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The book of my body
Being photographed naked is supposed to be a racy, sensual experience. But for one woman, it was a matter of life and death. By Kathryn Harrison
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'm standing, naked, on a small, boxlike platform in a Manhattan photographer's studio. It's a late afternoon in January, rush hour, but outside his shuttered windows traffic is moving slowly, its usual clamor muffled by a heavy snowfall. Months before bikini season, my pubic triangle is beach-ready, not a hair out of place. I got it waxed three days ago, just to be sure that any redness that resulted would have faded by now. These are color shots, life-size.
"Can you ...