If I ever find myself with more money than I know what to do with, I'm going to hire a photographer for an anti-portrait session.
What, you may ask, is an anti-portrait session? The concept leaped to mind when I spotted a portraiture ad this afternoon in the Save-On parking lot. In the ad, the models looked gorgeous; their hair and makeup was perfect, the lighting and soft focus flattered every feature and hid every deficiency.
My anti-portrait will take the opposite approach. I immediately shared my plan with Sylvia: I'd show up in a stained t-shirt, sweat pants and old sneakers. I won't shower, shave or brush my teeth that morning. Nor will I comb my hair. For her part, Sylvia will wear her rattiest old pajamas, eschew makeup and hairstyling and skip the shower just like me. I'll insist upon the worst possible lighting - the harsher, the better. And whatever lens is least flattering to the human visage and feature? That's the one I'll make the photographer use.
My plan should result in a portrait train wreck not even our parents could love. I will then sell the portrait to the Guggenheim as a commentary on body image/crass commercialism and recoup my investment with interest.
Sylvia thinks my plan is brilliant, but noted she's unwilling to serve as one of the models for this endeavor. Surely one of my readers will take her place for the sake of art and riches?
What, you may ask, is an anti-portrait session? The concept leaped to mind when I spotted a portraiture ad this afternoon in the Save-On parking lot. In the ad, the models looked gorgeous; their hair and makeup was perfect, the lighting and soft focus flattered every feature and hid every deficiency.
My anti-portrait will take the opposite approach. I immediately shared my plan with Sylvia: I'd show up in a stained t-shirt, sweat pants and old sneakers. I won't shower, shave or brush my teeth that morning. Nor will I comb my hair. For her part, Sylvia will wear her rattiest old pajamas, eschew makeup and hairstyling and skip the shower just like me. I'll insist upon the worst possible lighting - the harsher, the better. And whatever lens is least flattering to the human visage and feature? That's the one I'll make the photographer use.
My plan should result in a portrait train wreck not even our parents could love. I will then sell the portrait to the Guggenheim as a commentary on body image/crass commercialism and recoup my investment with interest.
Sylvia thinks my plan is brilliant, but noted she's unwilling to serve as one of the models for this endeavor. Surely one of my readers will take her place for the sake of art and riches?
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