Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Hand Modeling

Over the weekend we had a book birthing bash to celebrate the publication of The Brides of March after a grueling three year gestation. And during the party I was asked by two different people to model for them. Odd, yes. In one case, our friend Diane needed a before and after model for her Mary Kay Cosmetics business, for which I am willing to be her tabula rasa, because frankly, before I put on my face in the morning, I have virtually no natural color. Stick me in some bad light and Voila! the perfect "before" shot. And yes, I use Mary Kay eye cream (to combat that aging process I despise) and microdermabrade my face every third day which seems to do good things for my adult acne scars and makes me feel like I'm actually taking care of myself.

The other modeling request came from our friend Joni, who is a professional photographer. She needed two shots (and whipped out her camera then and there to take them): a back view in case I had the right female silhouette for an ad campaign she was shooting, and a close up of my hands, as she needed hands for another ad. Took a minute.

But the next day I got the call that all of "the committee" liked my hands best (nothing more was said about my bod, so I assume I didn't pass the voluptous yet healthy silhouette test), and Joni wanted me to join her on location to shoot my hands gripping an iron door.

Which would have been easy, had the door been unlocked at the time. But no, the antique/vintage furnishings store was unaccountably closed when we arrived. We persevered, and with contorted machinations, managed to simulate hand holds that could have occurred naturally, had I the option of being behind the door, instead of in front of it, faking it.

None of the shots made the cut, though Joni tells me they thought my "exquisite" hands needed a door that was finer and didn't overwhelm my hands. Gosh, they'll be getting big heads next. Perhaps I'll get to hand model again later in the week, at a new location.

The irony of my hands being chosen is that I don't take care of them. At all. They have suffered through fifteen thousand diaper changes, cage cleanings, gardening without gloves, and used to bleed every winter from dryness without relief, because I never seemed to get around to using lotion. I like used hands. I like hands that look like they've been productive, been active, done some honest work. A princess on a pea I have never been. I was so happy that Joni told me I didn't need to have a manicure, because I couldn't imagine a greater waste of my time than to sit idle while someone buffed my nails and tried to make them look pretty, when I'd be cleaning a rabbit cage later that day.

But that's just me.

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