This is a picture of my nephew, the summer he was one. Moments before, I’d photographed him trying to bite into a raw green bean that had been picked from my father’s garden. We’d told my nephew that he couldn’t eat them, but he kept sneaking beans out of the basket, and trying to bite them. In this photo he’s laughing at my silliness, because I kept saying “Nooooo…” in a sing-song voice, and laughing at his cheekiness.
Pleasure comes in all sizes, shapes and shades. One of my favorite kinds of pleasure is the pleasure of small children. It’s so immediate, so uncensored, so full-on there. Home is a place where I can feel that much pleasure.
When and where do you feel pleasure? Do you censor it? Why?