Other people seem to love beauty. Color. The things that excite the eye, that stand out, that seem unreal. It’s different for me. I don’t like the word beautiful. It feels uncomfortable to me. Color is uncomfortable, new is uncomfortable. Beauty and wonder aren’t what I look for. I find comfort in the most basic things, the old, tired things, the unremarkable. The parts of the photo that your eyes glaze over, mine rest on. The dry grass, the dull sky, the faded treeline. The ugly to me isn’t ugly. The ugly to me is real. Maybe, the real is what I find beautiful. Don’t pretty cry for me. Ugly cry. Let your emotions be raw. Unrestrained. Let your body be honest and your feelings be real. It’s not ugly to me. Wrinkles that crease the face. The color of dust, the color of dirt. The real, raw, vulnerability of the unremarkable.