Weekly Residuum 23 - november 2000 C
© photo and text Koen Nieuwendijk
| Dry Run |
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I have a confession to make. If you knew for sure at this point that I am
going to explain that you would probably concur if I stated that us human
beings are not that keen on admitting to suffering from vanity, you'd
probably tentatively agree. We tend to evade the issue by admitting to minor
weaknesses, albeit mostly for the benefit of justifying our slating of
others - and I'm just as bad as all the rest of you.
I saw it as a most helpful gesture on my part when I responded to the request for a photograph of myself pictured among some contemporary silver. I should add that over the years, I have produced a number of bizarre self-portraits for reasons which continue to elude me even now, but that was not the point here. I simply and quite rashly thought that this particular photograph should be a piece of cake, as I have grown used to the fact that sometimes, I mysteriously pull something off just like that, without even trying, and I am a dyed-in-the-wool optimist if nothing else. I also happened to be up to my eyeballs in a lengthy and painfully labour-intensive chore at the time and the time pressure was getting to me, so a diversion seemed in order. I grabbed my tiny digital camera, which is hardly any bigger than the control buttons on the tripod, quickly selected the appropriate location and using the self-timer, snapped my first shot. Some few minutes later I conjured up my own image on the monitor, and I was quite pleased with what I saw, although I had unfortunately forgotten to select the highest resolution. No problem, everything was still where it had been, and after several passers-by had moseyed on past my gigantic plate-glass windows, casting quizzical looks (at night there is an fish tank-y feel about the place, as if you have the status of an invertebrate or branchiate whose behaviour remains by and large impenetrable to its audience even in real life), I took another shot. I rushed back up the stairs and started fiddling around with the photo processing software, touching up my left eyelid which had stubbornly refused to comply with my self-image - but there was no escaping the harsh truth: this was simply not good enough. Back downstairs for a third take, then. Having learned from experience, however, I decided I should first practise the ideal pose. Glass doors open on either side, a small box on the floor to position my head at exactly the right level next to the silver objects, elbow on the sheet of glass, hand under chin, fingers splayed downward at a relaxed 70° angle, and remember above all to gaze into the minuscule lens with a most positive expression. So far, so good - all I needed now was to actually take the shot. Unfortunately the camera insists on being reset after every take, so I was finding myself badly squinting at the obscenely small control buttons, preparing it for its climax (my reading glasses are always upstairs when I am downstairs and vice versa), but if you look on the upside, that sort of thing does tend to familiarise you with the miracles of contemporary technology which have done away with "wear and tear", as these days you no longer replace something because it has stopped working but rather, because an improved version has come onto the market. It took three attempts before I had structured the sequence of acts aimed at yielding the right picture to a sufficient degree in the few seconds I had left between pressing the self-timer and snapping the shot: pull face into smile well in advance, place hand securely under chin, elbow downward, fingers as loose as possible and definitely not too horizontal, as I had meanwhile seen on the monitor with increasing irritation, all the while making sure not to upset the unsteady tripod … and then press the self-timer, scuttle over to the box in the previously assumed pose with hand firmly tucked under chin, get on box, place elbow on sheet of glass, now where should the other hand go, don't forget to relax the fingers, look into the lens, where the heck is the bloody lens, quickly, look affable not gloomy much less sardonic … there you go! I rushed back upstairs - oh dear, had the corners of my mouth always sagged quite this much? Never mind, let's give it another whirl, and let's remember to bring the glasses this time. Again I went through the whole routine, no longer paying any attention to my bemused audience outside. I was running out of time. The best thing to do would be to try something altogether different - but why all these doubts, the next take was guaranteed to produce exactly what I had wanted in the first place. I scurried around practising, grimacing in an attempt to relax my facial muscles, darting back and forth between the self-timer and the place I had selected for the shot by way of a dry run, and once more took the plunge. I rushed back upstairs leaving my glasses behind and eagerly double-clicked my digital alter ego. Oh no, was that insecure looking chap really me? After three hours and 13 attempts I decided I had had enough, chalking the failure of my self-portraits up to a lack of self-confidence. I'd have another look in the morning, I would first have to burn the midnight oil meeting the deadline which my photo shoot had somehow pushed to the back of my mind. The next morning, I had to admit that the first picture had been the best after all and that my vanity had caused me to give up several hours of valuable sleep. But whether this will do any good … |
    
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 This was the first photo. |
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