I regularly get fed up with overly-smoothed skin, figures tweaked into ‘perfection’ etc…. resulting in photos of (seemingly) plastic dolls. I also despair of photographers whose models are all interchangable. I like real people, real skin, ‘inperfections’ that make us so wonderfully human. The following poem (although about clothes) sums up my feelings quite nicely.
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction–
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher–
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly–
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat–
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility–
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.