Contributed by Cynthia Lugo on 20/03/09

There’s nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. While she could be fourteen, she is in fact a fresh and dewy – yet perfectly legal – nineteen years old. I have the signed release to prove it. And in fact I have the birth certificate to prove it. But it doesn’t matter what she is. It matters what they think of her. What they think she is. Young and lush. Naive. Waiting for them, your customers.

Note the details. She is fully, yet sparsely, clothed. And this is important. There are those who like a crudely displayed girl, erhm, model, but that sort is greedy. He is a glutton. He won’t pay much for a single picture because a single picture does nothing to sate his appetite, which is voracious.

You seek, instead, the connoisseur. He will pay top dollar for a photo such as this. The aficionado will note the turn of her ankle, the way the heel of her foot has lifted slightly from her shoe. Her slipper, he will call it. He will note the balloon, how it fails to conceal – and instead enhances – her full breasts. The inside of the knee is a vulnerable spot, tender. To expose it is to expose herself more than crass nudity ever could. He will note, appreciate and, most important, pay for all of these small details. The details that make this particular image art.

No, she doesn’t need to smile. A smile is a single expression and there is nothing behind it. Nothing to read into it. The slightly parted lips coupled with the direct, straight-into-the-camera gaze leave everything open. All possibilities. She can be – and in fact is – whatever he imagines her to be. Whatever he wants her to be.

You have a nice camera. You have, I suppose, a bit of an eye for the girls. For the models. But as yet you have no art. Think about what I’ve said. Keep trying. You may yet find some art in your soul.