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The Georgicks of Virgil, with an English Translation and Notes Virgil, John Martyn Ipsi in defossis specubus secura sub alta Otia agunt terra, congestaque robora, Pierius says it is confecto in the Roman manuscript. And Tacitus also says the Germans used to make caves to defend them from the severity of winter, .

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Beskin told me that some of the most beautiful boudoir shots are those that capture natural, imperfect moments—because they capture the kind of authentic intimacy you share with your partner on a regular basis. To prepare for my professional photoshoot, I made a moodboard—something Mednik had suggested in our interview.

Laugh away, but the moodboard helped me figure out what I wanted my nudes to look like. It also helped me find photo inspiration, see what poses I liked, and compile lingerie I was into. For the record, I would've happily included an image of my moodboard it's mostly butt photos, because apparently I'm a huge fan of derrieres , but photo rights issues prevent me from doing so.

So you'll just have to imagine all the sexy boudoir butt pics that inspired my shoot. Clothed nude photos?! An oxymoron of the highest order! But all three photographers assured me clothed—or like, partially clothed—photos were standard in boudoir. Since going full birthday suit can be a little awkward, they recommended I start with a more covered-up look say, my partner's button-down or a cozy sweater over my favorite bra and gradually strip down to my skivvies. Beskin even suggested I select my outfits ahead of time and lay them out in the order I plan to wear them.

She warned that corsets and other tight garments can leave marks on the skin, so I should wear those last. I brought a couple bras, three pairs of underwear, a bodysuit, and a button-down with me to the shoot, and Ribinik helped me assemble looks from there. And I got some pretty dramatic hair and makeup done for the occasion.

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This gives clients a second to get in the zone before, you know, taking their clothes off. And the photographers suggested I incorporate something similar— hair and makeup , sexy music, a glass or two of wine —into my own nude selfie shoots. I don't have much of a problem being naked around people just ask my poor, poor roommates , but even I thought this period of mental preparation sounded like a good idea. On set, Ribinik opted for a Lana Del Rey -based soundtrack, and her makeup artist took her time making me look picture-perfect.

I ended up looking like a straight-up doll—a look I appreciated for the professional shoot but would never have the patience or skill to recreate on my own. Then I did the whole nude and semi-nude modeling thing. And honestly, it was easier than I expected. While Ribinik's makeup artist worked her magic, Ribinik walked me through the fundamentals of boudoir scenery—which is basically just that you want to pose in a clean, well-lit, ideally luxurious-looking room. The swanky Manhattan hotel room we were shooting in seemed to fit the bill.

Though it was raining out, she explained she'd be keeping the lights off. Apparently, natural light—even if it's dim—is better than artificial light, because it can lend a soft, sensual vibe to your photos. Ribinik recommended posing in a window-filled room, like the one we were in, whenever possible. Before I knew it, my two hours of get-to-know-you talk were up, and it was time to get naked. Thankfully, Ribinik knew what she wanted from each shot, and she confidently directed me from pose to pose—telling me where to put my arms, how to tilt my head, and when to really push my butt out.

I'd usually take my nudes on my bed or in my bathroom, but Ribinik made use of everything from the couch to the wall. I quickly realized how easy it can be to get creative with posing and scenery, and I tried to make mental notes of everything I was experiencing. Before long, the moment of truth arrived: Would this effort I exerted to educate myself on how to take hot nudes actually result in hotter nudes?

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My first move was to revisit the photos from my shoot with Ribinik and to recreate some of the poses on my own see my attempts below, complete with fun names from yours truly. I also drew inspiration from my moodboard, though that mostly helped me get in the nude photo taking mood.


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When it came to doing, well, pretty much anything else the photographers had taught me to do, I failed. The monster that is laziness reared its ugly head, and I paid little attention to lighting, scenery, or getting in The Zone. I took my nudes at night, so natural light wasn't an option.

I compromised and positioned myself near some not-so-natural light sources—namely, lamps. This mostly sufficed. I also failed to clean my room before the shoot, which is downright embarrassing. I am adult enough to understand the import of a clean living space, and I'm also adult enough to understand that a vacuum cleaner does not add value to any nude photo.

Apparently, though, I'm not adult enough to act on either of these notions. Oh, and let the record show I have zero idea how to use my cell phone's self-timer function, and I'm way too lazy to figure it out. Selfies—awkward posing and all—are my bread and butter. So rather than aiming for perfect replicas of my boudoir photos, I adapted them as best I could. Now for the good stuff.

This is the first pose Ribinik had me do in our shoot. I'm not the kind of person who does planks!! Revel in this moment, because the only reason I'd ever subject myself to this is for the art of the nude. This is one of my favorite selfies from my DIY experiment—I actually like it more than the professional shot. Bonus: My body is largely hidden from the shot, so the only thing I had to control was my face. Ribinik told me she often instructs clients to avoid eye contact with the camera at the start of her shoots.

Instead, she asks them to look down, glance into the distance, or tilt their heads back with their eyes closed sound familiar? Staring down a camera lens can be intimidating, and this helps people adjust to the environment.

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This is hands-down my favorite photo from my shoot with Ribinik. A quick tip: In our interview, Mednik recommended I highlight the curves of my body by arching my back, popping my hip, or pushing my butt out. And I'm doing exactly that in this photo. It felt a little awkward, but it definitely paid off. I tried to recreate this one at home, but once again, my arm failed me. So I adapted the pose and took a mirror selfie, instead. I generally like the way the shot turned out.

But I forgot to shut my closet door before snapping the pic, which put a damper on the final product. This one is just. Plus, all I had to do was lie on a bed and look down—my kinda pose. OK, so I had to modify the original with this one. There was no way in hell I could get my face, full body, and both arms in a selfie. And as you can see from the slight blurriness, I had trouble stabilizing the camera even after the modification.


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  7. Let me tell ya, simultaneously stretching your arm, art-directing your image, and focusing your lens is no small task. All I had to do was lie down, keep my face out of the shot, attempt to snap a full-body picture, and voila—sexy photo. Pro-tip: If your face is doing weird shit, just crop it out. This one was so easy to pose for. I just touched my lip! The sight of the books, the feel of them, their colour and their smell were a reliable source of pleasure and comfort separate from but always associated with the narratives and locations to which they provided access.

    I was about 13 when by chance I saw and bought a quantity of books at the local auction house. There were more than a thousand of them, Victorian novels and histories for the most part, with some bound volumes of piano music. The whole lot cost me a pound. I went back the next day with an old pram and started the business of transferring them to my room at home.

    It took several journeys there and back to remove them all. Not exactly a treasure trove, but getting so many books at once, with so few titles I would have chosen, moved me suddenly much closer to possession of my fantasy library. Some of the books were hard going — I never got on with Hall Caine or Jeffery Farnol — but there was enough enjoyable reading there to keep me busy for quite a while.

    As I got older, and my interests became more rarefied, the books I wanted became commensurately harder to find.


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    I developed a consuming interest in out-of-print and forgotten fiction from the first decades of the last century. In the end I was spending so much time in second-hand bookshops that I gave up my part-time job as a teacher in an FE college and became a bookseller myself. A subsidiary motive for this was the hope that it would make me less acquisitive if I was buying books in order to sell them, not keep them.

    I spent most of my thirties in that world, accumulating a large and somewhat specialised stock in my basement modernism, left-wingery, the Spanish Civil War, ephemeral political pamphlets and the like until my enthusiasm for buying books outstripped my aptitude for selling them by a large overdraft, and I stopped, sold the stock and the shelves, and took up the equally bookish business of academia, teaching English.

    It was a comfortable place to work and to teach in. It had large windows looking out over the green, armchairs and a sofa, and a small rug that was always edging its way across the stained fawn carpet. In an alcove just inside the door was the smallest sink in the world, with cupboards over the draining board. The cupboards were full of books, too. Most of the wall space was covered in shelves, partly original to the room, partly built to accommodate my books. There were some filing cabinets, one full of notes, the other full of photocopied articles though one drawer did contain bottles of wine.

    The green armchair and sofa were reupholstered when I moved into the rooms. I worked at a big oak table with laptop, dictionaries, pens and phone. In recent years a second large table in the inner room was almost invisible as rows and piles of books crept across its surface: American poetry from Ashbery to Zukofsky, literary biographies, journals waiting to be read and piles of photocopied poems for Practical Criticism classes.

    There was a large board on the wall just inside the door for cuttings and postcards mostly of Marilyn Monroe, sent by students to accompany the Eve Arnold photograph of her reading Ulysses that used to be on my door. The inner room contained philosophy, psychoanalysis, literary theory, literary criticism and history, linguistics, classics, French and German, and five shelves of collections of short stories.

    The first room contained poetry from Wyatt to Eliot — more recent poetry was kept at home , Victorian literature and criticism, and what could broadly be described as modernism. A revolving bookcase on loan from the college library held more books Frank Kermode, Norbert Elias, the New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics and had more papers stacked on top of it. Once there had been a bed in the inner room, but it had been used as a place to store books for so long that in the end the housekeeper took it away and replaced it with another bookcase.

    That was my office, my store, my workplace, and my home from home for nearly twenty years. Then I had to retire. A small Cambridge terraced house, even with a library or two in the garden, can only hold a certain number of books, and it was already pretty full. Nearly all the books in college would have to be disposed of. And that would be no hardship, I thought: not really, not with so many libraries, including a copyright library, within walking distance. Each book had its own history, which was part of my history. In the days before the internet made finding books relatively easy, you had to search bookshops, send lists of wants to booksellers and scour their catalogues to find scarce or out-of-print volumes.

    It could take years. The complete run of C. Books by friends and books by people I disliked. Books full of my notes or jottings on the backs of envelopes. Even the most unassuming books prompted recollections.

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    They composed a sort of biography, each one acting like a door in an advent calendar, opening on to some moment in the past. Still, they had to go. No more literary criticism, or literary history, or history, or linguistics. The bookseller, though, declined to take the works of Marx and Engels. A couple of hundred academic books called Modernism and … Some inspection copies.