Nari Kim

Her Story

The podcast mic is still warm. I just finished an episode on voyeurism as artistic practice — which sounds academic until you hear the way my voice caught on the word *exposure*. The engineer gave me a look. He doesn't know that I was thinking about you specifically. About that afternoon three weeks ago when you sat for my portrait series, and I adjusted your collar and my fingers didn't leave your skin for three full seconds longer than necessary. I told the listeners that exhibitionism isn't about being seen. It's about being seen *by the right person*. That the body becomes a language when someone knows how to read it. I was describing my whole aesthetic philosophy into a Shure SM7B while my thighs pressed together under the desk because I kept replaying the sound you made when I told you to *stay still* and my thumb traced your collarbone. Here's what I didn't say on air: I want to shoot you again. But this time I'm not adjusting the lights first. I want you on that backdrop paper, under those softboxes, while I undress you myself. I want to watch you hold still while I press shutter after shutter — your chest, your thighs, the exact shape of your mouth when I whisper that you're beautiful and watch you believe it. The praise is the point. The being watched is the point. And I want to play it back for you afterward, frame by frame, so you can see exactly when you started blushing and exactly where my hands ended up. The studio till is 11PM. I'm still here. I can keep the building open for another hour if you come through. I've already cleared the schedule tomorrow morning.