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Maybe she tilts her head one way and then another, smiling and smirking, pushing her hair around, defiantly staring into the lens, then coyly looking away. She flips through these images, appraising them, an editrix putting together the September issue of her face; she weighs each against the others, plays around with filters and lighting, and makes a final choice. Her selfie is off to have adventures without her, to meet the gazes of strangers she will never know. She has declared, in just a few clicks, that she deserves, in that moment, to be seen. Shot Two: Zoom in on a group of people watching this woman, one table over.
They are snickering, rolling their eyes, whispering among themselves.
They don’t see where her image is headed, where it will take up space in the infinite.
This is scary for them, this lack of control, this sense that her face could go anywhere, pop up anywhere.
I think about the ones who never got to use front-facing cameras, that technological ease and excess that we have so quickly taken for granted.
I think about Julia Margaret Cameron, who got her first camera as a gift, in 1863, when she was 48 years old. We know this from her great-niece, Virginia Woolf, who wrote that Julia was an ugly duckling in a family full of cameo complexions; her nickname was “Talent,” where her sisters got to be called “Beauty.” Cameron became instantly obsessed with photography and dove into her second act.I don’t know why Julia chose to glower, but if I had to guess, I would think she knew she could grimace for a full hour. The type of camera Julia used wasn’t made for experiments; each snap was a big commitment.We aren’t bound by her constraints now, with our ability flood our clouds with unlimited smirks, kissy pouts, tongue waggles, goofy winks, and come-hither stares.Sometimes it takes a hundred selfies to capture the one that rings out with recognition: this, think about Marian Hooper Adams, who went by Clover, the society doyenne of post-Civil War D. Clover and her husband, writer Henry Adams, lived across from the White House in a grand, creaky manse, where she played hostess to intellectuals and diplomats as they came through town.In their sitting room, Henry was king, while Clover played subservient wife, as women of the time were expected to do.Instead, she used her photographs to communicate, to make some sense of her surroundings, to speak about her isolation.