Worst Day Of Your Life Essay

He quickly learned the considerable merits of bracketing—taking several shots at the same angle with different settings.Once he’d settled upon what he determined to be the correct light exposure, he’d bracket left and bracket right in order to assure that he had captured several planes of depth.

Part of his job at Y&R was to peruse hundreds of model’s head shots for whatever product they were shilling to the public.

That’s the main reason he took up photography: he felt he could get to the essence of a woman’s face better than 99 percent of the jetsam floating across his desk.

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It stared back at me: sharp, unambiguous, the lighting dead-on perfect. My mouth is slightly open with saliva pooling in the corner, not yet sure of words. I flipped the 8×10 glossy over so I wouldn’t see what shame looked like, and, shoving it aside, I knew this event would never make it into my book.

My fingers are laced together under my chin as though I were offering an agnostic prayer. Today that photo lives a comfortable life on a very high shelf.

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.

I didn’t see myself as particularly pretty but knew to accommodate his insistence that I sit for the camera, almost daily it seems in my memory, though I’m sure it was much less.

Over time, the camera became a barrier between us, capturing his increasing displeasure with the very nature of who I was. When I began writing my memoir, I laid all his photos out on my desk and sifted through our marriage as catalogued by my face.