The Glamour Shot?

Anyone who knows me, knows that I love classic films. Old Hollywood glamour, film noir, screwball comedies, epics, musicals, dramas, crime; I love it all. I come by this naturally, my dad was an avid movie goer and watcher. He even had a log he kept as a young man that detailed what movie he saw, where he saw it, and what shorts were played before the main feature. I love reading through that log.  It makes me smile.

At the beginning of this project, Lisa and I made a list of ideas we had for our self-portraits. One idea was to make a "pretty" or "glamour" type shot. When I think glamour, my mind goes straight to the high contrast, dramatic Hollywood publicity photos from the 1930s and 40s. They often evoked a dream-like quality, an impossible standard for us mere mortals to aspire to. These were stars after all, they don't look like just anyone you'd see on the street.

Hence this photo, it may not look exactly like me. But inside this average suburban mom shell, is the heart of a dramatic, exotic, movie star. Gaze into these eyes and see far off lands, crazy adventures, or a melodramatic romance that will bring tears to even the most hardened cynic.

The power of movies, my friends. And the power of a good edit. I think glamorous me is rather lovely.

Background Noise

 

I used to believe that if I brought my specialness or talents forward, I would be met with judgement. Or even worse, indifference. 

Hidden in the background, I could get by.  I could survive. Stay small, stay safe. I did this for a long time, not realizing that I was beginning to fade away. Blending in was doing me no favors. The more I felt myself disappearing; the more I searched outside of myself for validation. Becoming dependent on others to boost me up. This only drained even more of my independence and self-fulfillment. 

I see this photo as a perfect interpretation of that. This huge stone is front and center, my figure is blurry and mostly unidentifiable. 

But then I started viewing it through different eyes. Yes, I'm out of focus. I'm not necessarily the main subject of this composition. But your eye is drawn to that somewhat mysterious figure, isn't it? I may be blurred, but I'm there. 

I'm here. 

There is still a part of me that refuses to become invisible, and that is the part I must not ignore. 

I am ready to strip away my old ideas, and step into my beauty. Claim my gifts and share them, without a guarantee of acceptance from others. Claim the truth that I am worthy and that I matter. 

It may feel a bit scary at times to be everything I am meant to be. But I'm done with being small and safe. I'm done with fear and denial. 

I am here and I will not fade away. 

Not Mine

I

I have written about having migraines on this blog before. How I get them and try to slog on through them as best I can. Sometimes that means going through the motions of my day, attempting to interact with family and friends. Sometimes it means laying on the couch with the tv on. A lot of times, it means heading straight to bed with a cover over my eyes. Some days, I can stop them with an Imitrex. Say what you will about modern medicine and pharmaceuticals, these things have given me a chance to get back a part of my life that was taken away by migraines.

I hate migraines.
I hate the pain they cause.
The disruption.
The shame.
The feeling that I am a burden.
That I am "less than" because I suffer from chronic headaches.
That if only I could find the cause, I could relieve myself of these nasty soul crushers.

Over the years, I have learned what triggers a migraine for me. But I cannot always control the weather, or my hormones, or any outside stressors. Migraines are a part of my life. That is how it is, that is what I have accepted.

But what I don't accept anymore is that they define me. That they lessen me. That they take away my spirit and my passions.

I used to call them "my migraines". Now I reject that phrase.
These are not mine. They never have been, never will be.
Migraines are pain, and worry, and isolation.

Migraines are something that happens to me, they are not me.

I am strength, and freedom, and life.
I will always be that.
Before, during, and after a migraine.

Not mine, not ever.

Therapy After Therapy

I see a therapist. Some months it is bi-weekly, other months it is weekly. We have been digging especially deep in my sessions as of late. I often come out of his office with puffy eyes and a runny nose. It's not easy, but it has been necessary. I'm growing and expanding and becoming more of who I am supposed to be and therapy is playing a big role in my evolution. I'm happy, I'm sad, I'm alive.

The past three sessions I have taken a selfie afterward. No exact reason. Out of mere curiosity, I suppose. Three sessions ago, I also found an interesting nature preserve that is right near the office.
I have explored it with my camera three times. See a pattern here? Three selfies, three solo photo expeditions. One time it was relatively warm, another time was the sunny bright day after our last snowstorm, and yesterday it was rather cold and gray. No matter what the weather, I have found something interesting to shoot each time.

Therapy (for me) can feel rather self-centered and insular. I spend the entire hour talking about myself and my feelings. There's nothing wrong with that. It is needed. But I often come out of it feeling self-absorbed and just wanting to focus outside of myself for a little while. So these jaunts I take in the woods, by myself, have been a wonderful way for me to decompress and witness the world around me. A world of both beauty and ugliness. Joy and heartache. Everything that I talk about in my conversations with my therapist.

Being alone in nature, with my camera as my trusty sidekick, is about as healing as my therapy sessions are. I decided to combine an after session selfie with an after session nature shot. These were taken on the same day, within hours of each other.

My eyes may be sad, but the sky is blue.
My heart may be weary, but the snow is fresh.
And I am ready for what comes next.

Oh, February

Oh, February.

You may be short, but like many other short things (Napoleon? Childbirth, in the scheme of things? A dodgeball to the face?) you sure do pack a punch. Here in the Midwest, you are devoid of color. You're mostly cold (today excepting, which was a weird 61 degrees). Overall, you just plain suck the life out of me.

I'm trying not to let you get to me. I'm a positive person! But your dreariness is totally bringing me down. Here you are trying to lull me into thinking there will never be flowers again, or bare skin, or a day so hot I almost think fondly of you. You're almost winning. Almost.

Love That Belly?

The story I have about my stomach starts with a poem. 

I was eight, brown hair and green eyes

Long limbs, drops of chlorinated water beading on my tanned skin

Smiling in the sunlit afternoon

She was nine, black hair and pursed lips

Large eyes, studying my swimsuit clad form

Smiling in the sunlit afternoon 

"You have a potbelly" 

I was eight, brown hair and green eyes

Suddenly aware 

That my body 

Was something to be ashamed of

Some lessons only take a moment to learn 

But a lifetime to overcome

The story I have about my stomach continues with a photograph in which I force myself to expose it. 

I expose it with the hopes that somehow this gesture will open up something in me that will allow me to love it.

Love it for growing three beautiful babies. Love it for being a sacred space that holds my wisdom as significant and important. 

Love it despite the fact that I find it lumpy, bumpy, and ugly. 

That eight year old girl needs me to work harder at being kind to this belly of mine. I owe that to her. 

To us. 

The story I have about my stomach is not yet over, but now I know that it is up to me to write the ending. 

Movement

The next assignment in my photography class is movement. All of the assignments are conceptual--which makes it all the more interesting. To me that means I can shoot things that are moving (I can freeze the action or show the movement with a longer shutter speed) or even shoot things that convey movement, like a winding road or an escalator or... I don't know.

(I like not knowing sometimes.)

What I do know is that I am afraid of this assignment. It's kind of out of my comfort zone. It's not where I think I shine, but I'm so intrigued by other photos I see that utilize movement. I am in this class to push my own boundaries, after all. So push I will.

I thought about this and how I could apply it to a self portrait this week. I wanted ethereal, ghostly, not-quite-there and yet there. I feel so half here this week, so pulled into and out of the "normal" world. Can I be firmly planted here and yet half in the shadows? Can I exist here and not turn into vapor, drift away like a summer fog?

I'm working on that. But for today shadows, movement, a little light.