Yes, I'm sure you've heard about tropical romance before - but I'll bet it usually involved two people. This story, however, is different. This modern-day romance was made possible only by my new iphone.
This past week I went to Thailand without a "romantic partner" (my husband, or anyone else running for the position) and discovered . . . how to become obsessed with myself, or at least with taking my own picture.
I don't know who thought of the little icon in the corner of the iphone camera screen that shows the camera turning around, but a new world opened up for me when I touched that icon and saw myself in the photo frame. No longer would I have to wait until someone else found me photo-worthy. No longer would I have to worry about someone else taking embarrassing pictures of me - now I had total control over my own embarrassment.
Chapter 1:
It's not that I hadn't experienced the "self-photography" phenomenon - I had a honeymoon last summer filled with such pictures. In fact, I have to say that my husband, John, was the one who really introduced me to the joy of this activity. However, I tended to be, let's say, LESS than enthusiastic when he pulled out the camera and held it at an angle and said, without further ado, "Look into my eyes for this one." Usually I would be in the middle of brushing my teeth or doing something equally unappealing, but "click" and my unhappy, unattractive image would be preserved next to the angled picture of an obliviously smiling John. I think this photo, though from a later date, speaks for itself.
It's from Kuala Lumpur, in December, and I think I was begging for mercy at the time. To no avail.
At first John would actually look like he was taking the picture, but then he developed the "talent" of looking like he, too, was an unwitting victim of a random photographer. Such as this lovely picture of me sleeping on a Long Island commuter train (This is an actual honeymoon photo, btw). Notice John's innocent expression - who, me? He looks as though he is patiently allowing an annoying photographer to take our photo. But no, look closely at his left arm - Exhibit No. 1, Your Honor.
So I became somewhat averse to having my picture taken at all over the past few months; that is, the pre-iphone time (PIT).
Chapter 2:
Fast forward several months to last week in Koh Lanta, a beautiful Thai island, surrounded by innumerable romantic couples. Yes, the types who saunter down late in the morning and then have quiet breakfasts together, hair purposely askew and yawning much more than necessary. (Taking after my mother, I spend a lot of time staring at strangers, who probably wonder what my problem is. This trip was no exception.) People went to extremes to avoid my probing gaze.
I've learned that taking pictures of strangers does not make you popular, with the exception of my photographer friend, Eric, who talks to potential subjects via a puppet (works for him). For some reason, people think you're invading their privacy when you're just observing. Peter Sellers would understand my enjoyment of "just watching." But if you take pictures of adults, you're stalking. If you take pictures of kids, you're a pedophile. So who's left? That's right, yourself. My early self-photography experiences, however, were cautious, characterized by the inclusion of others.
Here's the first on this vacation - notice that Spring, my friend, is in the picture. In fact, to be honest, I wanted it to look like the picture showed me with friends. Actually, I wanted it to look like I . . . had friends.
But once I started taking pictures of myself it grew on me - I started to like it more and more. And I discovered that taking pictures of myself could serve more than one purpose. For example, I could use it as a crime deterrent.
In the picture on the right, the guys behind me were our "hosts" on a snorkeling excursion. The shirtless guy with the sunglasses pulled into a rocky cove mid-day (he had a knife strapped to his chest and multiple scars on his body - you get the drift). He cut the engine and said, with a smirk, "I'm sorry. We cannot see the cave. There is too much/little water (this was unclear)." All I knew was that we were sitting in a boat with strange guys and NO ONE WOULD EVER FIND OUR BODIES! But at least I had the photograph, if anyone survived.
And do they look like your typical friendly snorkelers? OR PERHAPS ESCAPED CONVICTS WHO'VE LUCKED INTO SOME CLUELESS FOREIGNERS? Now that I think of it, I didn't see any of them wearing snorkeling equipment the entire day. I'm sure, however, that my new self-photography hobby stopped whatever plans they had.
After awhile, even when I took a picture of something else, I wondered how my photographed image would fit into that picture. It was as if - - - I wasn't lonely anymore - there was always Ellen to put into the pictures. Even parts of myself, symbols of my existence, became worthwhile subjects of the camera.
(Admittedly, this is a continuation of a series started when on a trip to Bayfield, Wisconsin, where the early work "feet with pebbles" appeared during a bike trip on Madeline Island. )
Forget all of those self-esteem courses, or hours of psychotherapy. With each new picture of myself, I became more empowered. I started actually preferring photos of myself, or photos of scenery with me in them, to taking photos of others or just plain scenery. And then I realized . . . this was romance, even if only in the Sturm und Drang sense of Goethe's unrequited passion! Or was it requited? Does it even matter?
Finally I was experiencing the romantic Thai beach vacation that others only dream of. And I had total control over my "partner" (me). If I wanted to take a picture of myself, no one would object. If I didn't like it, I could delete it. I could choose my own expression, the lighting, the background. And I found myself seeking out new experiences, not because they would enrich my life or increase my self-knowledge, but because they were new places where I could take my own picture.
For example, one day I went to a restaurant that I had thought "seemed" romantic, and I recorded the critical elements that went into that judgment. First, the tropical drink in the beachside setting.
Next, the tropical dessert, best shared by two but easily devoured by yours truly, "mango and sticky rice."
Unfortunately, I had seated myself facing the only other customer, a young woman. In the midst of my romantic self-encounter, I had to be careful that I did not cast my suggestive glances in her direction, lest she be misled.
This brought back the memory of my senior year at Haverford, when I slowly realized that the unfamiliar young woman at my dining table, who was suggesting that I come up to her room to see her etchings (seriously, I'm not making this up), was trying to pick me up.
After the seaside meal with myself avec camera, things really started to blossom. A
nd that final evening, as if fate had intervened, there was the most beautiful sunset we had seen all week. And I headed off for diner early, alone. First, the innocent self-portrait with sunset.
Anyone could have taken this.
Then I realized the unexplored capabilities of both camera and expression.
And I was ready to move on to . . . embracing myself on camera. Just notice the warm, accepting expression on my face. My "Art of Living" teacher would be proud, though perhaps sad, also.
All this, however, continued to be innocent child's play. It was time . . . to take some risks.
John tells me that I'm a fuddy-duddy. Maybe he's right. He claims to like that about me, but what woman wants to be liked for fuddy-duddiness? Not me.
So here it is. My sultry look. Captured for the first time on camera. And this message for those who doubt - no, I was not feeling nauseous.
Yes, things were near to perfect.
There were a few things that I chose not to do, nonetheless, because those activities could endanger this fragile exploration (i.e., break something). After a recent incident in Delhi, where I was looking up a number on my then-spanking-new iphone and fell into a pothole, scraping my knee raw and incurring the sympathy of an aged man who offered his assistance - I decided that taking pictures of myself on a motorbike, or underwater swimsuit shots, would not be good for either me or the iphone. So there were limits.
Now, I have a confession to make. For some of you, this may explain the whole experience. My final self-portrait of the vacation shows me with the key to the room where Spring and I stayed.
Yes, that's right. Room 666. But I don't believe that stuff about Satanic numbers, etc. Do you?
Mwa-ha-ha-ha.
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