Last week I got an email from my agent, asking among other things for a picture of me. Now, I’m elusive as a yeti when it comes to being photographed, even with my family. But me, all alone in front of a camera? It never happens. The whole idea makes me so uncomfortable that I spent the weekend trying to finagle a usable shot on my own (photographer, shoot thyself), with such tragic results that I came at last to a frightening conclusion: I’m going to have to call in the big guns. I’ve booked a session with a professional photographer.
Photograph by Ellen Von Unwerth
Oh the irony. How many times have I pleaded and cajoled and flattered and threatened in order to get a reluctant subject to loosen up in front of the camera. How many times have I inwardly rolled my eyes when she wouldn’t cooperate? How many lies have I told in pursuit of an attractive portrait, how many times have I dismissed the fears of the victim. And now it’s gonna be me grinning at the cyclops, trying to remember not to stiffen my shoulders or squint into the light, silently chanting ‘relax, it’s only a picture’ while someone points that diabolical lens at my face.
Smile, Averil. But not like that.
For confidence, I bought a new sweater and silk scarf. Also, two kinds of powder. Eyeshadow with matching liner. Lipstick with matching gloss! I may even throw down for a hat, and have my author photo reveal one enigmatic and heavily mascaraed eye, peeking out from under the brim.
I’m trying to shop my way through this, what can I tell you.
How are you in front of a camera?
