Rich Bitch

Brooke Candy came through a Terry Richardson photograph first—twenty-two years old with her father’s Hustler magazine background and borrowed money in her hands, the kind of lineage that made people read her sexuality as part of the package before she even opened her mouth. The photos were unpolished, deliberately raw, nothing softened for respectability.

What made an impression was her complete disinterest in fitting into anyone’s comfortable version of her. Most artists spend years learning to embrace the parts of themselves that make them interesting. She showed up already knowing. By the time these images were circulating, someone had already recognized what they were looking at.