I yearn to know if she’s the culprit, the head hewer that is, or simply the courier. She vanishes before I muster up the courage to ask. And all I’m left with is a snapshot of her to paste into a decaying scrapbook. A crisp black and white print signed by one Mr. Witkin who has taken it upon himself to entitle the scenario: Woman With A Severed Head (1982).

Briefly, for the uninitiated... Joel Peter Witkin is one of the most highly regarded fine art photographers in the world, (in)famous for his black and white ventures into the grotesque – i.e. severed body parts amidst fruit and flora compositions, human anomalies, corpses, etc. Witkin emerged an auteur on the “art scene” in the 1980’s and his works grace photography museums the world over. He is revered as a master printer, known for spending the bulk of his meticulous artistic process in the darkroom. Witkin’ s prints are often artistically scratched and treated with various substances so as to render the final product reminiscent of antique photographs (i.e. collodion and carbon prints).

I was introduced to Witkin via an article in the April 1993 issue of Vanity Fair. The piece, entitled “Joel-Peter Witkin, An Eye for the Forbidden,” was accompanied by a close-up photo of Witkin wearing a crude, lace-fringed Zorro-type mask with a cross painted between the eyes. Wholly unfamiliar with Wiktin at that point, said bizarre image of him piqued my curiosity enough to read the entire article through; it portrayed him as a type of mad-scientist of the photographic world – morbid, witty, hyper-intellectual, willing to go to great lengths to acquire subjects. The piece also delved into Witkin’s familial circle, a circus in itself, as evidenced by a much younger tattoo-artist wife, her live-in female lover, a teenage son, and a slew of odd pets. Witkin was quoted as having referred to himself as the “ultimate investigator.” This self-proclamation intrigued me. I soon began to associate Witkin with my own circus fantasies.

Joining the carnival/circus circuit had been a childhood yearning that has never completely exited my system. I studied gymnastics and dance as a kid. My Barbie splits were perfect and I won practically every limbo contest at my little friends’ birthday parties. I dreamt of becoming a world-famous contortionist when I grew up, a bally broad, pretzel woman in a slinky silver and red get-up, bending and twisting like taffy under the glaring sun before a crowd of flummoxed and delighted onlookers. I wanted to travel the world in a rickety caravan with the other carnies. To do the circuit, perform on outdoor stages where elastic men, human pin-cushions, fat ladies, and Siamese twins are depicted on the bannerline. Included is a large canvas banner depicting a caricature of myself, bent backwards in an upside down U, long black braids brushing the peanut-shell-littered floor. By my early teens, I had accumulated enough theatrical wear from garage sale and flea market excursions to stock a university drama department. My traveling wardrobe consisted of vintage lingerie, cat-eye sunglasses, vinyl go-go boots, colorful wigs, gaudy costume jewelry, feather boas, monocles, striped tights, vintage hats, you name it. I was even willing to share my clothes with the Siamese twins and with Jana, the hirsute beauty.

A knee injury cut short my gymnastics career, however. And my elastic hopes of contorting in front of drunken men were snapped. But the fantasy lingered. I needed an alternate vehicle by which to live out these desires. So I sublimated. And subsequently, I was able to explore my desires through Witkin’s imagery.

My first thorough examination into Witkin’s body of work was via his self-titled book (1985; Twelve Trees Press), which I had located it in the library of the college I was attending. Having the book all to myself for a fortnight was a delight. I spent hours visiting the photos, reveling in the minutiae, trying to decipher the enigmas. The alchemy of photography had long interested me. My dad – a photographic hobbyist who developed surveillance film in the military – instilled in me an appreciation for the photographic medium early on. Arbus’ haunting depictions of the lame and disenfranchised moved me, as did Brassai’s Parisian underworlds and Adams’ breathless landscapes. But Witkin was different. Viewing his works was more than just looking and liking. It was like diving headfirst into a pool of Jell-O. Cold, exhilarating, wholly unfamiliar.

One foggy day during the late 1990’s, I perused the entertainment section of a weekly San Francisco paper and discovered an announcement of the arrival of a new Witkin collection at a local gallery. I rushed to see it that same day, tagging a friend along for the ride. The chic downtown establishment was modeled after a modern art museum – high ceilings, eggshell-white walls, buffed floors, industrial piping visible overhead. As my friend and I crossed the foyer of the clutter-free environ, a wicked laughter bounced off the ceiling and broke an otherwise antiseptic silence. The source of the laughter was a not-too-tall man, dressed in head-to-toe black, sporting joke eyeglasses, the kind with plastic bloodshot eyeballs attached to springs. I instantly knew the man to be Witkin, although he only occupied my field of vision for a few seconds. The man abruptly exited the gallery and disappeared behind elevator doors.

“That was Witkin,” I whispered to my friend.

“Oh,” he replied, apathetically.

I was unfamiliar with the works on display; they belonged to a new series, most having been shot in Mexico. My squeamish friend tried to maintain an apathetic demeanor, but I saw past it, to revulsion thinly concealed behind his tight lips. My friend was particularly disturbed by a photo of a corpse entitled Glassman; he felt it to be exploitative and culminating in nothing but misery and abuse. I was too giddy at the time at having glimpsed Witkin to share in my friend’ s negative sentiments. Seeing Witkin’ s prints in their proper scale was a treat. The prints were huge . The richness of tones, coupled with the scratches and other markings on his photos were articulated in their proper context. I was amazed at how far Witkin could take the gray scale.

Shortly after my first brush with Witkin, Witkin appeared in town again to promote the book that contained the Mexico series. The modest-sized bookstore that hosted the appearance was chock-a-block with patrons seated in folding chairs or standing in aisles. The attendees constituted the typical artsy San Francisco ambrosia – yuppies in retro eyeglasses and sleek leather jackets, hipsters in vintage sequin cardigans and bright red lipstick, mods with dyed-black-mop-cuts, “older” computer geeks with gray ponytails, old hippies, a spattering of Goths and punks, and a handful of others who, like Witkin’s models, defied categorization.

Witkin spoke in a soft, diluted east-coast accent. His mannerisms verged on the effeminate. He was dressed haphazardly in white t-shirt underneath a mediocre blazer. No black. No Zorro-mask. No joke eyeglasses. He habitually pressed the pad of his index finger into his cheek as he spoke – an awkward, unattractive gesture. He answered audience questions – many of an ignorant, moronic nature – with diplomacy and candor. The questioners’ primary interest lay in the how-to’s of the photographic process. Witkin elaborated on the types of papers and chemicals he used. He spoke of the phasing out of certain high-end papers, an impending obsolescence in the face of digital technologies. He mentioned having stocked up on such supplies during a recent visit to Eastern Europe – a last bastion of photographic sundries for the master printer. These superior-quality supplies, he sullenly explained, were necessary to the attainment of the clarity and depth as evidenced in his works. Having grown irate with the barrage of questions involving the minutiae of chemical baths and film speeds, I mustered up the courage to raise my hand. Witkin called on me, whereupon I unleashed a simple, yet tantalizing question. One meant to turn a rock over in his head.

“I’d like to know who your favorite authors are... what kind of books you read.”

Witkin smiled. “Very good,” he said. He mentioned Isaac Bashevis Singer and Yiddish folk tales. Whoa. He threw some other names I can’t remember for the life of me. I took extensive notes during the Q & A on crumpled-up cocktail napkins – my only source of paper at the time. I kept these notes safe in a shoe-box for several years, but ended up tossing them into a fire in a writer’s-fit-of-despair – the kind where a writer’s inner voice insists that the writer purge notes and drafts that have sat around forever and haven’ t amounted to anything... or kill themself. Thus, only a tiny slice of the rich cake that constituted that evening remains in my accessible memory banks. I do remember being impressed with Witkin had to say, especially the part about the reason he shot the series in Mexico, mainly because it was too damn hard to secure corpses in the United States.

During the weeks that followed Witkin’s bookstore appearance, the bulk of my dreams involved interactions between him and I. These I remember, for I did the dream-book thing and penned the details into a bedside notebook upon awakening. In one scenario, Joel and I are seated in an Irish pub, a neighborhood dive patronized by hard-core boozers – toothless women, cardigan-wearing septuagenarians, and various persuasions of working class pickled people. Dim orange lighting casts a warm glow on the wall-to-wall Victorian woodwork and rows of glass bottles tucked behind the long counter. Joel and I sit hip to hip on adjacent counter stools, basking in the warm brandy glow. The music of antique coin-operated-machines plays dimly in the background. The barmaid – a skinny cranker with mouse-gray hair and nicotine-stained teeth that look as if they’ re sprouting orange lichen – approaches.

“What can I get you two lovebirds tonight?” she asks, in an Irish brogue.

Joel casts a narrowed-eye look on me, a tacit signal that I should decide for the two of us. “ Hmmm... let’ s see... how about a couple of mint juleps, for the gentleman and me.”

She stares into space for a few seconds, as if she’s experiencing a lag in time. “Very good. Mint juleps it’ll be.” She walks away.

“Hey you!” I call out. She turns around. I motion her over. She approaches.

“Let’s get something straight,” I say, in an irate tone. “We’re not lovebirds. We’re canaries.”

In another dream, I’m in a rural setting, seated behind a writing desk, penning a letter in a barren room labeled “peasant quarters.” I dip a quill into a inkwell at regular intervals. I scribble the words onto parchment. The letter reads something like this:

In a post-script to his eponymous 1985 book, Witkin solicited models, among them “...physical prodigies of all kinds... pinheads... twins joined at the foreheads... anyone with a parasitic twin... private collections of instruments of torture...” I fantasized of harboring deformities – i.e. a parasitic twin appendage – so that I could be immortalized on film by him. In one poignant dream, I’m picnicking at a cemetery, on a hot, glaring day. I’m dressed in a c.1950’s orange and white gingham dress with spaghetti straps. Crisp white gloves adorn my hands; white pumps grace my feet. My hair is big and firm as a cake mold, thanks to industrial strength hair spray. I’m devouring Jell-O out of heart-shaped Tupperware, when lo-and-behold, Witkin materializes in the distance. He carries a bouquet of white lillies. He stops before a grave, places the flowers on the earth, then turns and walks in my direction. I regard him curiously from behind cat-eye-sunglasses. I haven’t the slightest idea who he is, but I’m intrigued by his graceful gait and sleek black presentation. So I motion him come my way. I gesture him to sit down with my open palm air-patting the picnic blanket. He sits. We chat. We discuss the models gracing major canned-food labels. Who, in our opinion, is the prettiest one. I opt for the Nordic creamed-corn girl. I tell him it’s her Alpine innocence, ice-blue eyes and flaxen hair that really does me in. Joel vies for the dark-featured Italian-looking girl on the tomato cans.

“I detect a faint unibrow on her that’s been shaved,” he says.

The afternoon sun burns brightly. The fresh-cut grass is hyper-bright-green and so sharp, it cuts into my ankles. Joel unpacks camera equipment from a bulky old-fashioned medicine bag. He sets a Hasselblat down on the blanket.

“ Something the matter, Daddy-O?”

His eyes are fixed at some distant point. “I came from the sea, you see. The tide brought me in... in search of something special. And I’m afraid I haven’t found it. It’s a terrible day. The light here is awful.”

“Oh, don’t despair Daddy-O.” I take his hand, place it on my heart. “Hear that?” I ask. He nods. “Ya. So.”

I slide his hand a few inches to the left and pause. “Do you hear that?”

He looks bewildered for a few seconds. But this segues into an expression of utter amazement. He grins, shaking his head. “I don’t believe it,” he says, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. I smile wildly.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?” I say. He chuckles. I conspicuously position my hands in front of his face, then slowly remove my starched gloves, revealing an eight-digit configuration on each hand. I seductively remove my sunglasses, stare at him, exposing an ice-blue right eye and jet-black left eye.

“Unbelievable,” he says. “You are too much.” He fumbles for his Hasselblatt, and begins snapping away, leaning in towards my face and hands, repeatedly bringing the lens within inches of my skin. When the first roll runs out, he frantically reloads a new one, as if I were a vaporous being who might evanesce and his sole opportunity would be written on the wind.

“I’d ask you if I could cut you open and photograph those two hearts of yours,” he says, nonchalantly, while messing with his camera, “but I know that would be asking too much.”

“Mister,” I reply, “You ain’t seen nothing yet... Bootsy! Bootsy boy! Come here Bootsy boy!” I twist my body around, stare into the distance. Joel attempts to hone in on whatever it is I’m observing. In the far distance appears a brownish dog with a faintly perceptible wagging-tail. “Bootsy!” I yell. The canine runs towards us, gracefully dodging tombstones along the way. The creature grows larger and larger as he nears us, as if being transformed from a little toy to a large organic being. He finally arrives at the edge of the blanket, panting wildly. Joel regards him with fear and awe, an expression that freezes in time. Joel’s mouth remains gaped for what seems to be a long time, gaped so widely that any wider might tear the corners of his lips.

“Good boy,” I say to Bootsy, lavishly petting his shiny coat. “What’s the matter Mister?” I say to Joel. “Ain’t you ever seen a two-headed pit bull?”

Joel frantically loads another roll. “Act natural, please,” he says, nervously. “Pay me no heed.” He voraciously photographs my dog and I. “So... ” he says, trying to downplay his eagerness, “I noticed you refer to Bootsy in the singular, when you call him, um, them, by name.”

“Hmmm, I suppose you’re right mister,” I say. It’s late-afternoon now. The sun will soon cast a brilliant orange-pink glow on the surroundings. Both Witkin and I are anticipating this. “The magic hour is upon us,” he says. “Let’s do one more roll and make it real.”

Witkin claims he has haunted medical schools and morgues for subjects. In a monograph entitled The Bone House (2000) he refers to himself as “...a portraitist; not of people, but conditions of being,” and believes that “...within us is an intangible malice...” I’m very fond of his c. 1970’s and 80’s material published in The Bone House, like the non-gory Topeka (1979), which depicts a young, masked maiden in a vintage bathing suit and beauty-pageant sash on which the word Topeka is emblazoned. This photo evokes a difficult-to-paraphrase nostalgia. The fabulous Mexican Pin-up (1985) depicts a woman in medium-close-up, face cropped just below eyes, her enormous, sagging breasts having taken on the role of pin cushion, in that her nipples harbor carefully arranged pins arranged in asterisk formation. The Invention of Milk (1982) is among of my favorite Witkins. The heroine of this photo is yet another Rubinesque beauty, with two sets of breasts (vertically oriented). Out of her lower abdomen protrudes a fetus-like creature. A different, centipede-like entity of ambiguous intent stands by her side. The photo’s ambiance is reminiscent of David Lynch’s Eraserhead.

Witkin’s works transport me to a different reality, one separate from the waking, day-to-day, day-job world. Coupled with the many historical and artistic references that pop up in his works, I feel as though I am witnessing peep-show extravaganzasÑglimpsing lurid Rococo lawn parties, penny arcade opium dreams, unfolding New York tenement homicides, Jack the Ripper reenactments, Parisian burlesque line-ups... Some of Witkin images are so disturbing and “out-there” that, in viewing them, I become a child, sneaking into a R-rated slasher movie or spying on the neighbors; doing something, in other words, that will guarantee me a whipping if I’m caught.

I’m not a Joel Peter Witkin Kool-Aid-drinking cultist, however. I’ve come to agree with my squeamish friend’s views about Glassman (1990) – the photo of a Mexican corpse propped up on a chair, all dirty and naked with a sewn-up Y-shaped incision (thick baseball stitches), frontally facing the camera. This image lacks ambiguity and whimsy in my opinion. It doesn’t strive forward, nor does it surprise. That said, Witkin’s artistic stamp is so recognizable that I believe he could successfully photograph the banal – i.e. citrus fruit minus the added body parts, paper clips, coffee mugs. Witkin could photograph a fucking doorknob and make it interesting. So why doesn’t he?

In art, as in life, we seeks out that which tugs our heart strings. Witkin provided me a dreamscape for the waking world. A peepshow to sneak into, incognito, during the corporate lunch hour.

A majorette-uniform lays dormant in a box, in the far recesses of a closet. It’s folded neatly between sheets of crisp acid-free tissue. The metallic red bodice – breath-restricting snake-like thing – sprouts poofy white sleeves darted with red polka-dots. Somewhere or other is a companion baton, also acquired at a garage sale. I’d love for Witkin to photograph me wearing this (fitting into it would be a small miracle... it’s been nearly fifteen years since its graced my being). This costume, more than any other item of clothing past or present, makes me feel real. Tangible, yet ineffable. In it, I’m the Queen-of-the-Freaks-Queen-Bee.

I’d be happy if Witkin were to just photograph the uniform itself. He could take it to a cemetery, spread it out on a picnic blanket, under the glaring sun, and stick a few deformed lemons inside, to take the place of breasts and a head.