A pretty nice picture, no?
Actually, while I'm waiting for folks to be ready for church, what I am thinking about is: photographs. I'm thinking about how we trust photographic evidence, and assume that it underscores something real, including real things about ourselves. And I'm thinking about how photographs –– all photographs, to one extent or another, deliberately or not –– are artifice.
People on Instagram will tell you this. It's part of the whole transparency/keeping-it-real scheme, that at some point an Instagram influencer is going to show you some image of herself that's rather obviously not curated, as they say, to make the point that a huge percentage of the images that constitute your daily visual diet are not representative of reality.
On the whole, I think this is admirable, and the point is true. With a camera, you can make yourself look marvelous, or not, simply by changing the light, the angle, your posture, your expression (we just won't even talk about filters, but you know you can strain yourself through one and come out on the other side as something your mother would sort of recognize but not entirely).
I was thinking about all this today as I was attempting to take timed, full-body shots with my new cheapie StraightTalk phone camera, of the outfit I proposed to wear to Sunday Mass. I've already worn Camelllia a couple of times as a "top," with a skirt over, and I thought I'd try her out today with a thrifted gauze maxi skirt which has formed a staple of my wardrobe, even in winter. The cardigan in these pictures is also thrifted and has been with me for roughly five years.
Now, at the best of times, this skirt is tricky, because its pattern is basically horizontal stripes. You can see it here, where I felt it worked pretty well, with the cardigan knotted at the waist for definition, and the hemline also knotted to bring in the shape a bit.
I tried something of the same today –– same skirt, same cardigan, same effect, or so I thought. Here is some unretouched photographic evidence of that process, with commentary reflecting my thought process, which was kind of all over the place:
I mean, this isn't so bad, but I sure do feel wide. Possibly it's the dress pockets under the skirt, which is thin and drapy enough to reveal anything bulky underneath. Possibly I have just gained weight since March (in fact, I have put on something like five pounds, when I'd already put on ten over the ideal weight I'd been maintaining for a couple of years). Possibly it's just the broadside angle, as opposed to the sort of effaced side view. But . . . eh.
Nevertheless, I persisted in masochism, just to be sure.
Again, funnily enough, thirty minutes later I don't hate this nearly as much as I did when I took the picture. Sometimes our reactions to our own appearance have to do with the shock of realigning the image in our head with a reality outside our head. Or to put it another way, making some kind of peace between what we think we should look like and what we realize we do look like –– however unrealistic the former, however truly just fine the latter.
Also, I had set the camera on the windowsill, at a level lower than the middle of my body, and angles looking up at you are never quite flattering.
More of same. Yes, we do have that wonky 1920s light fixture hanging down from our sun-parlor ceiling. Somebody must have had a table there or something, at some point. For thirteen years I've been meaning to raise it; for thirteen years I have not done anything about it. Tall people who visit our house learn to avoid it. I didn't bother cropping it out of any of these photographs.
Again, I don't hate this as much as I did right after I took the picture, but the horizontal pattern across my hips is something I am not feeling today.
I tried unknotting the cardigan, to see if the flow would help.
It did not. Of course, neither did my posture or my facial expression. If being in pictures (and especially taking them of yourself) makes you feel awkward, that does tend to show. It's probably worth reminding yourself that in real life, interacting with people, you might not look quite as awkward as you do when you're self-consciously trying to pose for a camera on a timer. On the other hand, on first looking at this picture, I thought I looked like a human pyramid in stripes, and I don't feel all that differently, looking at it again.
In the end, I decided to try Camellia as a tunic over the skirt, just for funsies. Of course, I also tried this in a different location, with different lighting and a different angle, so I'm not sure the comparison is a fair one.
On the other hand, this way you get to see my drying rack. Didn't bother cropping that out, either, but we're all friends here.
I didn't expect to like this look. I thought it might be weird. But I find that I do like it. The swing of the dress feels balanced with the length and pattern at the bottom.
Here's a broadside view:
Still okay. I'm still not the 135 pounds I really enjoyed being, but I feel a little more graceful here than I did in the previous shots. Of course, the fact that the camera is in my hand, not on a windowsill at thigh height has nothing to do with anything . . .
With the cardigan, because I'm going to be in church, and I prefer to cover my shoulders:
Again, weirdly, I am feeling it.
But again, any photo taken from an angle that gazes down your body, rather than up, is going to look better than the reverse.
This was my original ensemble. Totally feeling cute, as I totally did not in the tucked-in photos above, even though it's the same clothes worn the same way.
And the final outcome:
Pretty much a can't-go-wrong angle.
Anyway, time to go.
LATER:
I'm continuing to think about the relationship between bad pictures of ourselves and the distortions we feed ourselves about our appearance. A camera, strangely enough, is perfectly capable of rendering unto us precisely the distorted self-image we were already carrying in our mind. A camera can become a convenient, hand-held Desolation*, in other words: a device oriented specifically toward the message that, yes, in fact, every bad thing you ever told yourself about the way you look is true. See? There's the picture. It's not just you. That's how everybody sees you, loser.
I could catalog all the things I really hate about myself and share them with you here, but I don't want to bore either of us right now. Suffice it to say that I can look at some of those images above and see some of those things. And to be honest, that is largely a me problem. You can look at those photos and see none of the things I see, because your brain hasn't spent the last 56 years priming you to see them. That's one thing I can tell myself, in fact, as a Consolation to vanquish all the Desolations: that nobody else sees me through the puke-colored lens of my own brain at its worst. That's something you can tell yourself, too, when you encounter a photo of you that you don't like. You might see [your preferred soul-destroying modifier here], but nobody else who looks at that image is wearing the same glasses you are.
Anyway, what fascinates me in all this is the relationship between our minds and our technology, in this case the camera. The camera's eye reflects the workings not only of our physical eyes, but of the eyes of our minds as well. That's why some people are really gifted photographers: they've managed to master the possibilities of the camera, to make it serve the mind's eye with its artistic vision. At the same time, I'm interested in how the camera can exert its own influence on our mind's eye. Seeing that I can manipulate how it works –– not with the same level of mastery as an actual artist, but reasonably enough –– means that I can achieve some mastery over the negative things my mind's eye wants to show me, especially about myself. Understanding how the camera distorts helps me to understand in a more concrete way how my mind can distort things. By the same token, understanding how to get the camera to show me something other than my worst side is a figure for, and a method of, getting my brain to learn to show me something else as well. Taking actually good pictures of myself shows me that in fact, my worst is not the whole story. It might not be the story at all. It's certainly not the point of the story, as I am learning to tell it to myself.
I guess the message here is: take the selfie. Take a lot of selfies. If you struggle with self-image, consider how you can reimagine the messages you're sending yourself, largely by sending yourself other messages. Give yourself the photographic evidence to counter the continual refrain that you are, always and everywhere [your preferred soul-destroying modifier here]. Grant yourself permission to find another modifier instead. Do it today.
And if you take one bad picture, consider that that's not actually photographic evidence. Consider, instead, that the angle was bad, or the light was bad, or you felt awkward and didn't really bloom in that moment. Try another angle. Try different light. Try horsing around, or getting somebody to tell you a joke. Get somebody who loves you to look at you. Get them to take the picture. Give yourself all the chances you need to change the message that you aren't beautiful. If it helps to tweak what you're wearing, because what you're wearing isn't helping you to feel comfortable in your skin, then do that, too.
*I'm using here the language of St. Ignatius of Loyola's Spiritual Exercises, in which he discusses what he calls the discernment of spirits. Basically what this means is the kind of thing you hear about in Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, in which you learn to pinpoint the falsehood of a distortion your brain wants to send you, and to defuse it by the application of something true. St. Ignatius would say Desolation, instead of distortion, and would mean specifically a lie of the enemy meant to destroy your peace. The opposite of a Desolation is a Consolation, a message from the Holy Spirit, which would always bring you peace, hope, trust, and confidence. Or to put it another way, CBT uses words like distortion, but this is really what they're talking about, though CBT generally doesn't acknowledge the spiritual dimension of these kinds of struggles.
MEANWHILE . . .
I do like Camellia as a tunic over a longer skirt. The long solid line makes me feel instantly more graceful and elongated than the tucked-in version did. I was afraid this would feel weird, but it doesn't. The experience makes me want to try her as a tunic over trousers, too. I've seen people posting pictures of their Sierras over wide-leg trousers, and even though it's so hot I don't want to put pants on, I might play around with that idea a little, in air-conditioned comfort.
LATER STILL:
Every time I scroll through this page, I hate the photos less. I mean the photos I initially hated, that made me change my outfit: funny what just a little bit of distance does for your perspective. The main thing I can tell is that I'm uncomfortable taking my own picture. The worst thing about those shots is my posing for them. I still like the way I tweaked the outfit, but truly, it was okay before. I could have gone out like that and looked just fine. Meanwhile, my body is what it is. It's a 56-year-old body that has done and continues to do a lot of things. It is okay.
I will leave you with some images in which I am attempting to break the cast of awkward self-consciousness in which I too often find myself encased (and not only when I'm taking pictures of myself):
That feeling when you realize you can prop the phone on the kitchen windowsill and not ever take bathroom selfies again . . .
Also, I love my apron. Where has this been all my life, that's what I want to know.
Night before last, this guy came around wanting to sell some kind of yard-pesticide service (I guess so we can have all the joy of a pollinator garden with none of the annoying pollinators), and I answered the door wearing this apron.
"I like your dress," he said.
Dude, it's an apron. No, I don't care how your pesticide is different from all the others (Works on their hair follicles? Are you kidding me?). Get off my lawn.
But hey, dude liked my apron.