They say there's nothing to it. This applies, apparently, to both ladies with an attitude and fellows who are in the mood. It never feels as if there's nothing to, it, though. Perhaps this is because of all the props – what you don't see is that behind every picture, there's an elaborate array of lamps, tripods and other paraphernalia. And then I haven't even mentioned the people making funny faces, as if striking a pose themselves (albeit a pretty loony one!), in an attempt to make you look in their direction. I'm a firm believer in candid photos, where you don't have to strike anything. The pictures are just taken while you use your precious time to go about your business. But sometimes, for example to promote your new clothing or fragrance line, you need the studio fuss. And then, contrary to the song I've been lamely stealing lyrics from, you should not move your body, but stand perfectly still – sometimes for as long as 1/125th of a second! As if I have nothing better to do.
The results, I must admit, are nice, though. Gone are the backdrops of household furniture, colourful, fluffy toys or the striking orange of my Bugaboo. The pose you struck is captured forever against a backdrop of black or white nothingness. These are the pictures that will be very useful when I win my first Formula One world title in a few years, when the TV network does a quick overview of my life so far; the road to success, as it were. I'm not sure I'd want Pooh Bear or Woozle, the big blue dog, to prominently feature in the background.
Some have said – most of them were women – that they don't like to have their picture taken because it brings out their wrinkles. I have no clue what they are talking about. One thing that is somewhat problematic, is the fact that you can't argue with what a picture reveals. Sure, there's Photoshop, but even so there was no way out for me when the picture above revealed what had happened to the key to the wardrobe. When Dad couldn't get to his clean socks in the morning (I will not relay the slightly distasteful tale of how he wore yesterday's pair to get around this supply problem), I was caught, on film, with the smoking gun in my hand. I tried that other song, It wasn't me, but the smelly-sock-wearing authorities didn't buy it.
So instead of having my own picture taken, I prefer to take the camera myself. Mirrors and self-timers notwithstanding, this is the most reliable way to ensure that you're not in the picture yourself, with whatever you've stolen not quite far enough up your sleeve. It makes for very aesthetically pleasing images, too, with the obvious exception of certain members of the Odourous Footwear Department.
"Mark, put that camera down, son! It costs more than a thousand diapers!"
"So proud of how good my one-and-a-half year old is with shutter speed and aperture!"
"I'm not opening my eyes if you keep flashing at me! (purr)"
Maybe I'll publish some pictures on the cover of a magazine. Marlon Brando, Jimmy Dean. And my Dad. Now if only I could remember the name of the mag. Dope? Smoke? Vote? It was something like that.
Cheers,
Mark.