I am my own worst critic. And boy, that critic can be a real cynical asshole, especially when it comes to looking at photos of myself. Like women tend to do, we pick ourselves apart, analyzing the crow's feet or the wonky eye, the thick thighs or the skin that's losing the battle against time and gravity. No one else sees these flaws as glaringly as we do, because we live with them. Hell, we live inside them. 

I decided to face my inner critic head-on by experimenting with self-portraiture. Unlike portraiture of others, which I find fascinating and emotionally stirring, self-portraiture is daunting and nerve-wracking. I'd spent a little time in my early 20s modeling, so I know both the power and the vulnerability of being in front of the camera. But time and life have had their way with me, and what's left of that spry confidence is now embodied in a 34-year-old woman who has a strong penchant for anxiety, escapism and self-torment.

What is fascinating, though, is that I'm curious enough about that woman to want to document her. I want to look beyond the subjective and self-loathing hyper-criticism and see the object herself. I thought that if I sat in front of the camera long enough, the self-consciousness would fade and the object would emerge. Here's what I was able to capture of her in the span of an hour or so.