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She took a devastating portrait of her in-laws, who barely spoke to her, their scowls barely concealing their grumpy disdain.Whenever she shot herself, she blocked out her face with a giant hat or some other prop; sometimes she was just a blurry smudge darting across the frame.This is why they think selfies are a phase, something they can wish away.Whoever they are, and for whatever reason they hate selfies, they are wrong.henever I think about selfies, I think about the women who came before.When we can take endless shots from endless angles, we start to discover dimensions of ourselves we never even knew were there.
If you ever feel scared to take your portrait and push it out to your feed, let me urge this: don’t focus on your anxiety, focus on all the Clovers, on all the women who felt the heat of a camera in their hands but were cut off from sharing with the world, who burned silently and alone for the chance to connect.
She copyrighted her technique, sold prints to museums, and wrote myth-making prose about her process in her memoirs: Julia took only a few pictures of herself, and in them she looks far less imposing than her subjects, who were usually stoic, grizzled male intellectuals or creamy-cheeked actresses and debutantes.
In her own portraits, she looks glum, dejected, staring at the ground or into the lens with a withering squint, as if she cannot believe she is doing this. Vintage cameras had long exposure times, requiring the sitter to hold the same expression forever.
hot One: Open on a woman snapping a picture of herself, by herself.
Maybe she is sitting at an outdoor cafe, her phone held out in front of her like a gilded hand mirror, a looking glass linked to an Instagram account.
Maybe they are older than she is, making jokes about Narcissus and the end of civilization as we know it.