Much has been written about the high fashion model’s
dependency on being told that they are beautiful and the best. They watch their
weight and are in a constant stretch of uncertainty and self-deprecation.
Not much has been written about a similar situation with a
photographer. When I am told I am good I do not know how to respond and I try
to avoid seeming like I want more praise. It is not false modesty. It is just a
simple fact that one is as good as one’s last good photograph.
Of late I have felt very much like one of those models. Like Snow White’s evil queen I might go into the guest bathroom of our little Kitsilano home and stare at my face in the mirror and think, “Am I through? Was I ever any good?”
As a photographer I have never really been sure of myself.
On the night before and important photographic session I think of the equipment
that might fail and what I must bring along to prevent failure. Some have told
me that if I don’t worry the day before then I am simply cruising on past
accomplishments.
Of late I sit in our sunny deck (when it is sunny) stare at
my leafing roses and emerging hostas and I wonder what’s next for me. I go into
my oficina and sit at the computer. I will stand up and go through my files.
Are there any pictures that I may have missed?
The answer is a resounding, “Yes.” It has all to do with the folly of a photographic youth.
I will leave it to others to attempt to explain why it is
that photographers and painters have an obsession with the undraped form. As an
old-fashioned heterosexual male this means the undraped female form. In a not
too distant past I took the pictures for a gay male calendar and I was told I
was very good. I guess I took it as a challenge even if my heart (and lower
countries) wasn’t into it.
In that folly of youth I can remember my first nude. I
photographed my Rosemary with our eight-month-old daughter on her lap. They
were both stark naked and Ale, that daughter of ours did the obvious thing on Rosemary’s
lap. I must assert with pride that I was never tempted to photograph my
pregnant wife in the shower, in the tub or anywhere!
From that first nude where I revealed nothing (no bits or
parts) I went into a steep decline where my goal was to show everything as soon
as possible. Since I have always been shy this has been a challenge. I
was saved many times by women who would call me up and ask me if I were willing
to take pictures of them that were “different”. I soon realized what they
meant.
The technique that I have used (I am not so shy anymore)
is Number 1 or Number 2. Number 1 is to slowly remove clothing in a slow strip.
Number 2 is to start with nothing on. I tell my subjects that there are two
ways to get into a very cold swimming pool. One is to do it slowly and
painfully and the other is to jump in and attempt to ignore that initial cold
shock.
As I look at the negatives of that folly past I can see
that in some cases there are no photographs that I have taken of some subject
of mine that could be posted on this blog without offending someone from the
nipple police or the Inspector of the Lower Countries.
I remember that the photographs were taken in her home by
a park on a very sunny day and I mixed my softbox with existing light. I
remember that she had just finished an affair with a man who was a boxer. That
explains (she did not tell me at the time) the white bandages on her hands. I
forget the name of her dog. But I fondly remember that in the sunlight streaming
in through the windows her face was like a madonna which oozed grace and
femininity.
Best of all I managed to take a few pictures that I can
place here without offense and which at the same time tell me that I ain’t bad.
They tell me that these photographs were not a one-time occurrence and that I
may have a few more in me.
If I can only find someone like Patrice, that is.