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.
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 th
e 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?