The camera: Love it or hate it?
Wednesday was probably one of the worst days ever to be talking to 40 high school students about careers (or lack thereof) in journalism (I survived the layoffs, but many other talented professionals did not). The timing was ironic, but entirely coincidental — the kids are in a summer program aimed at potential first-generation college students from low-income families and my visit had been arranged a few weeks before the layoffs were even announced. I tried not to scare them too much, but I did mention that it might be better if they majored instead in underwater basket-weaving.
The instructor had originally requested two people from our newsroom to come talk to the kids, but as it turned out, I was the only sucker volunteer. I didn’t mind; I don’t want children of my own, but I don’t hate them, either. I’ve learned from experience that if you come bearing candy, kids will automatically worship you, and nothing boosts the self-esteem of a 30-year-old like that of a teenager telling you how “cool” you are. Actually, in my line of work, there are many times when I’d rather talk to kids than adults. I’m both reporter and photographer on the stories I cover and I find kids to be much more willing and enthusiastic subjects than adults. When you ask a kid if you can take a picture of them for the newspaper, their eyes widen and light up and they become total putty in your hands, mugging for the camera and contorting into whatever pose you ask of them. Adults, especially women, are a different story. I write human interest kinds of stories, which means that unlike breaking news reporters who often shadow the aftermath of scandal or tragedy, people usually want to talk to me because I give them good press and publicity. Yet I would estimate that about 40 percent of my adult subjects are reluctant to have a picture taken of them even if the photo would better promote them or their business. “Do you have to?” comes the first plaintive plea, trailed by excuses like, “Oh, I don’t look my best today” to “Ugh, I feel so fat today” to “I’d scare off the customers.” We like to run photos with stories because they add visual interest, so I try to coax reluctants with reassurances like, “Don’t worry, I was a graphic designer before I turned reporter and can make anyone look fabulous.”* Most usually concede to striking some kind of pose, but I have had a handful of women flat-out refuse to be photographed.
I never pressure anyone to be photographed for the simple fact that I understand their reluctance. I have a long love-hate relationship with the camera. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a photojournalist (or an FBI agent), not a reporter. I got into photography in my teens, freelanced for a while at a small newspaper after graduation and won some awards for my work in college. I love photography for the sheer power of images and the stories they tell, but photography also held another appeal for me in that for much of my life, I’d rather be behind the camera than in front of it. My dad was an avid family photographer and chronicled the early lives of me and my brother in an endless number of sepia-toned snapshots tucked behind plastic sheaths. It’s hard to tell while browsing through the family photo albums just when that tow-headed girl with the wide gap-toothed smile began to hate herself so much, but I know it started sometime in middle school. There are lots of photos of me as a child, but few as a teen and even fewer as a young adult. I’d look at a photo of myself and see only fat, rolls and rolls of fat, but it wasn’t just the fat — even after I lost 60 percent of my body weight from anorexia and bulimia, I hated to be photographed. In fact, I know of only one photograph of myself in existence from that brief period in which I was thin (and very sick).
After I met Brandon, I felt this urge to create a photographic journal of our new life together and began allowing myself to be photographed again. Even then it was a slow crawl. I almost put off our wedding for fear I’d look hideous in our wedding photos (they turned out great!). I still tend to look at photos of myself with a critical eye and I still prefer shots from the waist up, but I’ve come a Grand Canyon’s leap in battling self-negativity. It’s important to note that while this kind of body insecurity often plagues women, men don’t escape unscathed. My older brother, who has lost and regained the same 70-80 pounds several times in his lifetime, recently joined Facebook. I tagged him last week in a photo of my mom and siblings, which meant that the photo also appeared on his profile. He deleted it and sent me a note asking me not to post any of his “fat pictures.”
How about you? Do you have a love or hate relationship with the camera? Post links to photos of you in the comments below. I’ll start with a photo of myself taken late last summer on Kelley’s Island — and yes, I AM TOTALLY SUCKING IT IN.

* I should note that I while I adjust for things like lighting and tones, I would never doctor a photo in a way that would alter its integrity. As Toledo Blade photographer Allan Detrich can tell you, digitally altering a photo is a no-no in journalism.








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