I was 10 when Polaroid instant cameras hit the market, a bit too pricey for my family and friends. But by age 15, they were down to $40, and the pop up box, the photo click, the loud ejection noise, and the square of black viscous ink from which the image would emerge all were part of an excruciating process in which my frizzy hair, awkward body, gummy smile, and un-cool clothes would be revealed. Of course, these things were in evidence to everyone around me all the time, but when I looked in the mirror, my hair blown dry and perfectly straight, lips closed demurely over my teeth and braces (and later, my retainer), head tilted in just the right angle to make my nose look like it didn’t really need a little suburban “job,” I thought I looked OK.
But then I’d see a photo and cringe. The Me in the mirror and the 180 degree flipped view everyone else had never matched up. Humidity and gawkiness win out over graceless adolescence every time. Shadows and mirrors, the stuff of memories, the stuff of self esteem.
I look better in photos after a few years have passed. Then, I’ve got the perspective to see that my facial expression, hair style, outfit, pose – the Me who was captured for the moment – was whimsical. Cute, sometimes. Once or twice I go back and think, “Oh, I had it then.” I recall the basically decent time I was having when the picture was taken, recall the basically decent tourist attraction (or personal attraction) I was viewing, and it’s all good. Not good enough to think I was prettier than I was, but good enough to realize I was too hard on myself. Beauty back then required blond hair, blue eyes, a waist, and a long, flowy, gauzy skirt. I had none of these. But when I look back at old photos, I see another kind of beauty – the allure of the dark and curly-haired, short-waisted, late-blooming girls.
I’ve gotten way better over the years in two essential life skills – being photographed and appreciating my celluloid self. My best friend Kristin and I routinely send one another our worst photos of ourselves, the ones we can’t bear to look at but don’t bear to throw out as so much of memorable life moments are captured in the photo. She is overly kind and accepting of the ones I think I look awful in, way more able to see cuteness and playfulness or just plain goofiness in a bad-hair/bad smile shot. And, since it’s not her self-esteem on the line looking at pictures of me, she’s free to be genuinely generous in loving those shots. Similarly, I have some of Kristin she can’t bear to look at; under my gaze, each photo is a moment I spend with my best friend, donning any one of the expressions (and outfits) I’m happy to see her in.
Recently I saw a photo of myself that took me quite by surprise. You can’t see my face on this one, as it’s a body shot. I knew it was me by the name on the computer screen. It was me and not me, me from the inside out, me hosting a 1 centimeter sphere of something that looked oddly out of place, its color a luminous shining white where there was supposed to be speckled gray. A perfect spherical shape, too small to be an implant – and besides, I’m pretty sure I’d know if I’d had an implant – but big enough to take my breath away.
The picture didn’t capture my facial expression, or the green drab gown over my other shoulder, didn’t do justice to the wide-eyed, uncomprehending face I make when I’m surprised by someone taking a photo I know I will never look good in. The picture didn’t capture the moisture making my eyes extra shiny. And it sure didn’t capture a smile, despite the fact that I was smiling and laughing with the technician between the grimaces and winces.
After a few days and the call back photo session (auditioning for the part of woman-who-might-have-cancer), it turns out I didn’t get the part. My little white orb where there should be no little white orb will, over time, fade away, be erased like acne airbrushed from my high school graduation pictures.
From the newer angles, I look robust and healthy, even under my skin. It reminds me of one of my all-time favorite pictures, taken a few years ago. That one, capturing almost the same exact pose, is in full color, taken from the more usual outside-in view. In it, you can glimpse the satiny emerald robe slid nonchalantly off one shoulder, the shine of my skin, the suggestive downward tilt of my head, the glow in my eyes raised rather brazenly into the camera, and the sly demure smile – lips closed, of course. Kristin thinks those photos of me were amazing. Oh, I had it then.
And this black and white photo? It isn’t bad enough to send Kristin. It will be archived forever in my medical records instead of Dropbox. Just me, the underside curve, and my little translucent white bit. Oh yes. I still have it. I make this look good.