TROUBLE CHILD

By MICHAEL PERKINS

AS I LIMP PAST “GO” AND COLLECT $200 at the turn of another birthday this week, I have to admit that I’m having trouble with the ongoing tradition of taking a semi-formal self-portrait to mark the occasion. I can usually manage to make a flattering image of nearly anyone I photograph, but, this year, I am experiencing a distinct challenge finding something in my own face that I like, or want to look at.

I do about as many random, quick “selfies” as the next guy during the balance of each year, but, as February approaches, I try to sit myself down and discover something, anything that is new, deeper, more nuanced about this grizzled old mug that, by my 70’s, I have often looked at but maybe not always seen. And this year, it’s proving to be a substantially tougher task.

“I AM smiling. Sorta…”

To be clear, I’m not seriously dismayed by the encroachment of wrinkles, the thinning of hair, even a mini-jowl or two, which I more or less consider the price of playing poker. I don’t mind looking as if I’ve been around a while, because I have. But, this year, the wear and tear is registering on some higher level. There have been losses. Some rough grinds. A few stiff tests. So far, a fairly average grocery list of effects typical to the aging male, right? But, for some reason, the face that I see coming back from my trial images seems more grim, sadder, resigned to a life that might translate loosely as “less”. And so, since I usually share the final portrait with friends and family,  I “face” a choice between faking some kind of benign bravery (the better for public consumption), or showing what I am truly going through.

Of course, in some very real sense, I need to get over myself.

The importance of the entire exercise is largely in my head: the world at large is not waiting breathlessly for the results, and the entire project could easily be skipped without notice. As a photographer, however, I’m both fascinated and horrified by the visual evidence of the toll of time, and I don’t see how I can claim to be an honest broker of reality and yet turn away when the view gets a bit too close for comfort. One thing’s for sure: merely saying “Cheese” ain’t gonna get it.