I hate having my picture taken. Always have. I used to do some photography myself. I prefer to observe, so being on the business end of the camera makes me uncomfortable. But a local magazine is doing an article on my music, and they want to set up a photo shoot. I reluctantly agree, but set my own terms; I refuse to go along with any of the goofy concepts they have pitched, like me lying on top of the piano. I intend to come out of this with at least some dignity intact.
The shoot is at a small concert hall in an old church, built a hundred years ago. I arrive at the appointed time, late afternoon. The sun is low and streaming through the western wall of stained glass windows. The light patterns on the walls and floor look like burning embers. The photographer is already there setting up gear. To my pleasant surprise she is a gorgeous young woman, maybe not quite thirty. Dark auburn hair pulled up tight in a bun, flawless skin, translucent green eyes, enigmatic smile, elegant neck. Lean dancer's body. Magnificent ass. I am suddenly feeling more cooperative.
She knows I am nervous about the shoot and tries to put me at ease. She asks me to tell her a story. Like what? Like where did I grow up. Oh, that. As if talking about myself will make me feel any more comfortable. I try to make it not too boring, though that seems unlikely. She keeps talking the entire time she is shooting pictures, asking me questions as she removes her shoes and stands on a chair for a different angle, adjusts the position of her strobe reflector, tells me to move over here a bit, drop my shoulders, turn my head that way, look this way, smile.
At one point she asks for a "great big dopey grin." She clearly has no idea who she is talking to. Nobody gets this on command from me. Ever. Not even stunningly beautiful female photographers. It always looks fake, no matter how hard I try to look genuine. I explain this to her and she takes it in stride, says it's fine to not smile at all if I don't feel like it. The trick is just to think about something really nice. I look at her and my brain is deluged with very, very nice thoughts...
I decide to turn this situation around. If she gets to look at me through the camera, I get to look at her looking at me. That seems only fair. I watch her carefully as she works. I don't look into the lens, but I do look at her. Every time she looks up from the viewfinder, I am gazing directly at her. The infamous Male Gaze they taught her about in art school. I sense her professional demeanor wavering. Perhaps she detects the pornographic glint in my eyes, can read the invisible thought bubble that no doubt hovers just above my head.
"Step down from the chair. Come over here. Give me the camera."
Surprisingly, she does so.
"Walk over to that window."
Click.
"Face into the light. Feel yourself glowing?"
Click.
"Now let your hair down. Slowly."
Click.
"Unbutton your shirt. More. More. More...Now look at me."
Click.
"Are you nervous?"
"A little," she says. "I'm not used to being photographed."
"That makes two of us. Take off your shirt."
Click.
"And the bra."
