A word on photographs

Why you've been seeing photographs of me on this blog recently, when you previously couldn't even pry one out of my room

For a while I seriously thought my fate was sealed in the way of lonely old women with too many cats - only my cats were cameras. How my hand finished with a camera, had less to do brilliant photography skills (I like to believe that's my hidden talent), than a love for photographs laced with a dislike of being on the other side of the lens. It always made me feel somewhat like Captain Hook, whose appendage was obviously for brandishing at others, rather than catching itches.

Modern psychoanalysis has provided me with the perfect explanation for my almost hypocritical behaviour (Worship Freud! He who paved the way for excuses): my dad's a hobby photographer, who enjoys shoving his giant cameras up my nose for clinical mugshots. The result is always the same. He exclaims the sharpness, the detail, the colour balance of the me pinned onto a wall, mortified, while I agree, becauase thanks to his new thousand dollar gadget, I've discovered new flaws I never knew I had. All photographs taken by Daddy dearest never vary - always cropped closely around the head, with an engorged nose.

My affair with photographs rarely has anything to do with the masculine talks of resolution, high-tech cameras and other gadgets. Naturally, I recognize the value of a good camera, but I like it better when the people I photograph are not excuses to showcase the latest technology. (The only lighting I use is sunlight, the only skill, spontaenity.) They are people framed in a way I want to remember them, or slices of time frozen to last forever. When I see a person beautifully, I get to take it down and send it to him or her and keep a copy in my heart.

I think maybe that's why I'm afraid of having my photograph taken. I suppose I would say I know how to make someone look good in a photograph, only because I know the contours of his/her face by heart - which precise angle shows off the beauty I know so well, and which exact moment exhibits the person I love so well. Great insecurity, and perhaps even a tiny bit of narcissism, prevents me from placing this responsibility in the hands of someone else - would they see me in a nice way? Could this terribly flawed and human me be seen in a nice way? If my own dad, who loves me more than anyone has and ever will, can't, what hope should I place in anyone else?

But thanks to a couple of friends, I am learning to let others look at me - learning to curb my control-freakish nature, learning to let go of my insecurities. They send me photos saying "look, this is the you I have been looking at." And I have found that sometimes, regardless of how ridiculous the expression on my face, how wide my forehead looks, or how embarrassingly much I have accidentally exposed, what they really are showing me, is a nice, warm glow of friendship and the me they know and love.