Photo Finish
Pictures of an erstwhile friendship
A couple of years back, when I read the superb Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand, I learned that the term “photo finish” pertains to horse racing. When a race was too close to call, the judges had to wait until the film was developed to determine which horse won “by a nose.” (Toe-ing the line only counts for us biped racers.)
I had assumed that “photo finish” pertained to the days of drop-off/pick-up photo booths, wherein would be promised prints ready (i.e., photos finished) in an hour. I’d also vaguely associated “photo finish” with the choice of matte versus glossy.
My ignorance is ironic considering that I come from a family of professional photographers, notwithstanding which I have neither talent nor interest as to shooting— though I’m amenable to being a target.
As I write this, I’m perusing my past life in pictures — I should say a slice of such, dating from December 18, 2011, through May 22, 2012: a May-December romance in reverse.
We were so much in love. The three of us: “he-and-I,” and “she-and-I,” specifically. The “he-and-she” duo was simply a pleasant side-effect of the primaries. He — Michael — and she — Anna — were my dearest friends.
There was nothing kinky in our couplings or triplings — I already had Chuck to cuddle with; Michael had Marie. And the wild orgies in which Anna and I indulged involved shopping sprees and ice cream binges.
Michael was a fine photographer; nearly all our pictures were taken by him, including those that included him. Some were accomplished by the camera’s auto-delay function, others by his hyper-extended arm — Michael was truly a selfie virtuoso.
Michael and Anna — wannabe Blues Brothers — sported cool shades; he dressed down in drab; she bundled up in black-on-black-on-black, multi-layered, unseasonably so.
I craved the light, the bright — no sunglasses for me. I was always arrayed in lurid competition with the tulips, daffodils, and pansies we’d pass on our myriad meanderings. It was as if by impersonating — personifying — that magical spring I could manage to sustain it.
I was enraptured, enthralled, in delusion of vernal eternal. I was flush with hubris; I glowed, matte-ness notwithstanding. I can see my shine as I riffle through that Kodak-chromed sliver of a life since slithered, withered, away.
I cringe to observe my misbehaving magenta locks in combat with a neon rainbow of headbands, Day-Glo barrettes, and gaudy plastic clips in triplicate. Scary-hairy with all the trimmings: fluorescence galore. I’ve since toned it down a tad or two, got a trim and lost those tinseled trimmings in deference to the less-is-more decree — but back then more-and-MORE wasn’t enough for me.
The monstrosity on my head was just the starting point: As I scan each picture, departures from decorum abound, mutating in mutiny against good taste.
No delicate pearls grace my ears: instead, electric-blue buttons shock the lobes in jarring discord with the pair of purple in-your-face danglers hanging from the top tier of tri-level acid-lime hoop-de-loops. (Dis)gracing my neckline and extending to the belly below, I observe a pendulous array of pendants; genuine stone on sterling chains, incongruously nested inside garish strands of beaded and bejeweled doo-daddies in rererepeat.
A sinister pair of snakeskin belts slither sinuously around my waist, tortuously entwined in indecision of which amongst them shall prevail. Red anklets on top of blue crew socks on top of yellow tights: three colors in peek-a-boo competition to win the primaries.
I shudder to review these graphic crime-scene photos that prove beyond all doubt my outrages against elegance. I wince in sad remembrance of those months of joy, so briefly captured, since so cruelly escaped.
Why am I so sad to see those oh-so-happy days-gone-by? Precisely because they have gone by. We three will never again experience such exquisite intensity amongst us. Picnics by the lake those summer-in-winter days — those days-after-days of it — the even more glorious spring that sprung us into over-and-over-drive — all the while smile-snap!-smile-snap!-smile-snap!-that-never-ended.
Until it did.
May 22, 2012. I can see the subtle strain above my brow in that final photo, taken on my back deck. The day was perfect; perhaps it was the peak itself that was the harbinger of the inevitable: It was on that day I finally faced — and as such, it fittingly showed upon my face — that what goes up and over the top, must come down and go under.
And so, it did.
Nothing happened. Not that instant. Not that day. Not that week. We still had our picnics, our walks, for a while yet — yet, all that while, I was waiting. I didn’t need a photo finish to tell me who won the race to glory; the glory days got gone — we all three lost. The mare-pair limped off in awkward tandem; the stallion, sadly, went his separate way.
May 22, 2012: Photo finish.
This is a mood piece meant to convey my nostalgia of glory days gone by. The circumstances that led to their demise are touched on in other pieces in what I dubbed my “Going, Going, Gone’’ archives.
