My Body and Other Adventures The Woman in the Picture
In the last year, I have had a lot of friends comment on how at home I seem in my body. My mantra is, after all, “bodies are weird”, and I really do believe it — especially as it pertains to my own. My wobbly bits, my inverted nipple, my stretch marks, stumpy legs, a torso so long it’s almost impossible to buy shirts — I embrace them all.
While there have been a number of experiences that have helped me do this, one of them — in which I produce and star in a saucy pin-up calendar — really sticks out. My boyfriend had just left the country and was going to be gone for a year, and I wanted to make him a special gift. So, I gathered a gaggle of girlfriends together for a photoshoot.
Some folks have told me that I can be a little extra. Normally, I fight this characterization, but on this occasion, they might be right. My original plan was modest — take a few quirky but ultimately unremarkable photos with a digital camera and have some calendars printed. But as I was planning everything, one thing led to another and we ended up with two incredible photographers (one of whom works for Playboy), a fantastic makeup artist who has worked with the photographers, and naturally, given the new team, lingerie, and props for days. But not everything was charmed: At the last minute, our venue fell through, so we moved the whole thing to my parents’ house, which should have been awkward but turned out fantastic.
Despite being labeled as extra, I can be easily overwhelmed (not a great combination, but one I am learning to live with). We were trying to shoot 12 “scenes” in one day, which included costume changes and frequent lighting resets. As the mastermind of all this madness, I was tasked with juggling the schedules of seven women, two photographers, and my parents. I spent most of the day pouring wine, helping friends pick their costumes and props, and cheering them on as they posed in various rooms all over the house. We had a blast! But as the day wore on and my time to pose grew closer, my self-doubt and anxiety started to set in.
As ironic as this may sound given the whole pin-up calendar was my idea, I am not confident in front of a camera. And despite having the entire day to think about it, I had no idea what I was going to wear. None of the fun clothes others had brought fit me. Having become increasingly tired and burnt out by the time it was my turn to pose, I simply gave up and decided to do the shoot nude; it was the easiest outfit I could find, and it fit me perfectly.
So there I was, lying on my parents’ bed, across the hall from my childhood room, naked and too well-lit, having my picture taken. The photographer snapped a few photos, adjusted some lights, snapped a few more, told me to tilt my chin, snapped a few more, told me to exhale on three, snapped some more, and then showed me the images. It was strange: The woman I saw on that tiny display screen was clearly me, but also looked nothing like me. She was sexy, she was coy, she was playful, she was confident. It was surreal.
That is when I started to get into it. The photographer gave me directions like “cup your breast and lift it, but make your hand look relaxed” and “rotate your foot about 30 degrees to the left.” And in photo after photo, I looked better and better. He taught me how to position my arms to make my breasts look perkier, how to make bedroom eyes, and how to time my exhales with the camera so I looked smaller. I got to be a totally different version of myself — and in time, relaxed and enjoying myself, I bathed in the artifice of sexy-image-making.
When I finally got the photos back, I was shocked by the woman I saw. She looked nothing like I felt, and it was a revelation, twofold: On the one hand, I realized there was a very real disconnect between how I think of myself and how I actually look. I am not saying I look like a vixen pin-up doll all the time, but I also don’t look like the inelegant ogre-troll lady I had been feeling like. But on the other hand, no one looks like those glossy images we see everywhere — not even the people in them.
I know this is a truth we have all heard many times, but for some reason, it really stuck with me on this occasion. Those beautiful women I see in paintings and photos and ads and on screens are real, but I am looking at a beautifully artificial and mediated version of them. They too are rotating their foot by 30 degrees to make the line of their leg more attractive (to say nothing of post-production wizardry).
It was liberating to finally understand, for myself, that some beauty standards are only attainable under artificial circumstances. It was also eye-opening to see the transformation happen in my own body. I love the artistry of the photos from that shoot. The lighting, the composition, and my coy smile are all entrancing. But it also makes me a little sad. I know that without the artfully placed hand, my boobs would probably be hanging a little lower. I can confirm my tummy never looks that flat in real life. I remember my many crisscrossing tan lines that day, and they’ve all been very artfully photoshopped out.
I understand the general reasons behind these little edits and hacks, but each tweak made it a little less me, and in some cases, erased happy memories for me. Maybe that is the crux of it though: These photos were not for me. They were not about documenting the truth, only painting a fantasy. Still, it was freeing to learn I could be that glamorous, with a little help.
Following this experience, I began to change the kind of images I exposed myself to. We in the West are inundated with images of perfect men and women living perfect lives, so I started to look for the imperfect images too. Since then, I have gotten better at seeing beauty in places that I once would have ignored. I have started to love pictures where people’s weird bodies are on display being unruly. I love to see freckles, crooked smiles, stretch marks, and skinned knees because seeing beauty in all these things has helped me embrace my own beauty. Rather than photoshopping out the inconvenient bits, I have spent more time thinking about how much I like the quirks of my body because they tell my story, evidence of a life truly lived — the overwhelming, the extra, and everything in between.
I still have the calendar we made that day — as well as the wondrous memories of the unusually flashy day with my friends as we made it. The photographs themselves are flattering and, yes, zesty, and they’ll definitely come in handy with my grandchildren someday, to prove that I too was once young and desirable. But I will also be sure to show them images of me with all my wobbly bits and the tan lines I earned over days of playing in the sun, the beautiful story of me, raw, for all the world to see.
Published Sep 30, 2020
Updated Jan 25, 2024
Published in Issue VIII: Art
