A few months ago, I was on a photoshoot in Spain, standing on a shelf of volcanic rock as the thud of sea water speckled my arms with sea water, the wind catching the blue dress I was modelling, pulling it into a sail against the skyline. In front of me was a team of people – the cameraman, the photographer, the make-up artist, someone to hold up a collapsible disc of silver foil to capture the sun. (This isn’t part of my normal life, you understand, rather a pinch-me moment, working for a fitness brand I loved.)
I’m not great with having my photo taken – I’m impatient and get bored easily. And, because I have a face that comes with subtitles, it is hard to keep these emotions away from the camera. As we were due to wrap up, the director asked me for one final shot. “Throw your arms up to the sky and say: “Whooo!”
I looked blankly at him. “Seriously?” He said placatingly: “Why don’t we try it?” I paused for a moment. Dug deep down inside, searched with a flashlight to see if there was a Whoo! lurking somewhere inside me. Reader, there was not. There has never been. There have been historical archives reporting Ooohs! and Aahs! But these have exclusively been in response to fireworks, a plate of delicious food or learning a jiu jitsu move that looks cool.
I threw my arms up to the sky and in a deadpan voice, similar to Terry Pratchett’s Death, said: “WHOO.” The director sighed, one of the stylists laughed because this was not the first time during the shoot where I’d been unable to access manufactured glee and delight, and I clambered quickly off the rocks before someone could see the heat rising to my face.
Not because I felt what was being asked was unreasonable, but because the other women modelling alongside me on the shoot would have had no problems doing this. I watched enviously as they accessed that place of laughter and lightness so easily on cue, wondering why I couldn’t do the same. And have never really been able to. That when I reach for that place, my fingers pull back empty.
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