This may be as close as I get to a “selfie.”
Finally I saw her in person. For decades, friends had been telling me of the resemblance between Lady Agnew of Lochnaw and the young me . . . except that I don’t have a widow’s peak. (I know, I know.)
(The young I even had a proclivity toward wearing filmy white and lavender.)
Surely it is a commonplace of parenthood that one rarely finds a picture of oneself once there are babies to capture and re-gaze upon. I only pose for photographs under duress.
I do have some accidental “selfies,” if you look very, very carefully:
According to the esteemed Oxford Dictionary Gods, 2013 was the year of the “selfie.
This declaration did not enhance my desire to commemorate myself on film or its digital equivalent.
It will come as no surprise to anyone I know that I can never get enough pictures of my family (puppy included), or of the ever-changing sea and sky. But my stationary self? I see no need to have that hanging about.
In The Tent, Margaret Atwood wrote about the inherent unfairness in photographically capturing a person’s image. One chapter is entitled “No More Photos.” In “Life Stories,” her narrator casts off unpleasant phases of the past through the metaphorical exercise of disposing of photographs: “I’m getting somewhere now. I’m feeling lighter. I’m coming unstuck from scrapbooks, from albums, from diaries and journals, from space, from time. Only a paragraph left, only a sentence or two, only a whisper.”
Maybe it’s just that the pictures of me don’t seem like me–just as nearly no one thinks she actually sounds like her recorded voice.
But Lady Agnew? An Irish rose, bent and weighed down by rain, but not broken? The daughter so many people refer to as my “mini me”? Images which may look nothing like me to anyone else somehow make me feel like myself.