• home
  • Artistic projects
    • Estranged Sex
    • eRotika
    • Remaking Pachu
    • The Butterfly Cage
    • Do my nipples offend you?
    • Stories
    • Underwater Terror
    • L’ isola che non cé
    • The crisis
    • The Downfall of the Dream
    • Farewell
    • Self Portraits
    • Sleepy People
    • Family Portraits
    • The Ideal Man
  • Video Gallery
  • Bio
  • Blog


Self portrait with husband 2018

 Posted on January 30, 2018      by Sandra Torralba
 3,944

I am a woman. I love men. And women. And myself. Most of the time.
My work is an ode to women that love men and women and themselves, most of the time.
To women that love themselves so much that they can freely say they love men. Or whomever. Even themselves.
I don’t create images to arouse men. I am aroused by men. And women. And my own imagination.
I create images as an ode.
As an ode to living one’s sexuality, embodiement and gender spectrum freely, in it’s own way and speed.
To sexual desire expressed blatantly and clearly and equally received. Without shame or disguises.

To bodies. With its perfect flaws and shades of grey. Full bodies with hair skin smell and fluids. Bodies that age, that take us to heaven and hell, that are worth dying for.

To sex. With its mismatches and implosions.
To gender with it’s fluidity and redefined lines.
To living and feeling mostly.

 

Self portrait with husband 2018.
I am a woman. I love men. And women. And myself. Most of the time.
My work is an ode to women that love men and women and themselves, most of the time.
To women that love themselves so much that they can freely say they love men. Or whomever. Even themselves.
I don’t create images to arouse men. I am aroused by men. And women. And my own imagination.
I create images as an ode.
As an ode to living one’s sexuality, embodiement and gender spectrum freely, in it’s own way and speed.
To sexual desire expressed blatantly and clearly and equally received. Without shame or disguises.
To bodies. With its perfect flaws and shades of grey. Full bodies with hair skin smell and fluids. Bodies that age, that take us to heaven and hell, that are worth dying for.
To sex. With its mismatches and implosions.
To gender with it’s fluidity and redefined lines.
To living and feeling mostly.




© Copyright Sandra Torralba