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About Photography / Hobbyist Rab Townsend29/Male/Canada Groups :iconredheads-n-freckles: redheads-n-freckles
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My sweaty, damp wad of sleeping bag with my troll-doll hair sticking out of it sleeps during the day. It’s safer, better to be trampled by a crowd with the sun shining, than to be surprised by something worse at night.

The city is the sort of place where no one believes in God until I’ve written him out on a cardboard sign in the same breath as a plea for money. The other kind of belief puts you here with me, foretelling a world that we already live in, though, only the troll-doll sleeping-wads can really see it for what it is. If they can see. If they can think right.

I read when I can, which isn’t often if I’m going to be eating. People don’t want to give their money to someone who reads. You’re not at the end of your rope if you have time to use a newspaper for something other than home-decorating. It’s even worse if you’re reading something academic, like I am. I don’t like stealing, but when I found a library card on the sidewalk, I tried to look my cleanest, and spent a whole day inside, reading the backs of things. I took out five books, read them all long before they were due, and returned them on time. I can’t afford late fees. After that, I took out five more. The library staff knows me by name—someone else’s name, but by name.

Today, I risk reading in day light, on one of the more populated streets. All the city noises blend together, so it’s easier to concentrate. Likewise, people may not notice the book, if they notice me at all. According to the clock tower, it’s mid-afternoon when one of the voices jumps out of the blender. Over the edge of the page, I half-see the blurred outline of dark-skinned legs.

“Hey guy, what’s that?” the legs go, “Hey guy!” again.
“A book, probably,” I say, not looking up from it.
“I know,” the legs say, “What book?” I turn the book over in my hands as if I’ve forgotten the title (I haven’t), and then turn it back around, holding it up for the legs to see. “What’s that word there?”
“It’s called ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra.’ It’s from German,” I sigh.
“Is it good?”
“I think so, yes.”
“What’s it about?”
“That’s a little hard to explain, really.”

I put the book down, and stare at these dark brown stalks poking out of yellowed socks, which in turn spill out over the top of dirty gray tennis shoes like under-cooked muffins. I ask why she’s bothered to ask all these questions of the sidewalk troll-doll. If I were looking, I’d see her shrug, but instead I open the book up again.

“Oh, Neechee! He’s the one who said ‘God is dead’ right? Like, in that Nine Inch Nails song?” She starts singing a bit of the song before I respond.
“Yeah, Nietzsche said that in this book.” I try to brush my hair out flat with my fingers, realizing that this conversation may go on longer than expected.
“Do you think so? I mean, do you think God is dead?”
“I think I do, that is, I think he is. Yeah, I agree, I guess.” I look back up at the crinkled, dry skin of her knees.
“Hm…” they jerk, “I’ve got to go now,” they say. “I’ll see you around,” she says. I don’t answer.

The truth is that God is dead because not enough people clapped their hands. That sweet, old, bearded, glowing, cumulus cloud that can only be seen outside of the city is dead. A city’s sky is bleached grey, and it pisses acid onto the patchwork houses and roofs made out of cardboard. If God lives in that sky, God hates the city.
The truth is that even outside of the city, we’ve replaced God with the lamp post, the street light, with science. So, God is dead because we don’t believe in fairies. We don’t have to anymore.

The night is wet and hot, and steam comes out through the long vents in the sidewalk above the subway system. This is when I’m most alert. When all the stores have closed, I don’t feel tempted to spend what little money I have. So I wander the streets in the dark, pretending that every place lit by lights is a place that belongs to me. Everywhere else is dangerous.

The most dangerous things in the city at night are not vagrants. They’re the bar-hoppers, the clubbers, the groups of wild-eyed twenty-somethings who wouldn’t think twice about kicking the shit out of a person like me who looks at them in a way they don’t like. Sometimes, there are worse things, though.

Tonight, I walk as far as the docks and back. It only takes a few hours, even if I stop to look at things. The underside of an overpass has the words ‘stay down, low man’ written on it in sprayed on lettering. Even the graffiti artists are conservative these days, maybe. I make for a park on the west side of town with lamps running all the way through it, casting a white-blue haze over benches and damp, mowed grass. I figure it’ll rain later this morning, so I curl up on one of the benches, staring off into the darker shadows of the night, hoping the silence and safety will last.

I wake up when I hear the first thunder clap. Not long after, I feel the first splash of a raindrop on my cheek. The water makes my stubbled chin itch. The rain here comes in only one variety, which is torrential. The combined effect of smog, humidity, and wind tunnels makes summer rain in the city dirty, warm, and very heavy. I run back through the streets to ward my usual spot. I’m heading eastward with rain pelting my dirty face, sending streams of grey-black down my chin and shirt. My clothes stick wet to my arms and legs as they flail with my running. Times like these are good for me. I try to stay clean if and when I can. Even if the rain is dirty, it makes me feel better, cleaner—except my clothes stay damp after the rain stops. Dodging between the few people on the streets in the early morning, I can’t yet see the clock tower. It’s about seven in the morning though, by its last chime.

I drop my pack beside my untouched sleeping bag and sit cross-legged in the middle of it, placing a dirty Big Gulp cup on the sidewalk next to me. Shifting my weight around, I try to pull out my sign from underneath myself, and rest it against the wall behind the cup. On a Sunday, if it is a Sunday, there's more money to be made from guilt-ridden pedestrians. Unfortunately, on a Sunday, there are fewer pedestrians in the first place, as all the stores are closed. The hours that lead up to the noonday chimes are uneventful, and yield about fifty cents. That's half of a sawdust cake from McDonald's. The afternoon sun squeezes sweat from my forehead and chest, soaking through my clothes again, after the sun had dried them this morning.

With the heat and sunlight burning my face, I let my eyes close and lie back onto my sleeping bag, hoping to sleep and wake up hours later with a full cup. Instead, I wake up to the same fifty cents and the side of someone's thigh. Sitting beside me is a short black girl, with a face that could pass for any age between seventeen and twenty five. Her hair is tightly woven into two braids which hang down either shoulder, framing low, chubby cheekbones and a turned up nose. She's got my sign in her lap, and she's sleeping with her chin buried in her chest. My own stirring causes her to wake.

“Hey guy.”
I ask what she's doing here, why she's holding my sign, if she's stolen my money.
“What do you think I'm doing?”
I fall back onto my sleeping bag, “I don't know. That's why I asked.”
“I'm keeping you company, I guess.”
“I was asleep.”
“So was I.” I suppose that's as good a response as any. I sit up, and balance myself against the wall beside her, recognizing her knees and not her face.
“Did you finish your book?”
“No, I'm just partway through.”
“I was going to ask if I could borrow it.”
“Well, I got it from the library.”
“Hm...” She crosses her feet at the ankles, and straightens her back against the wall. “So, you live here? Right here?”
“Right here.”
“Where do you go to the bathroom?”
“Where I  can, I guess.”
“Gross, guy.” She makes a face like she's imagining me shitting in a cup, and hiding it in the bottom of a trash can, hoping that the garbage collectors won't find it. She's not far off. I secretly hope they do.
“What about you? Do you have a home?” I ask, noting that she has the same dirty tan pair of shorts on, and probably the same pale blue T-shirt, though I hadn't bothered to look at it yesterday.
“Something like it. It's rent controlled in the same sort of way that a cardboard box is rent controlled, but it's better. It has a roof, anyway.” Her lip twitches as she says this, and I know better than to ask much more about it.
“Do you have a name?”
“It's Summer.”

By six o'clock we have three dollars and eighty-five cents in our cup. I offer to pay for dinner, since my stomach's too small right now to eat a whole $3.85's worth of food on  my own. Inside the McDonald's we can see out the window at the intersection and the street cars running along their spiderwebs. The inside of the restaurant is nearly as dirty as the street outside, and for that reason, we aren't thrown out.

Summer takes a bite of her burger and as she talks, a mayonaise coated chunk of bread rolls down her bottom lip, which hangs down with every vowel.
“Hm, it might rain tonight,” she says.
“You could stay with me tonight. It has a roof, like I said.”
“I don't know you.”
“Well, you bought me dinner.”
“Fair enough,” I sigh, “Are you going to murder me, and rob me of my possessions?”
“What possessions?” Another gob of burger drops in her lap.
“Fair enough. I suppose I don't have much to lose.”
“So, will you come?”
“I suppose. Is it far?”
“It's a walk, and you've got time to take it.”
“Fair enough.” I return to my burger, and we don't speak again until we're done eating.

Once we get back out onto the street, she takes my hand and leads me south toward the lake. Her hand is sweaty, or mine is. Between the tall buildings I see dark rain  clouds forming. Further west, I can see that we're headed for one of the less populated areas. In the shadows of these derelict buildings hide some of the more desperate people in this city. I'm not sure I want to be here, and I tell her so.

“It's okay. Just don't look at them. Don't look.” She's referring to several pairs of red-rimmed eyes following us from the other side of the street. Their gray clothes match the gray of everything else here.
“You live around here?”
“It's out of the way. No one goes there.”
“Is it safe?”
“No one goes there. Don't look.”

Her eyes are blank, and I can tell she's used to this kind of fear. The fear that comes with the realization that people are dangerous, especially when they're addicted to heroine, half-crazy, and not bothering to conceal a knife or a gun.

It's darker now, and the fog that rolled in from the lake has found its way to us, and I'm feeling claustrophobic with the thought that not being able to see these desperate red eyes is worse than seeing them, and I stick close to Summer, who's dark skin makes her more easily visible.

“A little further,” she says, turning another corner that I can't see, and pulling me behind her by the hand. She drags me through an alley to the back of what appears to be an abandoned drug store, and from there to another alley. Occasionally we quickly pass
by a lump of red-eyed desperation, and every time, Summer says “Don't look.” By now, it's raining, and I just shut my eyes to keep the water out. One last turn, and we're behind a tall brick building with a thin, rusted, black fire-escape leading up to a door on the upper floor.

Summer runs up the stairs ahead of me, and I follow, trying not to trip on the wet steel steps. At the top, she  thrusts with her weight against the door, and it screeches rust and metal against the door frame as it falls open in front of her. I step through, and scan the room slowly, hugging my arms tight around me to keep warm after getting out of the rain. The floors are unfinished hardwood, with fat square beams jutting up from the floor and into the exposed rafters, which show signs of deterioration. A window on the other side of the room lets a little light in through broken shutters. Summer heads toward the window, which provides enough light to see a sleeping bag and a pillow against the wall beneath it. Across the room, one corner escapes the light. Squinting in the dark, I see that the shadows hide a small metal bucket.

“Don't go over there,” she says, “nothing you want to see in there.” I stumble to her side on the floor beneath the window.
“See, no one comes here.”
“It does have a roof. I'll give you that.”
“No one comes here,” she repeats.
“What are you doing in this place? There's no reason for a girl like you to be out here. Those people out there... they were...” I trail off, and stare at my hands. My fingernails are filled with black dirt, and my knuckles are white.
“I ran this far, and I guess this was where I stopped.”
“Been here long?” I ask.
“A while...” I can tell she's uncomfortable. “Let's sleep now,” she says.

I've reached the point at which I have so little energy that I could sleep anytime, or just stay awake forever, so I opt for sleep, under the circumstances. She opens the sleeping bag up, and crawls in, and I crawl in beside her without asking. Her eyes close, and she rolls onto her side, facing away. Drifting off, I find myself staring absently at the bucket in the corner before my eyelids fall.

There's a hand on my chest, and it drags its fingertips from my neck to my abdomen. Opening my eyes reveals that it's not yet morning, because I can't see anything. The rain hasn't stopped. The hand belongs to Summer. In the dark, I can make out her eyes looking back at me. The white edges around their dark irises gleam. They plead with me, but I can't tell for what. Then she kisses me.

It's a wet kiss, and her breath is worse than mine because I can smell it. Her tongue bumps into my teeth and cheeks before I let her have mine. Awkwardly, I place a hand on her hip, and trace the curve beneath her shirt to her stomach. Her abdomen is fleshy and my hand is lost in folds of dark skin. She props herself up on one arm, and straddles me within the sleeping bag before pulling the shirt over her head. The light through the window reveals her face, and the faint outline of her torso. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are parted slightly, with the lower one drooping down, like she was saying a word with a hard 'o' sound. She places my hands on her breasts, and writhes against me, though I'm not moving them. The nipples are hard and barely visible, being darker than her skin, the stippled ridges and bumps of them feel strange against my fingertips.

Before long she's begun to undo my pants, and is reaching into them, massaging me. I remain motionless, and focus on my hands. She keeps her eyes closed, but she gets up out of the sleeping bag and tugs down her shorts. Returning to me, she lowers herself onto me, and I feel a warmth that gives me an unpleasant and unfamiliar tingling in all of the hairs on my arms and neck. I close my eyes as well, and let her move freely, slowly rising and falling against me. The only sound is the rain, and our breathing which becomes more staggered and harsh with each moment. Her pace quickens, and my skin feels hot. Her fervour begins to hurt me, but I just hold my breath. As she bucks violently, I find myself instinctively reciprocating. With a shudder, she clamps down, letting out a quiet squeak as she does. I can't help but ejaculate inside her. She slumps, and rolls off of me, to the side, and faces away. I feel like saying something, but I don't say anything, and the only sound is rain again. I let the sound empty my mind again, and fall asleep.

The sun wakes me up, coming through the window. The shutters have been opened, and the light is overpowering. I rub my eyes, and adjust. Summer is gone. Her clothes are still in a pile beside me, and I look around the room for her. She's not here. My eyes move from one end of the room to the other, following along the walls, until resting on the only other object in the room: the bucket. I climb out of the sleeping bag, and crawl across the floor weakly. Getting closer brings on a bad smell. It's like rotting, but not rotting. As I wake up a little more, the sound of flies buzzing and bumping into each other slips in to my ears. I crawl closer, gagging from the smell. I can taste the smell. It's meat, or shit, or something. I hold my face above the bucket, and wave away some flies, half expecting to see a makeshift chamber-pot. I don't know what this is. A wad of red and brown and black half-dried wet thing is crawled over, eaten, shat on, by hundreds of flies. I gag, and have to hold my hand over my mouth to keep the flies from getting in.

Backing away, I hear the reverberative clank of metal on wood, and I realize that I've bumped something with my hand. Under my hand is a thin metal wire, bent out of shape. I grasp it, and crawl back to the window, for a better look. It's a bent coat-hanger. I turn it over in the light for a moment before noticing the reddish brown flakes on my hand. Oh God. Oh Jesus. Oh shit fuck.

I reflexively fling the coat-hanger out the window in horror, and back away. My breath gets shorter and shorter, as I creep back to the bucket. Blowing the flies away as best I can, I tip the bucket toward me so I can see. I have to vomit. I want to get up and run away, but I just sit here feeling bile and acid coming through my mouth and nose onto my lap, into the bucket, on the floor. I sit there, dry-heaving and crying, knowing that Summer's not going to come back.
Homeless in Summer
This was a short story I wrote for my creative writing class about 8 years ago.

It has some moments I'd like to rewrite, but... I'm lazy right now.
The cave is dark. I stumble. The beam from my flashlight flickers out for a moment as the bump causes the batteries inside to stop touching the contacts, and I have to shake it a bit before I can confidently continue.

Before this – before the caves – I was in the field out back of my parents' house. It was the same house I grew up in, but it never really felt like it was mine. It was their home, and I was a guest in it. No matter whether they had brought me into the world - and then their house - themselves, I was imposing on their generosity by depending on them as any child would. So, it was their house.

But when I went outside – when I was put outside – the field was mine. Its dirt and its grass were mine. Its worms and its bugs were mine. The sweet and acrid smells of a warm breeze through that field, and the faint smell of my father's cigarettes through the window were mine too. I can still smell that smell, when I think about it. Even over the mildewy, dense smell of the cave. But the way a dream gives sensations of seeing and touching, but is empty of either; the memory of a smell is hollow. That's mine now.

That field was bordered by a poorly nailed together fence, made of dead wood, and not planed wood. Hunks of bark and broken branches, nailed together and now covered with moss and lichen. Much of that fence had fallen apart long before I was born, and before my parents bought the house that was theirs. It disappeared at the back of the property into a stand of trees, and I assume now that those trees had swallowed the portion that had once stood there, demarcating the land that my father and mother had bought together - that had once belonged to someone else - but would never belong to me.

The field was mine in as much as I was left unsupervised in it, and I could make it what I chose. I could drag sticks and stones up out of the forest, and build forts to play in; building homes for myself. I was nine years old, scavenging for materials, when I ventured into that forest and found the hole.

The rocky ground that had made the field useless as farm land had been ideal for the coniferous trees to grow thick back there, hiding from sight the outcropping in which I discovered it. It was only big enough then for me to get my arm up to my elbow through, but when I bent it, I could feel how empty it was inside; roomy, even.

I spent days jabbing away at the hard dirt and rock with sticks, slowly widening the hole that was the only peek into what seemed to me like the only place in the world I wanted to be. For all I knew, it could have just been a slightly larger hole inside than the one I'd found outside. But even if it was, it was something that was secret and mine. Something hidden that I was uncovering, and that I could lay claim to.

I was small, then, and when the time came that the hole was big enough, I stuck my head inside, and peered around. I couldn't see a thing but the light that shone through behind me, illuminating just the few feet ahead, and then nothing after. I thought, if it wasn't too deep, I could probably get a sense of how not-too-deep it was by climbing inside, even without the benefit of a light. And when I did so,  my shadow sank into the blackness before me, as my body blocked the one source of light, and I was enveloped. I reached out my hands, straight in front of me, and felt nothing. I turned to the side, and groped along the wall from the opening outward, and started when my fingers slid from the solid rock into empty space unexpectedly. The hole was deep. The hole was black and silent in a way that suddenly felt unwelcoming, and I felt the hairs on my neck rising.

I panicked. I felt as though my physical body had dissolved into this blackness, and that blackness was all there was besides my mind, whose tether to the universe was beginning to fray. The silence of the cave filled with the sound of my heart's pumping blood heavily through my head, gradually amplifying. And I grew faint, as even in that darkness, my vision began to fade to white. I gasped, feeling that if I could just get some air, I might not lose myself in this place. I tripped toward the light shining through the hole I had dug for myself for days, and it was just feet away from me. It had always been just feet away. I thrust myself through it, violently, and ran back to the house, but I would never truly feel safe again. A home that is not your home could never grow to feel comfortable after I had felt so far from any home as that.

I didn't go back there for very a long time.

When my mother disappeared, my father grew even more distant than before. She hadn't come back after a fight they'd had, and he was content to assume she'd simply left him - left us. Perhaps she had, but even in her absence, I was still the freeloading guest. Like the dog your ex-wife leaves you in the divorce; the one you should never have agreed to get with her when you were married. It still needs walking, and still needs feeding. But by then, I was a teenager, and I had learned to take care of myself in ways he had never been interested to try.

The flashlight flickers again, and I shake it again, cautiously stepping around and between the stalagmites and stalactites on the floor and ceiling of the deeper regions. The cave had gone on for at least a mile, before this point. It would go further.

As an adolescent, playing in the field out back had lost its magic. Real things like school and girls were more entertaining, in a calculated kind of way. One learns to search for ways to make a home out of things other than places. The time would come, though, that I'd have to risk that home and go back to the cave.

Feeling along the damp rock wall, I catch the glint of twisted metal in my beam of light. The silence of the cave begins to turn to a throbbing kind of hum, reminding me of my first visit, though it is a different kind of throbbing than that of my heart. The tunnel's wending comes to its end, and I search with my hands, clenching the light in my teeth, for the lever, mindfully glancing at the looming shadow of the rusted rail, embedded in the rock above it. With a breath, and then a pause, I yank the lever down, exhaling quickly after. The humming stops.

I begin the trek back to the mouth of the cave, ready to block it shut again. No one can find out about this. This is mine.
What is the cave?
I wrote this as part of what was meant to be a collaborative story cycle, but my collaborator kind of dropped off the map, and I haven't revisited the subject matter of late.

Still, I quite like it.
Once upon a time on deviantART, I was kind of a big deal.
Now, I am hardly a bargain, though I am acquaintances with several big deals.

But for reasons, I have been hanging around this website for a solid ten years.

It began with drawings, I suppose. An acquaintance wanted to show me some of his own drawings, and he had hosted it on deviantart, which was a very different beast at that time.

In the summers my family would go to a cottage on a lake in a rural area, and besides reading, I found that the most entertaining thing I could do was make art.

One of the first serious paintings that I did was and is probably still my most popular:

StillBirth by HateBunny

I know it's not a technical masterpiece, but I would have been 15, I think, when I painted it.

The imagery has stuck with me, and it became like a kind of touchstone for me in all of my creative endeavours.

I had also been drawing on a pretty regular basis at school, and produced this:

mind manifests the dreams by HateBunny

I guess, as a theme, I was working through ideas about wasted potential and loss of innocence - which I still think are themes I use in my work.

I also wrote some poetry and short stories, most of which are embarrassing.

In 2004, I was given my first digital point-and-shoot camera as a high-school graduation gift.
I used it very frequently to take photos of scenery and my girlfriend at the time. Most of those have also been stored or deleted.

I think of them as practice for what was to come later.

Here's another early photo that was rather popular at the time.

Burning Skies III by HateBunny

One of the key moments in my history with deviantART was when my relationship with the aforementioned girlfriend ended, and I needed to express myself. Besides taking some somewhat artsy self-portraits that would be written off as selfies by today's standards, I asked an acquaintance I had only just met whether she'd be interested in posing for my first real nude shoot. I had always wanted to do get into that, because it seemed to me that if I had a palette of paint with every colour of the rainbow on it, and I had never used red before, it would be pretty foolish not to use red. (Red is nudity, apparently).

However, here's where things get dramatic:
Not long after I took those photos, and put them onto deviantART, the model put one or two of them onto her Facebook account (this was 2006, I believe) thereby alerting pretty much everyone she knew that she was naked on the internet. Her parents threatened that they wouldn't help with her next year of tuition for school unless I removed them, and of course I did - but I wasn't very happy about it. Besides that, a shitstorm of humiliation was rained upon me on account of the location of the shoot, but that's another story.

But anyhoo, I wanted to pursue more of that kind of photography with more people, and I did - though I refused to do the shooting in any setting I couldn't control, which meant that my next few nude shoots occurred in my dorm room:

I got th'crumpled bag reds by HateBunny

Mature Content

the purple scarf V by HateBunny

One was an acquaintance I knew through that first girl, and the other was my best friend of the time, who had been experimenting with nude self portraits anyway, and so I asked her. These sets gained me lots of watchers, faves, and views, and I realized then the power of boobs on deviantART. The more boobs, the more fans.

So, naturally, nobody ever agreed to shoot nudes with me again, and I shifted my focus.

I tried to get more involved with the community by joining a chatroom on dAmn.
The one I joined was #UnknownPhotography, and i made a few friends there, and sank a lot of time into just sitting in there chatting.

Unfortunately, the life kinda died from that chat, and though I stuck around, eventually I gave up on it.

In 2008, I bought myself a slightly better point-and-shoot, and used it frequently to document the walks I took with my girlfriend and her dog:

summer it's gone by HateBunnyit's built on functions. by HateBunnyI don't like poop by HateBunny

As you can see, she was a freckly redhead (though, in truth, her hair was "dirty-dishwater blonde") and my appreciation for those two qualities led me to start a feature in my deviantART journal where I'd post photos I'd collected and favourited that featured people with freckles. I did something like 30 of those features before I ran out of steam on it, but doing that got me the chance to co-found the group redheads-n-freckles, where we still feature real redheads and freckles in photography and art (to the exclusion of all others)!

Eventually, one of my self portraits garnered the attention of a model I'd been following, Carla Johnson - a unique and beautiful 65 year old woman who had decided to enter the world of nude modelling. She was also quite an intelligent and interesting blogger, and contacted me via dA to interview me about my self portrait for her blog. I answered her questions, and through keeping up with her blog and commenting on it, I made a few more friends and acquaintances in the nude photography community.

Also around that time, I discovered the self portraits of create-illusions, and after communicating a bit on deviantART, we became very close friends, and these many years later, we still communicate on a daily basis. I have never met my best friend, but deviantART is where I found her.

In 2010, I bought myself my first dSLR, which I'm still using.

Just for the sake of brevity, I will sum up this section by explaining that I tend to go through cycles of productivity, with maybe four legitimate photoshoots per year, interspersed with self portraits as ideas come to me. That cycle has basically continued to this day.

it's always coming by HateBunnyIt's a fair assumption by HateBunnygenuine by HateBunnythrough glass by HateBunnydry spell by HateBunnyhigher call by HateBunnyresonance by HateBunnydepths of winter by HateBunnyanother life forgot by HateBunnysingularity by HateBunny

I'd like to think my style and skills are evolving and improving, and I use the self portrait as sort of a way-marker for where and who I am in my life.

deviantART has facilitated that evolution and growth, and while I've never really hit it big or got much back, I feel like it's the place I am most comfortable just... putting my work.

While it's not the same place it was ten years ago - or 14 years ago, for that matter - it's still a place I love.
  • Mood: Hungry
  • Listening to: Owen Pallett - "In Conflict"
  • Reading: "Doomed" by Chuck Palahniuk
  • Watching: House, M.D. Season 5
  • Playing: Mass Effect 2
  • Eating: Spaghetti
  • Drinking: Club Soda


Rab Townsend
Artist | Hobbyist | Photography
I am a musician and composer, amateur photographer, and writer.

Current Residence: Toronto
Favourite genre of music: Progressive Rock, Space Rock, Dark Wave, Shoe Gaze, Ethereal, Industrial, glitch, stuff with strings
Favourite photographer: Cindy Sherman, Joel-Peter Witkins
Favourite style of art: Expressionism, Surrealism
Operating System: WindowsXP
MP3 player of choice: iPhone...?
Shell of choice: The Spiny Blue Shell
Skin of choice: peely.
Favourite cartoon character: Earthworm Jim, Freakazoid, Phil Ken Sebben
Personal Quote: Shit your ass, fuckshitter.

Model mayhem:

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Add a Comment:
ScribalWriter Featured By Owner Jan 13, 2016   Traditional Artist
Thank you very much for the :+fav:, Rab! :heart:
RadoslawSass Featured By Owner Dec 21, 2015   Photographer

Thank You for fav :+Fav: on my newest portrait : )
solcarlusmd Featured By Owner Nov 13, 2015
Thanks a lot for the favs !!

Feel free to "watch" me if you want to be informed when I submit new pics :) (Smile)
Coming soon : New pics of Audrey ;) (Wink)

Mature Content

Be sexy ! by solcarlusmd

Mature Content

Hawa by solcarlusmd

Mature Content

Sensual femininity by solcarlusmd
  Pink lady by solcarlusmd  Blond on fire by solcarlusmd  
yume-no-yukari Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2015  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank you for the favs. :-)
ivoturk Featured By Owner Aug 30, 2015  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks a lot for faving my work!
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