Being Photographed by Carolyn Cowan - a personal experience by Sara Sutton

What it's like to be photographed by Carolyn Cowan

I stand naked, pinned to an imaginary cross in a surrey garden. My huge belly protrudes in front of me. My expression is that of a holy martyr. I feel powerful and sexual. My hair is exploding from my body, my breasts are full, my skin is clear. Carolyn Cowan is crafting a joke, a beautiful joke about the immaculate conception.

I am Jesus and Mary rolled into one. Around us the garden of England fizzes with nascent life. Shoots explode from the earth. Expectant flora dilate with seductive scents, giving the come-on to passing bees. Delicate crocuses burst from the fertile ground. Birds twitter like teenagers on the top deck of a bus, coo-ing, chaffing, chirping and calling. All around us, nature throws a mantle of sex. All is reproducing, germinating, sprouting, flowering, humming. I look down upon this from my crucifix (I can see your house from here), ready to burst.

Next she dissects me, my belly and breasts framing the bridge that I am yet to cross. My swollen womb distends, my not-yet-milk-filled breasts bourgeon joyfully below, nipples extending in the freezing March air. My body stretches and spreads to fill the vast expanse beneath the bridge. I have always found headless portraits distasteful; the very embodiment of de-personalization. But Carolyn Cowan is a sculptress. She sees the shape and beauty of the body and celebrates its strangeness. I go into a trance-like state and revel in my beauty, emerging disoriented and confused. Is she a magician? A magi? An alchemist? I would believe anything of her.

Second story written by Claire Laden.

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CAROLYN COWAN