I grew up around pictures, with access to albums of photos taken by my grandfather, and lived next door to him where there was a photography studio on the 3rd floor of his house. My grandmother's house too, not just his, but he was the one who was all about photography. I think 30 years of pictures for House Beautiful, now showcased at the Huntington Library in LA, has always been a source of pride for me. And I remember being a young child, happy to be in front of his camera, happy to be spending time with him and feeling important because of his attention.
So why the life long aversion to being in pictures? When did it start? There are a couple of things that come to mind. An unflattering (to my eyes) photo of myself in an Ad that showed what a tomboy I was. No where was the feminine creature I thought girls should be. I must have been about 11, and I think I remember the photoshoot, and being happy, and the let down when I saw the picture. Back then digital wasn't even on the horizon, and I didn't see the results until he brought a pamphlet home with the picture. Me standing on a beautiful lush round lawn of green, looking for all the world like a dorky preteen. Even now remembering back, it's hard to find love for that young girl.
And then it occurs to me to look at this again, through the eyes of a child who has been molested, and is trying to look unappealing. Was I old enough at 11 to have put up a defense of appearance? It must have been around the same time; the memory of dancing naked on the bed and someone, my mother?, opening the bedroom door and telling us to put our clothes on. And then the separating of bedrooms, my brother next door and us girls rooming together. Of course the door between the rooms was a beautiful wood sliding door with no lock, so that must have been effective. (sarcasm?) Anyway, most of my memories of molestation are from Summers at the lake.
Summers at the lake, I lived for them, and along with the bad stuff, there was so much good that maybe I just became really good at burying the bad. Because to lose one would be to lose the other? Swimming, skiing, volleyball, and most of all the sailing, these were my joys. Lying in the sun, listening to the clink of the chains that moored the dock to the beach, these are the memories that give me comfort, this is one of the places I can go to meditate, the wind whispering to me from the tall tops of the pine trees. I could cry for missing these things.
But somewhere in there I began hiding from the camera. I remember standing in front of the tall mirror on the back of the bathroom door and admiring my form, my tan lines, my flat stomach. And then a memory of being back in the city, and standing on my mother's scale, and being appalled that I was 135 pounds. Hindsight being what it is I know that I was trim and athletic, full of lean muscle from always being outdoors, but at the time my perspective was not clear nor compassionate. How many of us looked a Twiggy and knew we would never be...good enough?
But I keep straying from where I wanted to go this morning, why the aversion to pictures? Because our first instructions in the BLE Reboot Rezoom include taking a picture of where we are when starting the class. And my rebel was in front and center asking why. And sort of nudging her aside is the part of me that wants to do this right, that wants to follow the coach whom I admire and respect. So even if it's kicking and screaming I am going to do it. Well, I am going to try, because the rebel may be winning this one. But I want to know why, I want to know the part of me who hates, yes hates, being in front of the camera.
Because I don't yet love myself? Because I am continually disappointed? Because I don't want a record of my failures, real or perceived?
It's going to be a long fucking day.
