April 1, 2003

Nobody can accuse us of Not Doing Our Bit to drive the engines of the economy, that's for sure. Today Rob bought his very own (used, but still a mite pricey) Black Prince Charlie jacket and ghillie brogues. I told him it would be much more economical in the long run to get one, rather than rent all the bits every time he wore his kilt formally.Now all he needs is the sporran (outrrrrrrageously priced!)and some approximation of a sgian dubh.

Also, we got the oil changed yesterday- I'd never been to one of those quick-change places, where some poor dude is down under the cars all day. Is this where the term "this job is the pits" came from, maybe?

Finally, Rob had to get new glasses on the weekend. Thankgodfully his group insurance will cover almost all of this. What happened? Well, someone- and we're not naming names here, but this would be his lovely wife- managed to somehow knock the specs off the bathroom counter and then, well, step on them. The lenses were fine, the arm not so much, so off to the optician's we went. We even found the exact same frames that he had- piece of cake.

It's a strange thing, but I don't need glasses at all. The eye-related brouhaha a couple of years ago("thumb, meet right eye; eye, this is thumb. Cocktails, anyone?") resulted in a lot of vision tests, among other things. What a surprise to find out I've got 20/20 sight. Why would this be a surprise? Because I've long alleged to be nearsighted in one eye and farsighted in the other, and cross-eyed, and wore glasses from the age of 2 until 26. Somehow, my eyes managed to get their shit completely together.

Would that the rest of my life would follow. Hey, at least I'm trying, right?

I've been working on a whole new portfolio. The idea was not so very radical when it started, as it did, with a simple acquisitive plan. For years upon years I've been getting a professional discount at one of the largest theatrical and beauty supply shops in the city, where they know that facepainting is part of my gig.

But I want moooooore. I'd like that tasty wholesale price on the nice stuff at M.A.C. and MakeUpForEver. But when I asked one of the slender blackclad counterettes at M.A.C., the sniffed reply broadly hinted that they didn't really believe I could be a professional makeup person, and that anyway I'd have to apply at the main store with credentials and bla bla bla. I'm extremely unlikely at this stage of the game to submit to yet more schooling, and besides! The most famous makeup artist in the world was self-trained! And so really, what I need the most is a portfolio to prove I can do it. Right?

Best of all: now that the marital/financial unit owns a digital camera and a damn decent colour printer, how better to make this portfolio than all in-house?

From there the idea grew like Topsy (whatever that means), something like this- "I'm going to take cool pics of friends I've made up, and while we're at it I'll do their hair, and make the jewelry and clothes and style the props and do the lighting and make them the best best photos I can do, and this will be the most beauuuutiful portfolio maybe with drawing and calligraphy or whatever whatever in something like a handmade paper book or at least something different than the plain ol' black attaché but not too artsy-fartsy.."

And thus it was that I began asking folks to model for me- everyone from the tall and gracious Elspeth to my German buddy Yulia to the girl that sold me my slickalicious new cell phone. Oh, and my hairdresser. There was a day in October when I found myself doing my hairdresser's hair in the morning, and in the afternoon asking my therapist "and how did that make you feel?" when she told me a little anecdote about her relationship with her mom. Whew, eh?

I've photographed one of my agents; a guy I worked with at Major Client (now sadly defunct- the company, not the guy); the not-oft-seen Willow of yore; mine own husband; and an exotically tall and dark alto in my choir. It's all been going very well indeed.

This project has been a huge learning experience, too, both for me and for (or so I would imagine) the models; I'm learning how to direct, they're learning how the camera sees them. One thing I've always thought is that if the photographer doesn't find the subject attractive, then there will be no beauty in the picture. That's what I'm always looking for through the viewfinder: the beauty. Odd but true fact: most people look rather sexier in pics when their lips are slightly parted, not closed. It's a gesture that feels patently fake, but photographs quite nicely indeed.

Another thing- and this should be a given- is that when a model is not comfortable, the pics are less than perfection. Usually, anyway. The aforementioned agent was wearing one of my PVC vinyl dresses with a matching corset and gauntlets, but even though she wouldn't come right out and say it, she wasn't completely down with the feeling, or the look. So in the end I laced her out of the corset, and while it was a drag not to get it photographed, the rest of the session with her went really well.

Lita, however, was truly uncomfortable with being painted and corsetted and made into a woman other than herself for the camera. Even so, it all turned out. She was wearing Esther's garb, a tightlaced red silk corset and the long-sleeved black vinyl gown she sewed herself to go with it. In Lita's hair I put a crown of tiny red rosebuds, and I painted her mouth a brilliant red, her dark eyes lashed and lined, her skin as smooth and perfect as a lily petal. But she totally shied away from even looking in the mirror. "That's not me, that's not me!" I know, but isn't it fun? In the end the pictures were truly stunning, but she only showed the prints to her boyfriend... not her family.

The next model was Willow. Those pics were wonderful, too. She called her boyfriend during the session, and told him she looked like a fairy queen on her wedding day, which was exactly right. Strangely, or maybe not so, she hasn't spoken to me since. I'd like to see her, at least to give her some prints. Maybe I should just mail 'em.

Another person scarce glimpsed in many months indeed is my maid of honour, Mae. She's got a fab new job, that's dandy news. Her husband doesn't like me. This makes me sad. But what can you do?