My desire of perfection.



I’ve been overthinking lately. Unfortunately my mind has, in a way, been devouring itself. Starting one thing, stopping it, then starting anew at something else. Why must I let myself spiral into this? Part of me is thinking that perhaps in a way my stress and sadness fuels my joy in some way. That this discomfort is my body and mind’s way of communicating to me that there is something else out there. That I have yet to break out of my shell, my mold, this skin that I have to deal with…

I shake with fear of this. Thinking about having to extend, bend and expand myself leaves me with a nauseous feeling. It is me being a coward. Because while I don’t fear growth, I fear mistakes. And I know my desire of perfection will be my main hinderance. I make an attempt to shout to the universe, to tell me what is best, only to realize that I stand alone in a dark, wet cave, and the only sounds I hear are the echoes of my own voices against it’s rocky walls. Yes, voices; I have more than one.

I beg myself to just continue, to not get distracted by feelings that will be long-gone by next week. To just continue.



the title is “Un”.


The Box


the box, the box.

who opened you?

not I, said the heart.

nor I, cried the mind.

for the keeper of the key

had long since died.

the box, the box.

where feelings are stored.

who opened you?

you had vowed,

that you would never be

unlocked again.


I’m feeling something new tonight. Disappointment never felt this sweet before. I realized that the more I embrace this feeling, the more it fades. It’s unfortunate that the same applies to people.

Self Portraits&poem by Reylia Slaby


reylia copy


When I was a little girl, I loved to spend time staring at my own reflection. I remember that I did this quite often until around the age of twelve. Twelve was when I developed a nasty disease called insecurity, and looking at myself began to produce negative feelings. Prior to that, I was fascinated with looking at myself, and I did it often. I have old pictures that my parents took of myself staring in the mirror. I believe it was separate from any narcissism. All the feelings I remember having was just a simple curiosity and wonder of the body I was living in. I even remember inviting a friend to stare with me once, but he didn’t understand why I found looking into a mirror of any interest. I especially loved staring into my reflection from a car window during a nighttime drive. My face would be layered with the stars, the moon, and the sky, and I felt that in this way I was part of them. I believed that my dim reflection was not only the little me then, but me in the future. At eight years old I believed I knew what I looked like at twenty. I read it in the subtle lines of my face. I felt it as I studied myself breathe. I saw hints of my future in the depths of my eyes.

I’ve gotten a bit older, and at 22 I’ve found that this little habit has made it’s way back in my life a bit. A lot of insecurities regarding my physical appearance have been washed away, and now I find myself fascinated again with looking.



The Greyhound

americasmallThe Greyhound from L.A to San Francisco last month was a beautiful and exhausting 10 hours. Most passengers were sleeping for a majority of the trip, so they missed out on the beauty part of it. As I looked out the window, one thought was constant. It was this: “America is truly beautiful”.



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She comes here to read old letters


A bit more of street photography. I took this after a photo-shoot today.

The project I’ve been working on is coming to a close. Mixed feelings.

I continue to look back on my week last week. It was a good. Skype call with a good friend, an interesting event in Osaka, and a certain coffee shop…



You can’t force art



I think that this has been the busiest past few weeks of my life. I am so used to taking things as they come, without giving a thought to deadlines, but lately I have been swimming in them.

My feelings toward this way of life have been mixed. While my gratitude for so many things and people is overflowing, so are my frustrations with myself and my art. I have been doing so many things half-way, without sufficient time to ponder the idea, to marvel at the beauty, and to live in the moment. For this project, I live to serve the deadline, even if what I produce isn’t something I like.

It all has been worth it, because the discoveries I’ve had about my own personality have given me great reward, even though I am prone to stress, and often feel the need to release it onto the people nearest to me. It has given me multiple chances to see how I am under pressure, and to be better. Although I still give in to negative emotions and allow them to control me, I know that I will have many more opportunities to rid myself of them and choose happiness.

These past couple of days I have been going out and doing mini photo-shoots for the project I am working on (The project is with a company, hence all the deadlines). In the beginning I was just shooting everything that excited me, including the image above. Unfortunately the shoot that I had initially planned to do ended up failing. I wonder if it was because I had tried to force something that could never happen, instead of just letting things happen naturally, and to be the witness of it.

It feels like that idea can be applied to more than one thing in life. The more you try to force things to happen and to plan them, somehow they end up turning out completely different from how you expected. I have learned this: You can’t force art, it has to be there already. You just have to learn to see it.



A new series, and thoughts



This piece is a bit different because usually the ideas behind my images are relatable to other people besides myself, whereas this one is about a specific event in my life.

I will be attempting another new series. I haven’t thought of a name for it yet, but I’ll let it come as I create. I don’t know how many images there will be, but I’m thinking that,with the exception of this one, I won’t show any of the images until the whole series is completed (At least until a considerable part of it is).

These days I’ve been thinking a lot about the purpose of art and it’s effect on the artist. I often disliked my attitude  when I displayed my artwork on social platforms. I became extremely conscious of how much attention each piece received and it was no longer fun to share. It became more about the Likes and comments of the image rather than what I learned from it. It is not only me, though. We have become a society where we care so severely about how many clicks that button gets and it is no longer an individual that enjoys your work, but a number.

But we have to continue to use social media. While we wish it could be all about the art, there has to be a division somewhere.The artist is always in a difficult position because we also have to be businessmen and properly promote whatever we make, otherwise “we won’t get anywhere”. We have adapted this “big-break” mentality, and we go through life waiting for something to happen instead of making things happen and enjoy life how it comes.

That is one reason why I quit Instagram and decided to not to go on again until I could use it in a way that was healthy. I decided to go back on two days ago, except this time I am thinking about it in a different way. It is about interaction, love, caring, and a mutual respect for each other. That is what the social media should be for, instead of adding thousands of tags and taking hundreds of selfies just to get people to notice you. We all want attention and love, but the way we try to get results just isn’t good. When it starts to become an obsession, that is when we need to take a step back and reexamine the purpose.

I was discussing the Scarlet Letter with a good friend of mine, Karina (Who also happens to be one of my models) and we came across this paragraph in the beginning:

I was happy enough to find a listener or two on the former occasionーI again seize the public by the button, and talk of my three years’ experience at the Custom-House. The example of the famous “P.P., Clerk of this Parish,” was never more faithfully followed. The truth seems to be, however,that,when he casts his leaves upon the wind, the author addresses,not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him, better than most of his schoolmates and lifemates.

That passage is true to all artists, but often our thinking becomes distorted and we think that we need to make thousands of people care and understand us. But it is better to have few amazing friends who care deeply and carry a desire to understand than a hundred faceless people whose interaction with you starts and stops after the Like button is clicked.

Anyway, this piece is about a certain time in my life, and I will disclose it when the series is finished 🙂

Thank you for reading!