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A face can be shot from an infinite number of focal points: the tip of the nose, the hollow of the cheek, the bowed flat of the forehead.
This fascinated him—the potential beauty of a specific perspective, and how a perfect pooling of light could illuminate objective reality in innumerable ways.
My first husband was, among many things, a very good portrait photographer.
He particularly adored women’s faces and shot them exclusively through a Hasselblad, a Swedish camera that was used in space by NASA and in the studio by the 1960s fashion photographer David Bailey.
My husband liked that—the universal and international élan of the equipment.
He’d lived in Europe for several years before I met him in New York City and had been a late 1970s version of Don Draper, an account man for Young and Rubicam.
But there was one headshot where the lens was too close, causing my eyes to appear like bottomless sinkholes.
The flexible aperture had not been used as a tool to sculpt, soften, or highlight the angles of my face; no, he hadn’t bothered to bracket this shot.
Its harsh singular click remained with me every day I worked on my memoir; whispering to me, telling me that the event needed some light, because that procedure probably affected my life more than any story I chose to include in my memoir.
Yet, I’d held it back and kept it private and safe from public scrutiny. Through the very act of writing, I seem to have gained an awareness that I have agency over my own camera, my own lens, and that I now welcome all the light the sun will give.