Kay Chernush

Self Examination

For more than two decades as a professional photographer, my cameras allowed me to explore worlds that were not my own. Then I was diagnosed with breast cancer and, faced with the bewildering and frightening world of my own mortality, I turned my

cameras on myself.

"Self Examination" is a series of self-portraits that explores my interior world of fear, pain, disfigurement, vanity, loss and recovery. The process became a way of dealing with all the emotions that were set aside. It also became a way of acquainting myself with my reconfigured body, because of course there is no getting back to the old self, only becoming comfortable with the new one.

So far the cancer has been beaten back. In my dreams I wear satin and lace.

"Self Examination" is available as a signed limited edition artist's book of words and images. The book has metal covers and comes in a brushed aluminum box. Click here to read a review of the book in "The Picture Professional."

In my dreams I wear satin & lace
  
My breasts were never my finest feature.
  
During the second biopsy, I looked up at the computer monitor and wondered how something so deadly could look so.....beautiful.
     
  
Piecing together the results of the stereo-tactic biopsy.
  
DESCRIPTION OF PROCEDURE:...bilateral mastectomies...immediate reconstruction...saline filled expanders...adjustable contour profile...style #2500...all bleeding electrocauterized...100cc each side...submuscular braziers...the muscle...the port...sewn in place...separate stab incisions...reapproximated...suitable dressings...the patient awakened...
  
Reflection, post-op
     
  
Can't look    Can' look    Can't look
  
The plastic surgeon asks how big I want my breasts to be.  I answer with an old French saying:  "Just big enough to fill the hands of an honest man."
  
...drip drip drain bleed pain needle nipple vein...
     
  
I never realized what an adornment one's hair is.
  
Bald as a baby.  Bald as a newborn.  Bald as new life.
  
A chance for reinvention.
     
  
I am not my hair.
  
In my mind's eye these months have been a battle.  My breastplate is corroded, my armor rusted through.  But I put my head down and girded myself for combat.  Now what?  I am unprepared for nothingness.
  
At first, I wanted to show off -- to prove that I wasn't deformed, that the scars were not horrific.  Now I feel modest, even shy.  I go undercover.
     
  
The nurse holds a stencil against my chest and draws circles with a magic marker.  She tattoos the colors and then it's done.  Full circle.  It feels complete.
  
Is any other body part as culturally charged as a woman's breasts?