Paul looked mystified. ‘Who’s that?’
‘That,’ I said, breathing deeply, ‘that … is none other than Twiggy and her husband Leigh Lawson. I painted their portrait, once …’
Paul didn’t seem too impressed and as my words drifted away I let it go.
On Sunday a photographer, Paul, took my pictures. I held off for as long as I could, but in the back of my mind I knew that people on websites and social media want to know who they are communicating with, it’s important to put a face to a word or two, apparently. Of course I knew this but I was ignoring it. Photos were fine when I was 21, but I’m not 21 anymore. If I wanted to develop my social media group and my website, I needed a presence.
Paul’s address on his website was challenging to say the least. It didn’t really exist. Just a road and the name of a town. I wasn’t too concerned as Paul told me he would send me his address over the weekend, unfortunately Paul forgot.
Undeterred, I jumped in my car and headed off towards the road and the town. half an hour later, as I sat in the As I sat in the layby, watching the rain drip down my windscreen, my good humour disappeared, I was lost. I rang Paul and did that thing you should never do, I got an incy wincy bit cross. That’s all it was, just a bit. No tears .. well not from me anyway.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Paul remarked cheerily, as I finally entered his studio. ‘You are what you are, warts and all.’
‘I haven’t got any effing warts!’ I huffed, scanning the mirror. Was this mini-fit of pique the first indication that I was becoming a true model? I needed to remain calm otherwise we weren’t going to get very far.
'See!' said Paul, smiling enthusiastically. ‘I’ve lost my teeth!’
I shot a quick glance at him. Perhaps things weren't that bad after all, I thought.
‘Image is everything,’ Paul added.
‘It is,’ I agreed. Selling music is a lot about image and I would have to use my personality and looks to convince my undiscovered audience that I am worth listening to.
We sat down and stared at each other.
‘Hey Paul, I bought loads of clothes,’ I said, keenly, ‘and guess what? This will make you green with envy, I’ve photographed a really famous model.’ My fingers flicked across my phone, and there it was, me, paintbrush in one hand, squinting across my easel at the familiar couple who sat on stools, smiling before me.
Paul looked mystified. ‘Who’s that?’
‘That,’ I said, breathing deeply, ‘that … is none other than Twiggy and her husband Leigh Lawson. I painted their portrait, once …’
Paul didn’t seem too impressed and as my words drifted away I let it go.
‘Don’t worry about how you look,’ said Paul, ‘the camera always lies.’
Well that's worth knowing , I thought.
Within minutes the first few shots were taken. I stared at the results. I don’t know how best to describe my new image, just to say my face looked red and fat or fat and red, it’s about the same.
In the last month I had gained about 10 lbs, my home grown ‘PWC’ diet needed tweaking.
‘Can it lie a lot, Paul?’ I asked, the know tightening in my stomach.
I glanced again at the photos, I suppose I looked alright … me with guitar in hands, me pointing guitar up, down and then at Paul, it was just my head; it was red. ‘I can change the colour,’ said Paul, in a matter of fact sort of way.
'I'm sure you can,' I replied, wondering if he was thinking blue or orange. So we carried on regardless.
After a brief chat, things got better. I decided to relax. Photos were now taken of me against a big white sheet thing. There’s probably a technical name for this but what is it?
I changed my shirt into the one without the collar, the one that I thought makes me look like Imran Khan. I was starting to gain confidence. More shots were taken but somehow the collarless shirt had turned me into Marcus Welby, MD.
Paul noticed by sagging expression. ‘What kind of music do you write?’ he muttered.
‘Disco music,’ I said.
‘Is it still going strong?’
‘I hope so,’ I replied nervously, ‘I've just written a song called, 'This is What the Fuss is All About'.
'Who's it by?' asked Paul.
'It's by me but under the name, Goo-Q. Anyway disco is called nu-disco now, Purple Disco Machine play it and I write it.’
Paul, nodding encouragingly. ‘Two down then, just the rest of the world to go.'
I glanced at the screen in front of me. Surprisingly my photos were actually starting to look quite good. Plato's archetypes tripped through my head. That's not the name of a band, but it's where we have an idea in our heads of how we think things should be and when we see that idea reproduced in front of us, it often fails to match the image in our heads. Well not at first, anyway, after a few hours things tend to become acceptable. It's like when you have a passport photo taken, at first it look terrible, always. But then a few years later, it really looks quite good! How worrying is that? Anyway, I digress.
As the afternoon progressed, things got better and better. I was really getting into the swing of this. The studio was starting to look like a scene from, ‘Blowup,’ but for men, if you know what I mean, no rolling around on a purple sheet of paper and no Vanessa Redgrave, but at a push, we could have been.
The next shots that Paul rattled off, (me with moody shadows) made me look almost presidential. I’d deliberately starved myself that morning in order to lose weight by the afternoon (it could have worked) and perhaps lack of food was making me hallucinate because the shots that followed made me look positively angelic! OK not very disco, but great if I ever want to start an Undertakers.
Well that’s it. I hope my photos do the trick. I survived the photoshoot. Now can I get back to writing songs?
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