Or, more accurately, behind every picture there is a story.
I’m taking this photography class, and we had an assignment. The instructor paired us up to do a portrait of each other.
My gut feeling was fear-I hate having my picture taken. One of the good things about being “the photographer” in the group, is that you get to stay behind the camera, not in front of it.
When I do have to pose more often than not, my expression shows how uncomfortable I am. And don’t ask me to smile.
But I was willing to be a team player, and go along with the assignment.
My first impression of the woman that I was partnered with to was that she has an interesting profile, and I imagined a high contrast scene, something like the one used to introduce Alfred Hitchcock on his television show in the 1950s.
However, she didn’t respond to my attempt to get together, and since I wanted to meet the deadline, I decided to go it alone-a selfie.
I started thinking about my discomfort, where did it come from? I remember once hearing that certain cultures felt that the photograph would steal a person’s soul. I haven’t had my DNA checked, but the chances that I am one of those folks is pretty slim.
I suspect a congenital link-my also mother didn’t to have her photo taken, and like her,
I am a very private person.
Like most good ideas, the solution came to me while I was doing something else-driving or taking a shower (not at the same time, safety behind the wheel, and all that)
A portion of our fence was in disrepair, I was able to wrestle a fenceboard out, and rig it up to take this shot. The camera was on a tripod, with a timer actuated shutter, and it took a dozen tries to get the light on my eyeball, but I think it came out OK.
Someone in my class thought it was creepy.
This wasn’t my intention, but they say that one of the purposes of Art is to provoke.