The Ill Made Shoot

The Ill Made Shoot, Or How Not to Behave In Front of a Camera
(After One of My Daughter’s Favorite Books, “The Ill Made Mute”, For No Other Reason Than It Rhymes And Sounds Cool)

Oh, oh, oh. The cleverness of me. I made a skirt. That  imprecisely but quite nicely fits, and has Forever and ever Amen…well, at least for the last seven years.  Seven being, as I’ve said before, both biblical and magical in its proportions.

And oh, more cleverness…last week, shopping thriftily with my girls, I snagged a cute (recently trendy) top that pairs well with the skirt. Two dollars. The belt: one dollar. Last summer’s high high heels (worn with deliberate, precarious grace): twelve dollars. This is a frugal outfit. And I believed, as I carefully arranged the belt over my waist with the peasant blouse tucked in, that I looked…cleverly cute. I was reaching for retro classy, but cleverly cute is good enough.  I think.

So I suggested a photo shoot to my husband Frank. Self indulgent, yes…but. For a good cause: I’m gambling that the outcome will be entertaining to other people besides me. Also it’s good for my marriage.  Photo shooting has become traditional on Sunday afternoons, a sort of lazy hazy leisurely way for Frank and I to bond. He loves taking my picture, for the most part. And I love having him take it, generally speaking.

If we can get past the hiccups.

Why Don’t You Do What You Do When You Did What You Did…?

Perhaps I should clarify. Potentially, there’s bonding in photo shoots. It’s the potential that lures us. We enjoy the Kodak moment, feeding off of hope that after I’ve deleted 99.1% of the resulting photos, and filtered the rest, there will be some sweet memory left in the remains of the day.  The implied repoire of photographer and subject (and editor).

This time, I wanted to pull off Sophia Loren vintage-ness—minus Sophia’s dusky smolder, plus my own… I don’t even know what my own flavor is. Shortcake? Banana bread? Basically, I didn’t want to look like a dork, like I always keep doing. And I think Frank was hoping that I would finally relax and be natural in front of the camera. Give him the arch glances that I have no idea I’m throwing out in real life, the smile or turn of profile or something that totally captivates him for a second before I’m back to washing dishes, tying shoelaces, or brushing my teeth. What does he like about me in those situations?  What?  I don’t know.

Three factors doomed Sunday’s ill made shoot:

A) I haven’t taken belly dancing lessons yet.

B) The skirt waist is too loose to stay put beneath the belt.

C) Spiders.

Let me explain the belly dance factor. I am convinced that belly dancing could create a graceful mind/body connection entirely incompatible with awkward inhibition. It would adios the self protective arms and hands, the uncertain foot plant.  I’d find and keep (forever and ever Amen again)  my belly button center, reach generously outward from it.  In a nutshell:  I might be confident and natural for photo shoots and life in general. Have at least a few of the right moves. But I don’t belly dance. Yet.

The loose waist factor meant simply that I was always trying to fix things as Frank shot the photos. As you can plainly see. The belt wanted to go north; the skirt, south. Thus, an ill made photo shoot.  Not the photographer’s fault at all.  He was very obliging, shooting away cheerfully while I adjusted  my skirt.

And the spiders? Ugh. Rustic chippy backdrops are one thing; cobwebs are quite another. We will revisit this scene for Halloween. Maybe.