop in pictures.

Today's style is from TopShop, ban.do, and Zappos.

Happy Hump Day!

xo. Sara LeeAnn

Boudoir Marathon Privacy

2011-09-20T13:13:00.000-06:00

Heya, dolls! I get a lot of inquiries from women not totally sure what a boudoir marathon is, and who have questions and concerns about privacy. I thought I'd take a moment out of my photo-processing schedule today to post this for your information. I hope it clears things up, but as always, please feel free to contact me if you want to chit-chat about what I do. I love hearing from my ladies!

A boudoir marathon is a one to two day event, usually held at a hotel suite in your city. Boudoir photo sessions are approximately one hour in length, and done back to back. I allow a 30-minute window between clients so no one will see you coming or going. Every shoot is COMPLETELY private. The only people in the room during your session are You. And. Me. It’s a fun, empowering experience that you will never, ever forget, so don't be shy! Get in touch with me right away to book a session during my next boudoir marathon, or to request I do one in your area.

Treasures Unearthed.

2011-09-16T11:13:00.000-06:00

Whew. Unpacked at last... and, here, our treasures - foraged and found and so very cherished.

They're Pink.

2011-09-15T11:14:00.000-06:00

I love these guys. They're pink. They make me happy. That's all.

I Covet: Dita Von Teese Diamond Backseam Stockings

2011-09-15T10:51:00.001-06:00

I'm told I'm in the minority, but I loooooooove pantyhose! I'm all aflutter in anticipation of the colder months, so I can wear all my favorite stockings, knee highs and tights again. For those of you who like to keep 'em in the bedroom, though, check out these fantastic seamed stockings I stumbled upon in my favorite little online boutique: Secrets in Lace. As if the diamond backseam isn't swoon-worthy enough, Secrets in Lace actually partnered with Dita Von Teese to create a whole collection of stockings to her exact specifications, to the standards of the 1950's originals she loves so much.

Don't you love her expression here? It says, "Eat your heart out!"

I'm Hot

2011-08-31T15:30:00.000-06:00

My fan is broken. See? That's all.

Get Your Sexy On.

2011-08-29T06:15:00.000-06:00

A weekend of boudoir photography at its sexiest and silliest. Basically the mostest super-fun, private, dress-up photoshoot ever, ever - complete with cocktails and chocolate and decadence and just... use your imagination!

LIMITED TIME-SLOTS AVAILABLE.

This is a first-come, first-served kinda thing, and I always book up FAST... so please don't be shy and wait until the last minute! E-mail photo@saraleeann.com, or text me, or Facebook me, or send me a homing pigeon for more details and to snag a time-slot.

Yes, YOU - With Your Freckles and Crooked Teeth and that Extra 15 Lbs.

2011-08-28T14:42:00.002-06:00

Women are powerful. Vibrant. Mysterious. Soft. Strong. Inherently sexy. What I enjoy most about my work in boudoir is having an opportunity to help women feel (and embrace) how truly beautiful they are. I've been tremendously fortunate to work with a variety of females in all ages and stages of life, with various reasons for doing a boudoir session. Every session has been unique and memorable.

I wanted to take a moment to address something that has come up with some frequency of late. I’ve received several inquiries from girls with the same concern – here’s a recent example:

"Hi Sara -

Your boudoir photography is incredible. :-) I really want to do something similar but I'm kinda shy, and this really is NOT like me to do at all. Which is why I think it would be such an awesome surprise for my husband... but... I'm nervous! I am sooooo not a model, and I've been working hard at the gym to lose some extra weight so maybe I should wait until then? I have no idea how to pose or what to wear, or anything. What do you think?

Thank you,

M."

Here's what I think.

I think you're gorgeous. Yes, you. With your freckles and crooked teeth and that extra 15 lbs. I think the way you look down at your hands and chew on your lower lip when you're uncertain is a sincerely stunning sight to behold. So, too, is the "eat shit and die, I don't believe you for a second," glare you will give me when I tell you so in person. Whether you wear a t-shirt, a slinky dress, stockings and high heels, a negligee, or nothing at all... there is simply nothing sexier in the world than a woman who is embodying herself. Her. SELF. A woman who is laughing, and having fun, and using all her senses, and savoring the moment she is in, and daring herself to explore another aspect of who she is... is a force to be reckoned with.

Why is boudoir beautiful?

It's not because I use expensive camera equipment.
It's not because the girl is a model and brought a high-end wardrobe along.

It's not because I have 13 light sources, 8 backdrops and an assistant.
It's not because I Photoshop the everlovin' hell out of my images.
(Dirty little secret: I don't even use Photoshop. True story.)

Boudoir is beautiful, because women are beautiful. It's that simple.

My greatest privilege and particular gift is finding that which is so beautiful and real and remarkable... coaxing it out... and capturing it. So you just show up - and be you. Yes, YOU.
And I promise you that magic will happen. You'll see.

My Dearest Dears.

2011-08-20T11:16:00.000-06:00

We are moving house. Again. You, my dearest dears, will be wrapped up for the dozenth or so time in pink bubble wrap (because the pink bubblewrap is infinitely prettier than the clear kind, plus a portion of proceeds go to funding for breast cancer awareness, so it's a win-win) and buried in a box for a tick. I am sorry. If it offers any consolation whatever, I will miss your vacant porcelain faces atop my dusty, musty books on the antique drink cart where you usually perch. While we're discussing things missed, however, let me clarify that I will most certainly not miss the noisy woodpeckers, the whistle-scuffling neighbor girl - who may or may not be suffering from Asperger's syndrome, the atrocious, blue, office-grade carpeting, the $850/month rent and that stalker creep who is going to need to find another hobby starting right... n..o..w.

See ya on the flip side.

A Half A Dozen Kissed The Eaves

2011-08-13T11:17:00.000-06:00

My latest painting - a commissioned watercolor and India ink on 140 lb. cold press, in three parts - is on its way to California at last. I'm so critical, I can hardly look at it anymore, but maybe that sort of thing is just the nature of being an artist. I spent hours covered in masking fluid and salt, and nearly as long trying to rid my fingernails of the red stains, but the absolute focus and calm that comes over me when I paint is truly unrivaled by anything else. What a lovely project.

I read Dickinson yesterday afternoon, so I've aptly called this, "A Half a Dozen Kissed The Eaves."

79 Loves

2011-08-12T11:44:00.001-06:00

1. bunnies
2. rugby stripes
3. tattered, musty books
4. The Beatles
5. afternoon naps
6. cake
7. polaroid pictures
8. skinny dipping
9. pumpernickel bread
10. rosy cheeks
11. pacific ocean
12. blue cheese crumbles
13. fire escapes
14. vintage suitcases
15. cigar smoke
16. singing in the rain
17. poppies
18. superheroes
19. plank wood floors
20. farmer's markets
21. figs
22. worn leather armchairs
23. first glances
24. finches
25. vinho tinto
26. sharpened pencils
27. fog
28. cross-processed film
29. beards
30. spanish guitar
31. hands
32. tupelo honey
33. secrets
34. whiskey kisses
35. art nouveau
36. old friends
37. sparklers
38. cinnamon
39. deja vu
40. dancing cheek-to-cheek
41. Dum Dum suckers
42. claw-foot bath tubs
43. double entendres
44. tulle
45. classic cars
46. the Louise Brooks bob
47. goosebumps
48. T-strap high heels
49. black licorice
50. India ink
51. attic bedrooms
52. filigree
53. ferris wheel
54. dark chocolate
55. gravel roads
56. vodka
57. moonlight
58. jazz
59. moonlight
60. homemade salsa
61. drinking out of mason jars
62. cigarette cases
63. pink cotton candy
64. the F* word
65. James Bond
66. foot rubs
67. windchimes
68. hot air balloons
69. Greek mythology
70. basil
71. $2 bills
72. sand between my toes
73. chivalry
74. doughnuts with sprinkles
75. sherbet sunsets
76.willow trees
77. black-and-white movies
78. cat eye glasses
79. words

F* Yeah.

2011-07-14T08:29:00.006-06:00

Here it is! My self portrait from the Bubblegum Girl series based on Brad Collins' painting featured on the July cover of One More Robot Magazine in Dublin, Ireland! Buy your copy here: Purchase 'The Pop Issue' Right Now on Ebay (Available for 30 Days).

Sabor Bettie Page

2011-06-12T14:45:00.004-06:00

Even though the douchebag that put this video together didn't spell her name properly... Grrrrr... this video is still one of my favorite little guilty pleasures.

Bettie Page and Mo'Horizons. A match made in Heaven.

Oooooh La La!

2011-06-09T14:34:00.006-06:00

Our Midsummer Nights Dream Boudoir Marathon was way. too. much. fun. I have the pictures to prove it. Thank you, my brazen, beautiful dolls for a weekend of art and laughter. You are each seriously kickass.

I ♥ you.

Smurfs, Peanut M&Ms and Alfred Hitchcock. And Stuff.

2011-05-21T11:18:00.000-06:00

I do my best writing at 3:00 a.m.. Unfortunately for you it's 8:30 p.m.

I've been a real downer of late, so in manner of apology, please allow me to entertain you now with stream-of-consciousness ramblings NOT about dead mothers, legally kidnapped children and called off weddings. You're welcome.

I massaged someone today at work who's hands were blue. Like, blue. I can't adequately express the alarm I felt when I uncovered her appendages and saw this. Did she mascerate blueberries with her bare hands before coming in for her appointment? Is she suffering right now from hypothermia? Then, as I squeezed the oil into my palms and readied for touching hers, I wondered, "Oh, man... will the blue rub off?" Because I have such lovely, normal-colored hands. It didn't rub off. I bit on the insides of my cheeks to keep from calling her Smurfette when our session was over.

I have woodpeckers living in my apartment. Not in my apartment, specifically, but in the walls of this dilapidated, 1970's wooden townhouse building to which my apartment belongs. I pretend they are my woodpeckers and when I walk up the stairs, I tap on the wall and say endearing things to them like... "Polly wanna cracker?" And, "Nom nom nom. Wood is good." And just scream bloody murder in my best Tippie Hedren voice a la Hitchcock's "Birds."

Someone "ma'am"-ed me yesterday. As in, "Yes, ma'am." I forgave him because he was from the south. Had he been from New Jersey it would have been an entirely different story.

There's this creepy waif of a girl who walks back and forth on my block and whistles an eerie tune, whilst scuffing her shoes against the sidewalk. I hate her. I feel conflicted about hating her, however, because it's possible she has Aspergers or Autism or something stuck in her throat and her shoes... but, I do. I hate her. She is noisy and I want her to move away and whislte-scuff elsewhere.

How many Peanut M&M's can you eat before your stomach tries to make you dead? The answer is forty-seven. Remember that.

My eyelashes are thinning. It's a fact of life I guess - like silver hair and crows feet and that bitch, Gravity. It's becoming increasingly more labor-intensive and time-consuming not to look my age, so I've recently decided not to bother with the trying. Ok, yesterday. Yesterday I decided that in an effort to preserve my energy and time for more pressing matters, I'm going to stop putting the eyelash growth serum on my eyes before bed. 31-year-old eyelashes are fine. It only takes me 5 minutes before bed to apply this serum, but that's 5 minutes more of beauty sleep I can get. So I can hopefully not look 31 when I wake up.

Speaking of which. Goodnight.

It's 4am

2011-05-20T04:55:00.001-06:00

I can't sleep. That's all.

Why Do I Do It?

2011-04-18T09:41:00.001-06:00

I understand the curiosity. I really do. I live in Casper, Wyoming amidst a conservative population of those who maybe haven't seen a great deal of this type of work, much less entertained the idea of being part of it, so Boudoir/Intimates and Fine Art Nude photography isn't popular (yet) in my "neck o' the woods." That said, I've been privileged to work with some lovely women who sought me out to photograph them in their prettiest lingerie for their significant others' birthday or anniversary; and, still others who wanted to be photographed nearly or totally nude to immortalize their bodies at a certain age, or stage of life. Each time I post a few images from a recent session, for promotional purposes, I get some tacky and tasteless commentary... but, more often those curious messages simply asking, "why?"

Why do I do it? Why do I think it's an important part of my art portfolio? Why don't I stick with portraits and weddings - like most of my counterparts? Why don't I keep 'that stuff' private?

Because I believe all women are inherently powerful and beautiful. I've come to realize this power and beauty over time, over hours and years spent agonizing in the mirror about my freckles, and my laugh lines, and my new-found silver hair, and the tummy that nourished and housed my child, and the scars and bruises that mean this body has sustained some life experiences and has done me proud by surviving them. I have learned to honor myself.

So, I do it because helping women to honor and celebrate the body they inhabit, the body that sustains them every day (even with all it's flaws) enriches my life, my work... my life's work.

♥ Midsummer Nights Dream Boudoir Marathon! ♥

2011-04-15T08:40:00.004-06:00

Oh Summertime! I can almost feel the balmy sweetness of your touch on my bare skin... Last night I jumped the gun a bit, cranked up the thermostat and wore my peach, vintage babydoll nightie while I danced around to the Buena Vista Social Club and made Gingered Pork with Bok Choy and Cremini Mushrooms for dinner. Don't you judge me.

Summer means it is time for the Midsummer Nights Dream Boudoir Marathon!

            "Huh?" (I know, sounds bizarre, right?)

            "What the hell is that?" (I'm getting to that. Patience is a virtue.)

            "Do girls run a marathon in lingerie, because if so, I'm soooo there."
            (No. Stop reading my blog, pervert.)

♥ Midsummer Nights Dream Boudoir Marathon ♥

What: A weekend of Boudoir at its sexiest and silliest. Basically the mostest super-fun girl party ever, ever - complete with cocktails and chocolate and decadence and just... use your imaginations! I'll be booking my usual, individual 1.5-2 hr. sessions all day (at a discounted rate) Saturday and Sunday for my more bashful beauties who like it soft and sweet; and, for my bold Bettie's - an edgier, more raucous group session Saturday night!

Where: A hotel suite in Casper, Wyoming (to be determined once I find the coolest, swankiest one to provide us with great light and ambiance.)

When: Saturday, June 4th from 11am to Sunday, June 5th at 2pm.

This is your opportunity to show off that body you’ve been hiding all winter, be pampered and immortalized as the goddess you are, party down with the girls, and maybe surprise that special someone with a gift they'll never, ever forget! Think Father's Day... MEOW!

~E-mail photo@saraleeann.com, or text me, or Facebook me, or send a homing pigeon for more details and to snag a time-slot. Please note this is a first-come, first-served kinda thing... so don't be shy and wait until the last minute! I'm booking right now!~

I Didn't Get Where I Am Today...

2011-03-29T19:21:00.002-06:00

I didn't get where I am today by making myself sick trying to live up to your expecatations. Oh wait. That, "I didn't get where I am today" works so much better if you're an astronaut or surgeon or dictator of a country or anything that means you have half a dozen figures in your bank account. Particulary if those figures are not preceeded by a minus symbol, like so, "-". Nevertheless. I didn't get where I am today - smiling, utterly contented, drinking vinho branco, shaking my perfect Portuguese ass to latin music whilst making Chicken and Plum Tagine for my guy and I to eat on our super-cozy couch, surrounded by our two mutts, watching Monty Python and The Holy Grail, after we talk to my sweet baby girl on the phone, before we fall into our bed and get all tangled up together - by making myself sick trying to live up to your expectations.

That was the first 30 years of my life. The rest are mine.

I have a list of regrets that would (will) fill up several autobiographical novels, shaming and horrifying everyone I've ever known. The following, however, are not regrets; just the facts. The "where I am today."

I've been married and divorced. Twice.
I have $547.18 in my checking account.
I make $13/hr. as a glorified receptionist.
I live in a townhouse apartment. That I rent. In Wyoming.
I graduated at the top of my class... in high school... but, never attended university.
I have survived my childhood, the death of my mother, ovarian cancer, divorce and the custody loss of my only daughter, and the aforementioned debilitating and soul-crushing regret which I won't discuss until I finally publish this collection of memorist essays I've been penning for 10 years, after you are all dead, so I can't be sued for defamation of character or written out of the will.

Does the sum of all of these parts equal who I am to you? For this is all I am in black and white: A hot mess, I think. A super-fun clinical case for my next therapist, I'm quite certain. A dissapointment, maybe. But I'm the same woman you have called friend, or sister, or cousin, or lover, or mentor, or colleage, or arch nemesis all these years. (Alright. I just threw "arch nemesis in there for funsies. I want to be someone's arch nemesis. I love capes!)

You don't have to like me. Some days I don't particularly like me. The deep laugh line in the left corner of my mouth pisses me off... the way I cry when I get frustrated, instead of standing up for myself... my dark and morbid sense of humor that gets in the way of real connection with people ... the extra fat on my upper arms and the pooch beneath my belly button... lots of things. So, you don't have to like me. You don't have to respect my decisions. You don't have to high five me. You don't have to give me a cookie.

What you do have to do... is accept that I don't care what you think. And know that I wish you the same peace when you face yourself, alone, in the mirror each morning, as I feel when I do the same.

P.S. If anyone is looking for an arch nemesis, I am available.

Contained, But Not.

2011-03-26T15:59:00.000-06:00

I picked up a tattered 1970's book at the local library's used book sale this morning and was riveted by images so strange and sad and silly.. midgets and transvestites and nudsits and circus performers and handicapped children all staring into her lens with such bravado. I'd never heard of Diane Arbus, yet I picked up the book with absolute certainty that I would purchase it and love her when I saw cover photo, and her name sandwiched, contained but not, between two periods that way. ".diane arbus."

She was an American photographer most known for her photographs of "deviant and marginal people or of people whose normality seems ugly or surreal." I wonder if she was merely curious or if she had a need to see and reflect humanity as it actually is, and so gravitated to the so-called "freaks" because she saw herself in them. I Googled her and found out she committed suicide in 1972. This didn't surprise me. I seem to have a keen and deeply appreciative eye for the photographs of the tormented... because I understand.

My dear friend introduced me to the work and short life of self-portrait artist, Francesca Woodman a year or so ago. I very honestly sat in silence for more than an hour, worshipping her images, and weeping with recognition at her outcry of loneliness and her visual, visceral questions of life.

My very being trembles at the reality that in art there is supreme loneliness.

An artist is contained, but not. Being an artist is to be free. Free to take on the responsibilty of seeing too much, feeling too much; and, to process that "too muchness" internally until you bleed and burn from it; and then, somehow, to whittle it down and shape it into something coherent.

And finally, to hold that thing out, open your hands to the world, and say, "Here. Beauty and pain and joy and all the atrocities and realities of this life. For you. For us."

Vision in Vintage: Evelyne Rockin' "Dollface"

2011-03-06T12:28:00.001-07:00

I almost couldn't do it. After I'd spent several hours cutting and stitching - reconstructing this section of a vintage, 1950's dress to form a bright and daring statement headpiece... selling it seemed like an impossibility. It was too adorable! I listed it in the Blush & Bunny shop, still vascillating, and told myself if no one purchased it in one week, I'd pull it and keep "Dollface" for myself.

24 hours later it had sold. My heart sunk.

Until I found out the new owner was a girl I had pretty much idolized all through highschool: a tall, dark-haired beauty one year my senior, who hung out with all the "cool kids," and always seemed so indie, so stylish - before indie was even a buzzword, much less stylish.

Aren't they just a match made in heaven?

Vision in Vintage: Evelyne Rockin' "Dollface"

2011-03-06T11:19:00.000-07:00

Because of You, My Lil' Beau Peep

2011-03-05T11:20:00.000-07:00

Beau Annon:

Because of you... I will make a fishy face.
And tattoo a blackbird on my shoulder.
And sing the Sweet Potato song in public.
And paint all my fingernails a different color.
And make banana pancakes for dinner.
And buy that remote control helicopter you want for your birthday.

Because of you... I try every day to model gratitude, strength and integrity; and, when I fail, I forgive myself so you may learn how to forgive others.

Because of you... whipped cream is best eaten with my fingers.

Because of you... I sleep with my hands folded over my belly, remebering you. Always remembering.

Because of you... twirling, arms outstretched, on the front lawn is perfectly acceptable, and there is no limit to how many gummy bears find their way into the strawberry ice cream.

Because of you... hope isn't (as) scary, pain doesn't mean suffering, and maybe there is a God, afterall.

Because of you, my darling... I live.

March Magic

2011-03-01T08:39:00.002-07:00

Happy March! What was it about February that felt like a punch in the mouth? Am I the only one that felt like the shortest month of the year couldn't end quickly enough? I landed myself in the hospital for a tic, moved house, wrote an unexpected check for $1700, broke my camera, and managed to make a dizzying mess out of a few personal matters - in only 28 days!

Goodbye, February and good riddance, you nasty bitch!

Here's hoping the ides of March will bring a little bit (or lotta bit) o' magic into my life, and yours. What sort of wonders are you pining away for? Besides sunshine and blue skies, of course? I'm wishing on stars and eyelashes and dandelion heads for all sorts of things, but primarily for opportunities for growth in my various business affairs, and, as always... in love.

Watch me while I pull a rabbit out of my hat, folks!

“Magie Noire” with Zooey Deschanel, by Ellen Von Unwerth

I Swallow Life

2011-02-28T07:51:00.000-07:00

I want to devour life whole - to feel it's sticky sweetness break open on my tongue, and the bitterness after it's gone. I want to taste it. Really taste it. But it's not enough to taste life. The joy of experience is in the sharing it. I want to share with you the abstractions of these rich and pungent moments, in words and images, with my mouth and eyes and my own two hands.

I have always struggled with the word, " artist." What is it? What does it mean? Am I an artist if I'm not creating anything right now? Am I an artist if I've never studied art history? Am I an artist if I don't know how to draw or paint or sculpt? Am I an artist if I can't stomach selling my work? Am I an artist? I don't know. Are you?

I know I'm a girl who can't sit still. I'm a girl who feels deeply. I'm a girl who notices details. I'm a girl who internalizes the moods of others, the environment around me. I'm a girl with big ideas. I'm a girl who makes things. I'm a girl who gravitates toward color and texture and light and shadows. I'm a girl who appreciates the juxtaposition of the ugly in a beautiful world, and the beauty in a ugly world. I'm a girl who needs to know, needs to see, needs to accept, needs to relate, needs to connect.

I'm a girl.
I swallow life.

Live Love.

2011-02-14T08:17:00.003-07:00

I don't want to live - I want to love first, And live incidentally.

- Zelda Fitzgerald, letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1919

~ Strength + Vulnerability = Miss A ~ Wyoming Boudoir Photography

2011-02-03T09:05:00.000-07:00

After four days of back to back boudoir shoots, I was struck again by the realization that "sexy" has little to do with the lace lingerie and the stacked heels and the bed-head hair. It's that combination of strength and vulnerability that all women possess that is so seductive, so powerful.

Miss A is a boxer, a mother, a kindred soul and a force of nature. She's got it all, and then some.

Thank you for being such an inspiration, Miss A!

xo. Sara LeeAnn

Louise Brooks, My Muse.

2011-01-20T07:48:00.000-07:00

~ The Stunning Miss J ~ Wyoming Boudoir Photography

2011-01-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

Miss J is so naturally beautiful, high energy and camera-comfy, I felt like I was working with a professional model. She and I sipped mimosas and chatted about wardrobe and accessories for a bit before getting down to the business of play. I broke out my Bag of Tricks (make-up kit), though, only to find that I could scarcely improve upon this girl's already perfect complexion and arresting features. What a dream to work with!

Thanks for your vibrant spirit and all the laughs, dollface! It was an honor to make these beautiful images for your guy in time for his Valentine's Day surprise.

xo. Sara LeeAnn

The Sexy is Merely Incidental

2011-01-18T07:28:00.001-07:00

In loving jest, and sometimes plain, misinformed rudeness, I've heard it said about me that I'm an exhibitionist, a provocateur, and even that my work is pornographic. (Rewind to my Coffee & Cigarettes series last year and read my fiery words about censoring the boobies, if you care to, but that's not the subject of this particular post. Although, truly, I'll say it again, I super-duper love boobies. Yay boobies!)

While it's true I am an unabashed flirt and I don't have a knack for subtlety or modesty in real life, I don't create images and stories for the purpose of titillation. My self-portrait series' have been an exploration of the various female archetypes, my own feminine roles over the years, and my own whispery ghosts and preconceived notions of what womanhood ought to be. The sexy is merely incidental. A woman on the bathroom floor, weeping in desperation, is not sexy to me. However, if she drops the towel and looks directly at the camera, there may be someone who responds sexually, and I'll be accused of photographing porn. I think the truth is in my intent, and I hope my intent is evident to those people that are interested in the back story of a body of work, an essay, a piece of art, a stand-alone image.

Original image from "Wounded Girl" series, 2009

A photograph is a secret, about a secret. You won't find truth in a photograph. You'll find your perception of an illusion. That's what I love most photographing people, myself included. I can be photographing myself, thinking of a bacon cheeseburger with chili cheese french fries; but, when you see the image, you're certain I'm thinking about having sex with Will Smith. Ok, ok. I probably am. After he buys me a bacon cheeseburger with chili cheese french fries, maybe. Ahem. My point is, the viewer will see what he/she wants to see. I'm glad for that.

Where intent meets interpretation - if we're lucky - there is understanding.

I Covet: Ruffled Panties

2010-07-13T13:55:00.000-06:00

Make haste! Someone fetch me a fainting couch (preferably circa 1920's, upholstered in blush pink crushed velvet) because I'm swooning over these handmade, vintage-style ruffled panties from Espalore.

Jasmine ruffled sidetie panties - SILK CHARMEUSE - custom sized.

Beyond The Crux

2010-07-06T20:12:00.004-06:00

I went out rock climbing on Monday afternoon with my friend - a seasoned, strong climber as well as a gifted photographer. (Below you'll see the images he shot from my climb on Chunky Monkey in Love Shack, Fremont Canyon.) It's been awhile, but he's taken me along on his climbing excursions several times before - out in the middle of accursed nowhere, amidst cactus and rattlesnakes, and up in the majestic mountains alongside babbling brooks and butterflies... but this climb was decidedly different. Firstly, this time he did not strap a headlamp on me in the pitch black, after a long day of hiking, and dare me to climb a route I'd never before laid eyes upon, while bats circled overhead and bugs nibbled my flesh. (Which, by the way, I did. Because I'm a rockstar. Get it?) Secondly, this time he did not put me on a level 10 route with an overhang, tell me it was a 7, and shout at me to "push harder," when I screamed in defeat that I just couldn't do it.

This climb was different because I am different: I'm harder, somehow, than I was then. And softer, too. About 45 feet up the face, at the crux (the most difficult, damn near impossible move), I lost my footing, banged my knee against the jagged edge of a rock, and lost my grip. Literally and physically. I cried out in pain, growled in frustration, slapped at the slickness in search of a pocket, a pinch, anything at all... and I felt so angry at my limitations. I screamed, "Take!" I felt the belay device lock, and I relaxed my legs and arms for a moment, shook my head and squinted into the sun as Danny shouted down, "You got this, baby! You've done this route before with no sight at all! Look around you, now! You're missing something! What are you missing? LOOK for it!" I did. I had. I was.

"Dammit, Danny, I'm stuck! I can't -" I yelled. I kicked at the face, tried to find a toe-hold.

"You're not stuck and you can! Rest! Lean back and rest for a minute, then get back on! Trust yourself! Trust it!" He yelled back.

And, it was in that instant that I knew the real reason I was struggling up there.
I felt the stinging in my limbs, the sweat on my neck, the fear in the pit of my stomach.
I heard the wind, the gulls, the beating of my heart in my ears.
I saw only the rock in front of me.

Dangling on that rope, no way up or down but for my own determination, strategy and strength, I was bitch-slapped by the realization that anytime I can see the crux of a problem, it is all I can see; and, that because I trust nothing, no one, least of all myself, I flail. And I fail. This climb was an allegory for my life. I hung my head low and breathed it in.

With a primal growl, I dug in my toes, leapt for a high jug and latched on barely, very barely. Danny called out his congratulations as I scrambled the rest of the way up. When I reached him at the top bolt, I held onto his hand, closed my eyes, and laid my cheek against the cool stone. I said something deep and profound like, "Fuck this climb," and he laughed. "No seriously. I hate this climb. And I hate your guts."

Back at the bottom, legs like jello, I stripped off the harness, the chalk bag, the shoes and flopped down on the dirt, took a swig of Gatorade, lit a cigar. I was exhausted. I was exhilarated. I was maybe even a little enlightened.

I took a deep drag and thought, "Next time life hurts and I'm stuck, maybe I'll remember to look beyond the crux, to rest myself, to trust life. Yeah, maybe."

As For Me

2010-07-02T09:04:00.007-06:00

I was talking to a friend who told me he hated poetry because it was all sentimental bullshit. I blanched. I stuttered. I may have suffered a mini-stroke because I saw a blinding light and the left side of my body went numb - a preventative measure, I think, so I couldn't smack him. "What? No! No, it isn't! Watch your dirty mouth!" Then, I pondered as he clarified the majority of poetry is sentimental bullshit. At which point I marinated in it some more, and then reluctantly conceded.

There is some trite and terrible poetry slopped and highlighted between the pages of paperback books, embroidered on pillows and dishtowels, recited in a caffeine-induced crackrage on the lawn at university, and scrolling sad across computer screensavers everywhere. There are quotations and Bible verses and greeting card mush passed off as poetry. You and I both know people who claim to write poetry, then proudly produce a stanza in which they've managed to make "love" and "dove" rhyme. Wow. You're a genius. I particularly enjoyed the part where love grew wings. That was original.

Regardless of the drivel and dreck I've tasted to get to the sweet stuff, I remain a ravenous lover of poetry: of words suspended and swaying in rhythm, plucked for their ripeness of sound and cadence as much as their fat, fleshy meanings, double meanings, disguised meanings. Poetry that makes your guts curdle and your soul spew out your mouth in a guttural cry of real knowing, of rage, of rapture.

My favorites? Too many to count or classify, but here are a few that feed and fuel me, from the inside out:

Philip Larkin
Poetry of Departures

...I detest my room,
It's specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you bastard;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me to stay
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo'c'sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.

Anne Sexton

For My Lover, Returning To His Wife

...I give you permission --
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound --
for the burying of her small red wound alive --
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call --
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

Charles Bukowski
Consummation of Grief

...I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

Sylvia Plath
Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Pablo Neruda
Canral apple, Woman filled, burning moon.

Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:...

Mina Loy
Apology of Genius

...unknowing
how perturbing lights
our spirit
on the passion of Man
until you turn on us your smooth fools' faces
like buttocks bared in aboriginal mockeries

We are the sacerdotal clowns
who feed upon the wind and stars
and pulverous pastures of poverty

Our wills are formed
by curious disciplines
beyond your laws

You may give birth to us
or marry us
the chances of your flesh
are not our destiny -- ...

Dylan Thomas
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

...Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night...

William Carlos Williams
This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

(I close with "This Is Just To Say," as a sort of underhanded apology to my friend for turning our personal conversation into a blog post. And because I am craving plums. Which is just fucking bizarre.)

Dr. Meow Probably Doesn't Take Requests

2010-06-16T17:14:00.013-06:00

It was the whoosh-purr of the ventilators, the garish lights, the incessant beeping, and the nurses hovering, flapping around like moths all around her that made me cry. My mother was 39. She was too young, it was all wrong, and my sisters and I weren't ready to say "goodbye."

Today I put on my big girl panties and went to the dentist to have three cavities filled. Wait. Whoa. What? How does this relate to my mom's death? It doesn't. It shouldn't. Yet, the last dental appointment I went to was when I was 17, having my wisdom teeth removed, and she was there holding my hand. And when she died three years later from acetaminophen poisoning, I was holding hers. You're horrified. I have that affect on people. I know, I know: I haven't returned to the dentist in 13 years. That's a loooooong time. I was married to a dentist's son for 5 years, for heaven's sake! 'What is wrong with you?' you ask, a curiosity/disgust cocktail pouring forth from your eyes.

Well. I haven't been to the dentist in 13 years because I haven't had dental insurance.
Ok. And because I'm a colossal chicken shit who has an issue with people's hands in her mouth.
And, if I'm going to be 100% forthcoming, because the last time I went to the dentist my mom was there...

... and with so few vivid memories left to cling to, I kind of wanted that to be my last memory of dentistry, altogether. We read Seventeen magazine together in the waiting room and laughed at the receptionist with pink hair. She kissed both my cheeks and said, "See you soon, Dolly" when the mayo facial surgeon closed the door. It was her crystal blue eyes I saw when I opened mine hours later. We spent nearly two weeks watching classic films like Gone With The Wind and West Side Story, while she brought me milkshakes and raked her graceful fingers through my hair.

Pathetic much? Yes. But, there you go. I haven't been to the dentist in 13 years because I miss my mommy.

***

This morning, I sat comfortably in a reclining chair, looking out the window at a rambunctious squirrel performing acrobatics on the branch of a young, Aspen tree. I was comfortable, relatively at ease, and laughing with the lovely nursey-type people - even the one that gave me several shots in the mouth, which, for all intents and purposes I am allowed to despise. Dr. Meow enters the room. (Very obviously, names have been changed to protect the perfectly innocent and unassuming; and, for your information, I'm referring to him as Dr. Meow beause, through no fault of his own, he's the sort of man that walks into a room and makes women purr, "meeeee...ow" under their breath. (It's ridiculous, and maybe ever-so-slightly degrading, but... there it is. It's the first thing that came to mind. Lay off. Ive suffered a very traumatic experience today. Please just go with my flow, and follow along.) The typical chit-chat ensues, but oddly is accompanied in my head by a goofy-sexy 70's soundrack. 7.5-ish minutes later his gloved hands were in my mouth.

Up until this point, I had not spazzed out. I was highly anxious, lightheaded, nauseated and my normal-sized face felt at least half-a-dozen times larger than (I hope) it actually was, but these people were warm, friendly, skilled, professional and pretty much totally fantastic in all respects. A horrible, clear plastic contraption with air suckers was inserted into the back of my mouth and I fought not to gag. In fact, I fought to appear completely composed and even attractive. This is where the hysteria began. I'm laying there, fists clenched, eyes clamped shut, trying to appear normal, when... who cares?! One absolutely cannot be composed, attractive and/or normal in this situation! So, a giggle bubbles in the back of my throat. I'm drowning in my own tongue, and try to move it to the right toward the sucker thingy when I realize I can't move my tongue. This, naturally, causes me to think of that ridiculous scene in Kill Bill where Uma Thurman is laying in the Pussy Wagon willing herself to "WIGGLE YOUR BIG TOE," and now I can hardly keep myself from cracking up. I laugh from somewhere deep in the back of my throat and threaten my own life should I make a stupid ass of myself in front of these complete strangers who are trying to do their job. I am also willing myself not to think about the whoosh-purr, the lights and the beeping. I take big, deep breaths. I remain calm.

Dr. Meow hums something unintelligble under his breath, but catches himself and stops. My eyes flutter open. I want to communicate with him telepathically and beg him to keep humming, as I'm finding it distracting and soothing. I want to know if he takes requests. Damn this damn thing crammed in my mouth!

An hour later, my three cavities are filled. My face is numb. I am spent. Honestly, I could use a cigarette, but then I remember I don't smoke. [Except for cigars. When I drink. Whatever.] Ellen - whose name is not really Ellen, but something possibly rhyming with 'Ellen' - isn't this fun?! - tells me to go get a yogurt smoothie when I leave here, in order to get my blood sugar back up. Solid advice. I really like her. I like smoothies. Mmmmnn, I think I'll have a peach banana.

I stand up.
I want to vomit.
I walk to the counter where the sunny, funny receptionist chats with me and tells me I don't owe a dime today. I still want to vomit, but I'm relieved I'm going to be able to pay my rent and eat for the next two weeks, and this pleases me. Dr. S* comes out to visit with me. (I'm referring to him as "Dr. S*" with a "*" because he deserves a star. He's the coolest. I won't tell you anything else that may give away his true identity lest I be sued one day for libel, but trust me, he's Superhero Cool.) I'm still trying not vomit. I bid them all adieu, drive home, and promptly vomit.

I have been sleeping and *vomiting most of the day. My jaw hurts, my teeth hurt, my pride hurts... but I'm finally sitting up on the couch, sipping iced tea (with vodka in it - only for the pain) dissecting a taquito, which I intend to consume momentarily. Even if I have to stick it in the blender.

*Please note that my vomiting is due to my body's own defectiveness and longtime hatred of me, as well as my uber-sensitive stomach, but even more likely from my nervous, almost PTSD-related emotionality over my mom's death.

My dental appointment was a great success. I can't wait to go back. In another 13 years.

I Love You All The Way Up To The Moon.

2010-06-06T11:22:00.000-06:00

I was dancing with Beau Annon, humming into her ear. She said, "Mama... I love you all the way up to the moon." And I started to cry. So she grabbed my face in her hands and said, "Don't cry, Mama. I love you all the way up to the moon, all the time!" (Which is what I've been saying to her, verbatim, since she was born.)

Absolutely perfect moment captured absolutely perfectly

by Christan Parreira of Christan P Photography.

Bubblegum Girl

2010-05-30T21:46:00.001-06:00

I see a young woman in a red dress. Her hair is coiffed and her makeup is picture-perfect. She is at a party where she knows everyone, but no one knows her. She is restless, bored and a little lonely. Maybe a lot lonely. Maybe so lonely she wants to cry, but she doesn't. Instead she chews bubblegum. It's strawberry, and she's pretending, and in her rosy reverie she is a child, and she is loved, and she is safe, and any moment now someone will come, scoop her up, hold her close, dance her around, never leave.

But no one comes... So she finds a quiet corner and plays, "Who can blow the biggest bubble?"

And she is bound to win because she's playing all by herself.

For the Love of... Bubblegum and Red Dresses, and Playing Dress-Up With a Camera.

2010-05-30T20:16:00.001-06:00

I took one look and fell headlong in love with Brad Collins' "The Love of Bubblegum and Red Dresses," which I blogged here last month. So much so, in fact, I purchased a print for myself a few days later.

I was so very taken with Bubblegum Girl: the paradoxical nature of her sweet, almost childlike bubblegum-blowing... her sophisticated, red dress... her expression - almost confrontational, but playful and knowing, too. I could scarcely reconcile these traits... and yet they were familiar to me. Familiar as my own reflection. Me, with my pencil skirt and glasses and respectable day job; me, with my fuzzy slippers and "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and ice cream and tears and daughter's stuffed animals; me, with my visible tattoos and dirty mouth and vodka and cigars.

I was inspired! I contacted Brad. I confided in him that Bubblegum Girl and I share some startling similarities. I told him I was sure that Bubblegum Girl was winking at me. Because she knows my secrets. And she approves. I asked Brad if he'd please allow me the honor of photographing one of my rather infamous self-portrait series' based on his original artwork. He agreed, wholeheartedly, and even reciprocated by dreaming up this adorable likeness of yours truly, as "Bunny Girl." In Brad's own orchard of lamentations, he posted the graphic of me, along with this explanation of our collaboration:

"This new piece is the result of an ongoing conspiracy between myself and a fellow artist off in Wyoming (as if that's a real place. Come on). This conspiracy began when she saw a painting of mine entitled "The Love of Bubblegum and Red Dresses" and in a fit of affinity for it, she posted it to her blog, bought a copy, and contacted me. Her plan is to produce a series of photos based on the painting (she's been practicing blowing bubbles all day, apparently), and then I, in turn, will do another drawing or two which she will also likewise create photographic accompaniment for. Told you: the things I draw come true."

Well, it has taken me a month and some change to conceptualize, find the key wardrobe elements and stage a backdrop for this photoshoot; but, I have finally done it! Last night, dressed to the nines and armed with a package of Hubba Bubba, four 36' helium-inflated, pink balloons and the strange yet somewhow simbiotic sounds of Madeliene Peyroux, The Beatles and Jay Z, I got down with my bad self and became Bubblegum Girl for the camera.

Don't stray far from the bunnycage, my lovelies. The photos will be posted no later than midnight tonight. Maybe you can chew some gum and blow bubbles while you wait?

My Punishment for Not Having a Penis

2010-05-23T07:18:00.003-06:00

When I was eleven years old my daddy told me it would be my job to help mow the yard. Our 'yard' was 2.5 acres. We had a push mower - a relic, an ugly, beastly thing with cobwebs clinging to the underbelly and dents on the gas tank. I thought surely he was shitting me. He was not.

That first Saturday morning as he stood, arms crossed over his chest, watching me grunt and growl and wallow in self-pity as I fought the beastly machine, I knew my daddy hated me. He always hated me, I thought. My mom told me that he'd wanted a boy. This is my punshiment for not having a penis. I debated breaking down in a girly fit of tears followed by a classic fainting episode when, after 30 minutes I still couldn't get The Beast up the hill by the flower beds without running into the orange tree; but, I was too proud. And he was watching. Or, he was watching and I wanted to make him proud.

Our lawn looked horrible that first year. Daddy often redid the front yard. Eventually, though, I grew a few inches, had a bit more leverage, didn't have to get a running start and charge into The Beast anymore to make it go, learned a few tricks of the trade for getting around trees and avoiding my step-mom's flowers. I grew in other ways, too, and started mowing the yard in a bikini. I told daddy over breakfast one morning I had an idea for a business. I would hire several other strong, pretty girls and we would mow lawns in bikinis. We could charge double what the lawboys in our area charged. Because we could. Daddy didn't appreciate my business plan. In my fourteenth year he bought a tractor mower and started doing the yard himself.

1960s PLAYBOY MAGAZINE Bikini Girl Woman Graphic POSTCARD

courteousy of Christian Montone's Flickrstream and fabulous blog.

Fast forward more years that I care to discuss. Ok. 15 years later. I'm 30. I'm 30. I'm 30 and I am living in a rental house with a lovely front and back yard. The front is embarassingly overgrown before I realize I either need to hire someone to take care of it, or mow it myself before my landlord evicts my neglectful ass. I get into a furious battle with 4ft. tall, wet grass and a push mower. Passersby are gawking as I let out a primal scream and throw my hands up in the air, kick the mower and walk into the garage to catch my breath. My neighbor came out to have a cigarette and smirked at me from his front porch as I tried to start the maching over, and over, and over again. I'm fairly confident he went back inside and woke the rest of his buddies to watch the show. If they had any sense, one of them videotaped it. I attacked the lawn again, up to my knees in moist, sticky grass.

An hour later I am sweaty, thirsty and the front lawn looks horrible. But I won. After my shower, I sit in my bra and panties with Diet Coke and a smile to revel in my glory and mourn my grass-stained jeans. I really should have worn - ahhhhhhh yeah.

So, I have an idea for a business. It goes like this...

Always use "Miss," because "Ma'am" Makes Me Want to Punch You in the Face.

2010-04-28T13:38:00.003-06:00

So, yesterday after work I went to buy toothpaste at Target. Yes, just toothpaste. I could have stopped at any number of grocery stores on the way from my office to my house, but I like Target. I go after work at least twice a week, sometimes for no other reason than because I'm miserably homesick, and Starbucks and Target are two places that are exactly the same no matter where you are in the USA; and, since I've already likely had a pot-and-a-half of coffee by 5pm, Target is a healthier choice. Anyway, I went to buy toothpaste for a sparkly smile, and left moments later with an ear-to-ear grin and in a fit of helpless giggles.

Target Boy hit on me. I call him "Boy" because I'm 30 years old, and he is clearly nowhere near it, but my boyfriend - who is 7 years my junior - tells me this is unfair. So, ok. I'll self-correct. Target Guy hit on me yesterday. (And, I'm giving my readers no physical description here both to protect Target Guy's anonymity.) Sure, I get compliments and innuendos and flirty glances and such from time to time, but, Target Guy gets major points because he hit on me in such a way... with such unabashed confidence and without missing a beat or breaking eye contact... that I was caught completely off guard. I think I may even have stammered a little.

Me, approaching the check-out counter with my toothpaste: "Hi. How are you?"

Target Guy: "I'm fine. How are you tonight, ma'am?"
Me, pretending to be offended, "I was fine until you called me "ma'am."

Target Guy, while still staring directly into my face, and without so much as a moment's pause, "I could call you something else, but it would get me fired."

Me, eyes wide, speechless, looooooong silence while I attempt to regain some ground, but... yeah, I got nothing....

Target Guy, "It would be a 'nice' something else. You'd like it."

Me, just incredulous that he has the audacity, and pretty impressed, really, because it takes some serious well... you-know... to talk to a woman when you're 17 or 18 or 19 years old, but to do it with such flair... So, I say, "Well. I wouldn't want to get you fired."

Target Guy places my Vivid White toothpaste in a bag, hands it to me, and says, "Have a great night... Miss." And, I knew right then that I would blog this in the bunnycage because it's funny, it's random, and it's my own personal kudos to anyone as brazen and/or ballsy as me, so I dropped my business card on the counter before I walked out.

This pointless post is now concluded. High-five to Target Guy! You make buying toothpaste fun.

Because I Can.

2010-04-28T13:07:00.000-06:00

Because I can. I did. I bought myself a ring. I wear it on my left, ring finger. It makes men think I'm married and women think I'm spoiled, but evermore importantly, it makes me think, "oooooh, pretty," about a dozen times a day.

Vintage 1950's white gold and diamond ring, from CY Antique Mall in Casper, Wyoming.

See? You totally just said it, too, didn't you?

I didn't intend to buy a ring when I dropped into the antique shop. I was looking for a baby doll for my baby doll; but, a peek into Case #14 and I was completely smitten. As is often the case, I admit. Usually I scour Case #14 for mismatched clip-on earrings and milk glass necklaces that I can deconstruct and stitch onto my handmade, floral accessories or a vintage hat. And usually, I don't keep those for myself, but sell them wholesale to Fields Creek - a quaint, artsy little local boutique, or online. Every once in awhile though, I can't part with something. I think you can plainly see why.

What makes you fall in love, squeal with delight, take out your checkbook? What do you treat yourself to?

I Covet: Sexy Phone

2010-04-28T09:18:00.001-06:00

This phone just may be enough to make me call the telephone company and install a landline. Is this just the cat's meow?! This shape makes me want to run my hands all over it. And if you haven't checked out Diana and Victoria's beautifully-curated vintage Etsy shop, a touch of vintage, go. Go now. For real. Off with you.

Sexy Ivory Dawn Rotary Phone from a touch of vintage

Bunnies Are Not Adorable. Bunnies Are Scary.

2010-03-27T16:53:00.002-06:00

I'm not posting about bunnies because Easter is next weekend. Just so we're perfectly clear, and you don't think I'm like every other blogger in the blogosphere posting about bunnies and eggs and Easter. Because I don't even like Easter. Anymore. I used to love it. Because it was spent laughing and eating salty tri-tip and Portuguese beans among 40 of my closest relatives, scrambling around my grandparent's perfectly-manicured, bloom-covered backyard in search of the $100 egg. Or the $50 egg. Or the several $20 or $10 or $5 eggs. Worst case, you were the sap that found only a few of the $1 eggs, and you ended up with milk chocolate and got thrown into the pool. (I will never, ever forgive you for ruining my beautiful, multi-tonal lilac, silk blouse, daddy. Ever. Fucking ever.) But, it was still a party. A springtime party to celebrate mother nature and family! Unlike the past few Easters I've spent in this wintry, blustery, snowy, stark and lonesome fuck-all nightmare of a place. And now that I've gone and said "fuck," several times consecutively... Religious holidays in general kind of irk me, anyway. Easter in particular, not just for the Jesusy stuff, but because I have an extreme distaste - bordering on raging, sociopathic hatred - for eggs. They taste horrible and they give me stomach cramps. I used to think this was all psychosomatic because I spent five years of my young life gathering chicken eggs from our coop, then scrubbing them clean with a toothbrush in the morning hours before school. (It's not as Little House on the Prairie as it seems, I swear.) Turns out though, I have an actual sensitivity, while not quite an allergy, to eggs that causes my stomach to try to kill me within 20-40 minutes of consuming them. So, to reiterate, this post has nothing to do with Easter, and wasn't meant to have anything to do with eggs. I just veered terribly off topic.

I love bunnies. This also likely stems from my youth when I spent hours sitting in the soft, cool dirt of the bunnycage, reading my step-mom's romance novels while the lop-eared rabbits hopped all around me and sniffed at my elbows. What's not to love about bunnies? Bunnies are soft. And quiet. And utterly adorable. But the thing I like best about bunnies is that look of unabashed distrust always glinting in their tiny, dark eyes. Eyes that seem to say, "I'm soft. And quiet. And utterly adorable. And I don't trust you for shit." I get that. I totally empathize. I'm pretty sure my own eyes reflect that same sentiment most of the time.

When I christened my blog "the bunnycage" two years ago, I toyed with getting a bunny to be my mascot but was afraid my dog - a mild-mannered, 5-year-old Tibetan Spaniel called "Sully" (or "Sullivan James, you sonofabitch!" when he pees on the carpet) would be overzealous and frighten the poor, little thing to death. So, I refrained. When I began my new blog and opened my new Etsy shop - aptly named, "Blush & Bunny" - last week, I began daydreaming again about adopting a soft, quiet, adorable, mistrustful little pet... even spent some time researching how to properly house and care for them, Googling images of said soft little darlings, thinking, "where might I put a a little rabbit hutch?" and "what might I call her?" and all sorts of premature wonderings.

But.
Then.
I saw this print on Etsy, promptly snapped out of my fuzzy daydream, and entered a nightmare whereby I get attacked by rabid zombie rabbits with glowing eyes and blood dripping from their blunt, little teeth. Thank you, badbird, for setting me straight. Bunnies are not adorable. Bunnies are scary. I don't trust bunnies for shit.

Zombie Rabbits Limited Edition Print, 5x7

P.S. This print is wicked cool. I love it.

~ Makings of a Model: Miss K ~ Fort Collins, Colorado Boudoir Photography

2009-05-07T11:19:00.000-06:00

I had the privilege of styling and photographing the ethereal beauty, Miss K, at the historic Armstrong Hotel in Ft. Collins, Colorado a few weeks ago. Our goal was to create a simple series of sophisticated black-and-white images for inclusion in her growing modeling portfolio. I'd say pretty definitively, "Mission Accomplished."

I could wax poetic all day long about the lovely Miss K with her luminous skin and expressive eyes, and go on and on about the luxurious, vintage suite and the crown molding, but a picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll leave you with a few images from our session instead.

Thanks a bunch for entrusting me with building your portfolio, Miss K. I'm honored.

xo. Sara LeeAnn

Brutal. Barbaric. Beautiful.

2009-02-21T06:31:00.005-07:00

This took four hours. Four hours of the most intensely brutal, barbaric pain I've ever experienced, my body trembling and jerking and sweating, while I gritted my teeth and clung to the table, white-knuckled and nearly mindless. No, I did not give birth to another child. I got a tattoo. Along my right side, directly over my ribcage and hip bone. Because I'm obviously masochistic and possibly certifiably insane. Why did I assume that because I have given birth and gone through chemo and have had two invasive, internal procedures to my girly regions and one to my netherregions, that this tattoo would be a cake-walk?

Because I'm an idiot.

The tattoo artist gave me a wad of bubblegum to chew. He said it helps. I thought, "if the tattoo GUY - whose body is covered from head to toe in ink - says it helps, awesome." Well, it didn't release Demerol into my blood stream, I'll tell you that right now. It did make my jaw hurt so bad that during the shading portion of the tattoo - with it's obnoxious, repetitive, scritchy scratchiness - I actually found myself more focused on the pain in my mouth. So, okay, maybe it helped a little.

As tortured as I was, I managed to breathe through it - even to chat on and off with my best friend, Lindsey - and only dropped the F-Bomb twice. Under my breath. Which makes me a rockstar. Honestly, I'm as proud as if I had given birth, and I don't have to do 3am feedings, so... this is better.

Without further ado, my beautiful tattoo:

All things considered, it was totally worth it.

Na Cozhina: Soft Chocolate Cookies with Grapefruit and Star Anise

2009-02-20T14:15:00.005-07:00

All at once spicy, tangy and sweet, these moist chocolate cookies are tongue-tantalizing in an orgasmic sense. I prefer to share original recipes here, but this one from last month's issue of Bon Appetit magazine was too incredible to keep to myself. You'll see what I mean...

Soft Chocolate Cookies with Grapefruit and Star Anise

Ingredients:

8 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, diced
1 teaspoon plus 1/4 cup sugar
3 whole star anise
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon teaspoon coarse kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons honey
2 teaspoons finely grated grapefruit peel
*confectioner's sugar for dusting

Method:

Combine chocolate and butter in medium microwave-safe bowl. Microwave in 10-second intervals until chocolate is almost melted; remove and stir until melted and smooth. Finely grind 1 teaspoon sugar and 3 star anise in spice mill or small coffee grinder. Transfer to small bowl; whisk in flour, cocoa, coarse salt, and baking powder.

Beat remaining 1/4 cup sugar, eggs, honey, and grapefruit peel in large bowl until thick and smooth. Fold in chocolate, then dry ingredients. Cover bowl; chill batter until cold and firm, at least 45 minutes and up to 1 day.

Preheat oven to 375°F. Line 3 large baking sheets with parchment paper. Drop batter by tablespoonfuls onto prepared sheets, spacing mounds 2 inches apart.

Bake cookies, 1 sheet at a time, until dry-looking and tester comes out with moist crumbs still attached, about 10 minutes. Cool on sheet 3 minutes, then transfer to racks and cool completely. *I dusted mine with confectioner's sugar because the finished cookies looked so like my Gramma's Wagon Wheels, and that's her special trick. Ah, nostalgia.

I ate three of these little darlings fresh from the oven. As I obviously have no self-control, I attempted to pawn off the rest on John and his office staff; but, he's one of those tragic souls who hate chocolate. Outrageous! So, I wrapped them in parchment, folded them into kraft paper and tied the package with a pretty ribbon for the staff at Sunrise Shipping - where I do all my business for the bunnycage. Hopefully I can refrain from opening the package and devouring the remainder on the two-block drive from my house. Wish me luck!

I Covet: Garters

2009-02-12T17:38:00.011-07:00

Designer, Kirsten, of piper ewan is a girl after my own heart. Not only does she design and handcraft sumptuous, sexy fabric accessories that make me swoon, she advocates for women wearing a garter under her skirt or dress every single day - just because.

In her shop profile, she writes, "i wear a garter almost every day. if you see me on the street, and i am wearing a skirt or dress, ask me to show* you my garter. wearing a garter under one's skirt will surely brighten your day.

*warning: asking just any stranger on the street to show you their garter may result in you getting smacked. i don't mind, because i think everyone should wear a garter every day, and i am working for a cause! but some ladies like their secrets."

You already know how I feel on the subject. As I've mentioned, I spend nickels and dimes on my shoes but buy extravagant lingerie. And I don't save them for special occasions. I may be wearing jeans and a tank top, but my underthings are slinky, lacy, silky and sometimes racy, and make me feel like a beautiful, powerful little sex kitten all day long - even if I'm only mopping the floor and scrubbing toilets.

Give it a try. It's like Zoloft, only it costs less and won't kill your sex drive.

I'm personally lusting after this silky black and pink garter; but, if it isn't quite your style, she has dozens of original designs in her shop and also does custom work!

every day is valentine's day garter by piper ewan

Whoot whoot for sexy, feminine handmade accessories!

I Covet: Naughty Needlepoint

2009-02-10T08:26:00.004-07:00

Early, early, stupid retarded early this morning when my insomnia struck again and left me wide-eyed and supremely annoyed, I spent an hour exploring Flickr's Explore and serendipitously stumbled on Rachel McKay's photostream. I discovered and fell headlong in love with her super duper Etsy shop, Naughty Needles, featuring all sorts of original, tongue-in-cheek, naughty, kitchsy artwork, most especially this hysterical framed, needlepoint artwork.

You Say Tomato... by RachelMcKay

Just may have to request a custom throw pillow with this saying for my bed... so funny. Even at 2am.

Guilty Pleasures

2009-02-08T19:42:00.005-07:00

Good evening, my daaaahlings... How has your weekend been? Did you embark on an adventure? Enjoy some R&R? This is a just a quickie - an apology post because I'm such a colossal jerk! What with the local charity auction this weekend, I completely spaced on my promise to post the recipe for my rock-your-world, spiced hot cocoa on Friday. I double promise to post it this Friday, along with some beautiful images, as a prelude to your (fingers crossed for you) romantic Valentine's Day. Personally, I despise V-Day and everything it stands for: the cliched' diamond heart pendants, abysmal grocery chocolates and outlandishly inflated prices for a plastic-wrapped and wilted rose bouquet. However, as you well know, I'm all for an excuse to savor sensual pleasures, most especially chocolate.

I'm savoring one of my favorites tonight.

Enjoy the remainder of your weekend! Boa noite! Until tomorrow...

I Covet: Picknickers

2009-01-30T15:31:00.002-07:00

Ooooh! I just found the most perfectly perfect little panties! I must have these! Etsy's ClareBare made these darling, ruffled knickers out of a vintage tablecloth. I KNOW! They're upcycled! Love it! Honestly there are at least half a dozen other itty bitty cutsie wootsie things I want from her shop... so, race you! GO!

Picknickers by ClareBare

Na Cozinha: Chocolate Amaretto Cheesecake Muffins

2009-01-16T08:41:00.009-07:00

Sipping my 2nd cup of coffee and savoring my molten muffin this morning, I got lost in a reverie about the little cafe and chocolaterie I dream of opening one day. I inhale the intoxicating scent of espresso and dark chocolate and chiles and rosemary and pecans and lemon creme. I trail my hand over the nubby, worn table linens alive with history and the stained concrete counter top and the chipped imperfections in the vintage, porcelain. I hear laughter bubbling with pleasure, and the quiet brush of fingertips on book pages, and the contented sighs, and the clinking of teacups, and the muted melody from nylon guitar strings and the sweet sound of someone humming along. My gaze wanders lovingly over the antique and thrift furniture and bright, bohemian rugs, blankets and throw pillows to land on the pigtailed child scribbling colorful pictures on the chalkboard wall; then, to a figure of a woman sunken down so deep in a worn leather armchair she seems to have become a part of it as she scribbles in her sketch book; to an aged man donning his eyeglasses to scan the selection in the Take One, Leave One Library of used books and magazines in the corner; to a graceful server balancing two bowls of Vanilla Bean Porridge and Apple Cinnamon Compote and offering a vibrant smile to a pair of gentleman admiring the gallery wall lined with fine art photographs and original paintings by local artists...

I have dreamed this with such longing and in such vivid detail I feel as though I could walk through a heavy wooden door tomorrow, step into this scene, and live it joyfully for the rest of my life. I have designed mood boards and playlists and crafted creative, seasonal menus and experimented with original recipes so decadent my husband (who doesn't care for sweets, but tries to humor me) has finally asked me to stop offering them to him.

So, I'm offering them to you. Maybe not on a plate dusted with cocoa powder or drizzled with butterscotch, but in written form so you can try them yourself and give me your honest feedback. Sharing my recipes is something I look so forward to that it might as well be a weekly feature here in the bunnycage. What do you say? Will you join me for an original recipe every Friday, to kick off the weekend with a little culinary inspiration from my cozinha?

Without further ado, here is the recipe for my melt-in-your mouth

Chocolate Amaretto Cheesecake Muffins:

Ingredients:

1 3/4 cups flour, sifted

1 1/4 cup granulated sugar, divided

1/2 cup Hershey's Dark Chocolate Cocoa Powder

1 tbsp. baking powder

1 cup buttermilk

4. tbsp. vegetable oil

1/4 cup butter (salted), melted

1 egg

1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips

8 oz. package cream cheese, softened

2 tbsp. Amaretto liqueur or almond extract

1/2 cup slivered almonds

Method:

Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a muffin pan with 16 foil baking cups.

Place the flour, 1 cup sugar, cocoa powder and baking powder in a large bowl. In a separate bowl beat together buttermilk, oil, butter, egg and vanilla. Add to the flour mixture and stir well. Stir in chocolate chips, and divide the mixture between muffin cups, filling 2/3 full.

Beat the cream cheese, remaining 1/4 c sugar and Amaretto until smooth. Fold in almonds and spoon over chocolate mixture in cups. Gently swirl chocolate and cream cheese together with a toothpick.

Bake 25-30 minutes until risen. Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack.

Store in an airtight container in refrigerator for up to 4 days.

Silent Conversation

2009-01-15T17:00:00.008-07:00

*If you are easily embarrassed, terribly modest, conservative (why are reading my blog again?), have an issue with nudity, don't particularly care to see me naked (no hard feelings), or are one of my little brothers, kindly skip this post.

I've dabbled in monochrome photography, inks, acrylics, watercolor and textile art, but my subject matter has remained consistent - abstract or botanical. I'm bored. And I've found that a bored artist equals boring art, so I decided to step outside of my comfort zone and explore figurative illustration. I enjoy India inks, but they don't allow for blending and soft edges, and since the shadow and light are what most turns me on about figurative art, I picked up some charcoals at my local art supply and began experimenting.

Last week I felt ready to give it a go. Obviously, I needed a model for reference in my figurative study and as I have no friends or family members willing to take off their clothes for me, I had to disrobe and photograph myself. Yes. I did.

A silent conversation ensued:

"What if my creepy neighbor knocks on my door right now to borrow a stick of butter again? Why does he do that? Why does he say 'borrow' anyway, and who runs out of butter? It's a staple. Yikes! It is freezing in here. Oh. That's probably better for the... Oh god, is taking nude photographs of yourself while your child naps an offense that warrants a call to Child Protective Services? No. I don't think so. I really hope not. Hmmm... should I wear panties that hide my tattoo? Is wearing panties cheating? Don't care - I'm wearing panties!"

Half-an-hour later I had a dozen or so workable images, and a week hence, I've completed my first, original figurative charcoal illustration, on 8.5x11 parchment:

Ta-Da!

The Woman I Am Resolves To Be... The Woman I Am

2009-01-07T10:52:00.001-07:00

Welcome to 2009 in the bunnycage! How did you ring it in this year? How's it treating you so far? How are you treating it, better still?

At the stroke of midnight on New Years' Eve I sipped champagne, silently seething at the recitation of those tried and true new years' resolutions... you know the ones:

"I'm going to go to the gym every single day and twice on weekends because I'm hideously fat and I need to get healthy." Like you can wander over to your nearest drug store and pick up "Healthy" after you fill your prescription for Xanax and fork over $2 for that King Sized Snickers Bar at the counter. And nevermind that it couldn't possibly be about one's own perception of reality, or that manically working out isn't actually healthy at all, or that avoiding feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness by food stuffing is the actual issue.

"I'm going to stop living beyond my means and save more money." Right after paying off the car, the quads, the boat, the toy hauler... ad nauseum.

"I'm going to land a better job, figure out what I want to do with my life, make a plan, grow up, settle down." How easily we forget that life is happening today, right now, this instant while we're cataloging all it will take for us to achieve that elusive state of "happy" we hear so much about.

Honestly, what is more self-hating, futile and contrary to happiness than dredging up all the things we secretly loathe about ourselves in order to make a definitive, often public list of how to be "better versions," when what most of us are actually doing is striving to become a carbon copy of someone we think is prettier, smarter, richer, altogether better than we are? So... all this scrolling through my skull, I kept quiet, and down deep I resolved not to resolve to reinvent myself ever again. I resolved to be exactly who I am. Entirely. Authentically.

The authentic me sleeps naked. I can't watch the news without having nightmares so I don't watch. I eat dark chocolate and drink wine every single day. I buy only 100% recycled toilet tissue but inwardly groan and recall the soft, fluffiness of original toilet tissue every time I use the bathroom. I am prone to envy. I am quick to burn my bridges. I have freckles on the bridge of my nose and apples of my cheeks but no one knows because I wear too much makeup. I often laugh until I cry. I sometimes cry until I fall asleep. I always eat one too many slices of pizza. I buy cheap, uncomfortable shoes and pricey, extravagant underthings. I love full-blossomed hydrangeas, the pungent smell of tires, calloused hands on my bare skin, cigar smoke, basil in my iced tea and the sweet song of finches in spring. I suffer from insomnia and depression, among other things. I do my most original, inspired work when I'm sleep-deprived and deeply melancholy. I abhor small talk. I am a desperate lover. I am a furious fighter. I want only to connect - to someone, something, anything.

This year I resolve to be even more the paradoxical, fiery-spirited, intensely sensitive, cautious, reactive, spontaneous, raw, self-possessed, sometimes actually possessed woman I am. Do you know who you are? I challenge you to strip away all the pretense and discover yourself anew. Or maybe for the first time.

I Can Swim, But I Can't Fly.

2008-12-23T06:26:00.001-07:00

My daddy is getting married on New Years' day in California, in a quaint, old chapel in the mountains of Shaver Lake. It is a spontaneous and wildly romantic whirlwind kind of wedding -planned over the course of only 3 weeks - to a lovely woman who I look forward to becoming better acquainted with. I was asked to sing during the ceremony, and naturally, I said, "yes," jumping up and down and squealing into the phone, and later crying tears of joy as my Gram and Papa told me they were buying my plane ticket so I could come home for a week and spend New Years with my family. Really, it's a Christmas wish come true! I'm elated! I'm beside myself! To wrap my arms around my Pop, and to hear my Gram's tinkling laugh, and to watch my sister's glowing face as she bubbles with chatter (looking so much like our mom, it makes my heart ache), and to witness firsthand how my baby brothers and baby sister have grown into young adults seemingly overnight, and to rock my darling niece in my arms, and to be witness to my daddy's happiness... What a gift.

This gift, however, comes with a hefty price. See, I have a tiny, totally minor, baby little hiccup of a problem with flying. And by "tiny" and "minor" I mean crushing-chest-pain-hyperventilating-dizzying-lump-in-my-throat-might-just-die-of-fear-right-now "problem" with flying. Basically, I would rather give birth vaginally to another child sans anesthesia, undergo another colonoscopy, and maybe even do one more round of chemo than board an airplane. You're rolling your eyes at me and chuckling at my melodrama, but there is nothing funny about how utterly terrified I am of being confined in a germ-infested, flying deathtrap surrounded by strangers while I cling to my seat belt and mouth the rosary under my breath so I won't scream aloud.

My psychologist once asked me if I liked to sail.

I said, "Sure. Sailing is lovely."

"Well," he replied, "Flying isn't much different from sailing. You're boarding a well-built craft that's being piloted or captained by a qualified individual who doesn't want to die anymore than you do."

"True." I agreed. "There's one glaring difference to me, though. I can swim, but I can't fly."

Obviously, he couldn't debate that. Regardless, I am indeed boarding an airplane in Denver next week, whether I like it or not. And I don't like it, because just as I was beginning to resign myself to the inevitable, and engaging in an internal debate whether I will swallow several Ativan or down a few martinis before climbing aboard, I read this on Yahoo News:

DENVER – Investigators trying to determine why a Continental Airlines plane veered off a runway and skidded into a ravine heard an odd bumping and rattling noise on the flight's recorders shortly before it tried to take off.
The noise was detected 41 seconds after the jet started speeding down a runway at Denver International Airport on Saturday. Four seconds later, one of the crew members called for the takeoff to be aborted, said Robert Sumwalt, a spokesman for the National Transportation Safety Board.The recording ends six seconds after that, probably because the plane slammed to the ground after hurtling off an embankment, he said.

Speeding down the runway?! Skidding into a ravine?! Hurtling off an embankment?! You can't even make this stuff up!! WHO WROTE THIS?! Stephen King?! It's my worst nightmare breathed to life!! This wanna-be-horror-novelist reporter states 115 passengers, including crew somehow lived through this ordeal - although assuredly at least a dozen will never fly again, and probably a dozen more will be forced into therapy and addicted to anti-anxiety meds for the rest of their lives. [I wrote that last part.]

The article goes on to say that a "fire charred and ripped open much of the right side of the plane" and otherwise scare the living piss out of me, resulting in my eating an entire plate of cookies (which I baked for the neighbors) in a span of 10 minutes.

Now what, I ask you? How am I going to do this? Anyone willing to accompany me to the Denver airport, bash me over the head, and physically drag me onto the plane?

Na Cozinha: Persimmon Pecan Tartlets

2008-11-21T17:10:00.001-07:00

As promised, here is the recipe for my ooey-gooey-rich-sweet-crumbly-oh-my-god-give-me-a-moment Persimmon Pecan Tartlets. I finally got the shells to hold together without cracking or loosing that moist, cake-like quality I love. My secret ingredient: cream cheese. Because everything tastes better with a little cream cheese, right?

I can't even tell you how divine these little babies are. A tad time-consuming maybe, but pour yourself a cup of hot, spiked cider, put on some tunes and enjoy the journey.

Have a scrumptious weekend!

Ingredients:

3/4 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup butter, softened
4 ounces cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup canola oil
1 large egg, beaten
1 cup chopped pecans
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 tablespoon butter, melted
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 persimmons, peeled, seeded and sliced into thin sticks

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1 teaspoon freshly grated ginger

Method:

In a large bowl, mix whole wheat flour, all-purpose flour, butter, cream cheese and oil with a wooden spoon just until dough forms. Refrigerate 30 minutes.

Position rack in lower third of oven; preheat to 350 degrees F.

Roll the dough into a 15-inch log. Cut the log to yield 24 equal portions, about 1 tablespoon each. Press each piece of dough into a mini muffin cup, making a well in the center and pressing the dough up the sides of the tin to form a tartlet shell.

In a separate bowl, combine egg, pecans, brown sugar, butter and vanilla in a large bowl. Divide the filling evenly among the 24 tartlet shells. Arrange the persimmon slices decoratively on the pastry shell, overlapping them. Mix the nutmeg and ginger with the sugar and sprinkle on top of the fruit.

Bake the tartlets for 10 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 325 degrees F and bake until the filling is puffed and the crust is lightly golden, 12-15 minutes more. Let cool in the pans on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Turn the tartlets out and let cool completely, about 30 minutes.

My Id

2008-11-14T18:32:00.000-07:00

This morning I set out on a mission. Determined to drag myself kicking and screaming from this repressed funk I've been in for the past several weeks, I gave my Id control and let the crazy girl I keep locked up tight live out loud today.

I started my morning with a luxurious, scented bubble bath while my child ate frozen waffles with blackberry jam in the living room, accompanied by the Disney Channel. (And I'd like to point out that I didn't care that the jam was all over my couch, that my dogs were likely helping her eat her breakfast or that her brain was being polluted by computer animated nonsense, because I wasn't being me today.) I also put too much chocolate syrup in my coffee and padded around in all my prettiest underthings. With the heater blasting. Until 1pm.

While Beau napped, I killed two whole hours eating caramels and goofing off on Flickr and Etsy. I frequent both sites, but for some reason - maybe because Superego Sara didn't have control of the mind today - I was caressed with a visual, whisper-soft reminder that I am part of an incredible community of fascinating, gifted, strong, maybe brilliant, perhaps ever-so-slightly-unstable-but-definitely-in-a-good-way people who seek out and create beauty in the everyday just... like... me. We are kindred souls. I am not alone. {I know this sounds pathetic and kind of stalkerish but it's genuinely how I feel so I'm not backspacing over it.}

At any given moment a photographer is focusing on a lone leaf shivering in the breeze because it looks the way he feels and the light is so right he can't walk by without immortalizing it forever. A painter is lost in herself, her fingers clutching the brush so tightly it's an extension of her own hand and she doesn't choose the colors so much as they choose her until finally she stands back and knows it is complete though it's not what she'd intended. A writer is recalling with a secret smile, and she spins her words, twists her point of view until the story is deeper, sweeter and so much more in it's retelling than it was in her memories. These people I will never, ever meet inspire the hell out of me.

I sit here at the end of the most unproductive day I've had in ages, so glad I didn't check off one item on my to-do list, so thankful I dallied in dreamland. I think sometimes we need to escape from ourselves for awhile. We need to relinquish our death grip from the identities we cling to all day long, so we can explore the versions of ourselves we long to be.

Here's a glimpse of my version for you, sampled from my Flickr Favorites (a compiled list of others' photographs that have touched and inspired me). Collectively they are eye-catching, but please click on the link above or image below to be taken to my Favorites where you can further explore them individually. The works of these artists are heartachingly lovely and totally awe-inducing. Go see for yourself.

P.S. Apparently I have a hand and foot fetish I wasn't aware of. Go figure.

... and I'm an artist.

2008-05-21T08:02:00.001-06:00

Have you ever been to an AA or NA meeting? I have been to dozens - though not for myself. Not that it would be shameful it I sought help for an addiction to alcohol or drugs. I admire the hell out of anyone who has struggled with and is seeking treatment for addiction. In fact, it's a testament to good character. Plus, it is highly likely that if I live longer than my mom did, I may just end up there. It's genetic and environmental and I'm really rambling...

As gut wrenching as these meetings were, and as many years as they seem to have tacked on to my time in therapy, there were several things I enjoyed about attending. The doughnuts, for one. Oh, and the coffee. Addicts can make a pot of coffee! I liked the hand-holding (because I'm kind of touchy-feely like that) at the end where everyone softly recites, "God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know it's me," or some variation. My favorite part, though, was the gritty beginning of each meeting in which every person is forced to introduce themselves and say "...and I'm an alcoholic." There is something so incredibly raw and beautiful about a person calling themselves out like that in a room full of complete strangers.

Recently I've been struggling with feeling like a hack in my own life, and I think I need to call myself out. I spend hours and hours every week working on designs, sketching, mixing paints, playing with soft pastels and inks, experimenting with canvases and textured clayboard. Within 10 minutes of waking each morning, I am at my computer, tweaking my online shop, and by the time I've dressed for the day, my camera is in my hand. I have sold 12 original pieces (though, admittedly most of these are to people I am acquainted with in some way), and have been commissioned for 3. By all accounts, if art is what I make, what I do, and I am selling my work for a profit, why can't I say "...and I am an artist" out loud without wincing and turning 5 shades of pink?

I'll tell you. It's because I have never taken a visual art class of any kind. Not even in high school. Not Art 101, nothing. I can't say that I even properly know how to hold a paintbrush. I have no concept of technique and I couldn't draw a still life to save my own life. Beyond "blue and yellow make green," which I must have learned in the 2nd grade, I know nothing of color theory. So, when a stranger asks, "What do you do?" I freeze. Most often, I say, "Oh, nothing. I'm a stay-at-home-mom." Stupid in itself because in actuality I do EVERYTHING because I'm a stay-at-home-mom. Other times, when I'm feeling nervy, I stammer "I... I... paint, um... paintings. And sometimes I use old magazines or paper I find to... make art." Geeeeez. Spit it out already. It's embarrassing.

I've decided that from today on, when I wake up and make eye contact with myself in the mirror each morning, I'm going to take a cue from the NA meetings I visited and affirm the following: "My name is Sara...and I'm an artist." The other day, when I tried it out on my (yummy) new massage therapist, I was pleased to find that I didn't pass out, he didn't call me a "liar," and nothing exploded. So, this week I'm going to say it to the 5-beers-short-of-a-six-pack bagger at the grocery store who always puts my produce on the bottom, Sully's groomer, the Wells Fargo Bank teller and my creepy neighbor who insists upon coming over to my house after dark to talk to John, when he sees quite plainly that John's work truck is not in the driveway. I might just start saying it at the end of every sentence.

"Would you like an extra shot of espresso in that, miss?" (except, let's face it - no one calls me miss anymore, it's always ma'am, which brings actual tears to my eyes.)

"Yes, thank you. It's my drug of choice... and I'm an artist."

It doesn't really work, does it? Bummer. That's okay - I'll do it anyway. That's how dedicated of an artist I am.

So Cool!

2008-05-18T14:50:00.000-06:00

Just caught wind that a few of my watercolor pieces have been featured in a fellow Etsian's blog today. Go check it out if you get a chance!