Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Author Photos of the Beautiful, Young, and Flawless (or, This is Not Me) by Diana Holquist
Last month, I had to get my author photo taken.
Grand Central Publishing was starting a new policy of putting author photos in the backs of books (hooray!). Also, just in case I haven't pimped it enough here yet, I needed a color photo for the Rita award ceremony, since Sexiest Man Alive, is a finalist for Best Single Title Contemporary.
Oh, had I not mentioned that Sexiest Man Alive finaled in the Rita? What a careless oversight. But I digress...
So, I started out on the journey that is modern photography.
First, I spent two days at the hairstylist/colorist/nail salon/etc. Let's not even talk about how much this all cost.
Then, on the day of the shoot, a truly lovely make-up artist , Emily, came to my house and put make-up on me for TWO HOURS. She assured me that the number of products (1,087) she used on me had nothing to do with the state of my appearance. This was just what you did. (Emily, did I mention, was very, very kind.)
When she was done, she held a mirror to my face and I screamed. I looked like a very, very old prostitute. But she assured me that this is how one must look in order to look natural on camera. Plus, maybe when we were done, I could go to downtown Philly and find a street corner and make up some of the cash I dropped at the salon....
Then, an unbelievably adorable photographer, Sarah, arrived. Bless her heart, she didn't scream when she saw me. She did, however, very politely but firmly refuse all the clothes I had picked out to wear. Emily went through my truly embarrassing closet (...gee, I do own a lot of sweatpants...) and she and Sarah discussed my pathetic clothing amongst themselves as if I weren't there. These women were very wise.
Then, we took pictures for two hours. Shot after shot after shot. At first, it was ridiculously embarrassing. Then, it started to get fun. This had NOTHING at all to do with the alcohol kicking in.
Well, not so much to do with alcohol kicking in.
Then, the retouching began. This, thank the lord, I didn't have to witness. But let me tell you, the me you see in that picture is the ideal me. The me I yearn to be if only I didn't keep losing sleep over all these nasty deadlines. The me that knows how to put on make-up and pick out clothes. My eight-year-old looked at the final picture, confused, and said, "did you wash your hair or something?" My eleven-year-old looked at it and said, "Your teeth aren't that white!" as if I were the worst kind of liar.
But in that picture, all is well and white and washed. In fact, I love that picture. Shall I post a picture without all the work so you can see the difference?
No way, baby.
(P.S.--If you look carefully in the background, you'll see what an awful mess my bookcases are. Couldn't retouch that away...)