Someone once told me that your nose never stops growing, no matter how old you get. If that's true, I'm screwed. My nose is big enough already.

Back at uni, my gal pal Jessie tried to convince me that I could minimize it with make-up. How can you minimize something that's right in the center of your face" It's not like suddenly no one will notice it. If I were shooting my own portrait, sure, I'd use a short lens. But that's just an illusion. One turn of my head, and there's my nose in profile, and it ain't pretty. It's called 3-D, Jessie. No make-up can hide that.

My mom says I got my nose from my dad. Convenient for her since he was never around for verification. But hey, if he's gonna get blamed for everything bad that ever happened to us, he might as well take the fall for my nose too, right"

It's obvious that the nose is not from her anyhow. My mom's nose is beautiful. Cute, even. I should know. I've taken her portrait every year since I was six when my mom bought me my first digicam. Her nose still fits her face perfectly though. I'll let you know if it ever starts growing too big. My own informal experiment.

Faces are just shapes anyhow. Lines, planes, and angles. Some people say that beauty has something to do with a symmetry of the face. I think it's something in the eyes. I'm not sure what, I just know it when I see it.

I've heard portrait photographers talk a big game about how the best of us can make a subject so comfortable that eventually they let down their guard enough for you to capture their true nature. That's crap.

People want to be seen. They don't want to hide. The best photographers are the ones who are willing to capture the truth of their subjects, even if it's not what they expected to see.

Everyone has secrets they want to reveal. What's your secret?

To tell you the truth, I never liked the ring. It was his grandmother's. I could appreciate the sentimentality of that, sure. But the thing was ugly. The band was thick and masculine, with this giant pear-shaped rock, surrounded by a freaking dinner plate of diamond chips. I don't care how many carats it was, it was hideous.

I remember looking at that ring and getting this sinking feeling of remorse. You know the feeling. Like when you just plunked down a couple hundred non-refundable creds for a brand new camera lens only to realize that you accidentally grabbed the wrong size. Like that feeling.

I would have lived with that ring though. I swear it, I was prepared to wear that hideous ring every freaking day for the rest of my life.

I don't know why he didn't fight for me. My finger still has the imprint from wearing his ring all the time. It'll go away eventually.

I'm here, right' Rhy'Din. New city, new season. Fresh start, right?

I just don't know why I wasn't worth fighting for.

No matter what they say, 'detention center' is just another name for 'prison'.

I know people were just trying to make feel better when they joked about all the time off I would have, that it would be just like a long vacation. But seriously. It wasn't a vacation.

I learned some important things in prison though:

1.) Women can be just as disgusting as men. When lipstick is contraband, seeing red kiss marks on the bathroom mirror takes on a whole new meaning of gross.

2.) It hurts a lot more to throw a punch than to yank on a handful of hair.

3.) Cut your hair short before going to prison.

4.) The longer it takes for someone to visit you inside, the more and more likely it becomes that you will never see or hear from them again.

5.) You don't need privacy. You just want it.

I know I don't seem like the ex-con type. But I am one. So bite me.

You know when you're flipping through a magazine and you see an ad for tomato sauce, and next to the jar they've got these fresh-from-the-vine looking tomatoes, freshly washed, glistening with drops of water"

Yeah. That's not water.

It's called glycerin. I mix it with water - about 50/50 depending on the consistency I need - and use an atomizer to get a nice spray going. Glycerin picks up the light beautifully, and the drops stay perfectly in place.

I got my start in commercial photography because I'm good at water styling. Meaning, I can make glycerin look like a very natural spray of water. Not as easy as it sounds, let me tell you. When's the last time you stood hunched over a peach, using a syringe to place drops of water one at a time"

It was VeeJay who suggest the neighborhood. The loft I'm using now is perfect. South, East and West facing windows give me plenty of light for my studio, and there's still enough space to section off a bedroom and a living room.

I've signed up a few accounts - my portfolio goes a long way - so things are finally starting to feel settled. Working makes me feel normal again. I know VeeJay's got a project she wants me to be pushing on, but I needed to get some solid money rolling in first.

After all the lawyer's fees, it's a good feeling to know my earnings are going to the bank. Mine. No more lawyers. The time for a motion to reopen has come and gone. And I'm fine with that.

Things aren't always what they appear, anyhow. Sometimes the water is glycerin.

She said her name was Artsblood.

I don't know what kind of name that is. Arts. Blood. Artsblood. Looking at her face, watching as it slowly developed through the liquid lens of chemicals, it was easy to see she owned that name. She owned everything about herself. The messy puff of white hair, the long fine limbs, those giant, intoxicating brown eyes. Her body looked delicate. Crafted. But I think it's an illusion. I think those long limbs of hers are reinforced with steel.

I can't remember what we talked about, I just know she wanted to see the photograph.

Her gaze is direct. Unapologetic. Though she isn't quite looking at the lens. She'd been looking at me. And I have to admit, it was unnerving.

These days, I don't need to aim my camera perfectly to get the shot I want. In urgent situations, I can snap off some shots without looking. With her, I just didn't want the separation. Her/Camera/Me. Her/Me.

The people in front of her are out of focus, nothing but dark blurs around her barstool. There's a sense of movement while she is still. Exposure is a bit off, so her hair is an even brighter white than it is in person.

So many people look away. Shrink from the shutter's click. Not her. She doesn't shrink. Not from anything.