My sister Shannon and her husband are now the proud parents of another son, named Wyatt. His father likes that their newest addition shares a name with legendary gunslinger Wyatt Earp. This doesn’t impress me all that much, so I’m pretending his namesake was actress Jane Wyatt, who played Spock’s mother on “Star Trek.” I concede that’s kinda reaching, but it makes for fun trivia.Wyatt was adopted from the same woman who gave birth to my sister’s first child, Jack. She didn’t let them know she was pregnant again until her second trimester, so the prep time for Jack’s little brother was disconcertingly brief. But what a bonus that they got another kid from the same source, ya know?
It’s like finding out they made a sequel to your favorite movie.
“I need your help,” says my sister Shannon on the phone. “I’ve got pictures from the day Wyatt was born, and I don’t have a stitch of makeup on. Can we take a trip to Photoshop Land?”
Disney World be damned, Photoshop Land is the real happiest place on Earth. It’s the magical world of meticulously clone-stamped perfection where Faith Hill has arms the size of wrapping paper tubes and Mariah Carey looks like an oil painting. If the camera adds ten pounds, Photoshop removes fifteen. In my house, no photograph is made available for public viewing without first taking a trip through the happiest place on Earth. And now my friends know that if they tag a picture on Facebook without running it past me first, I’m gonna be pissed. Usually I’ll just swipe it from their page, make the necessary changes, and e-mail them the new version.
It’s not ENTIRELY driven by vanity. That’s only part of the rich tapestry of neuroses involved here. I see digital manipulation as no different from editing stories when you’re in mixed company. My fiancé’s friends know I would rather set myself on fire than hear stories about his ex-boyfriends, so when they reminisce in my presence, they’re kind enough to edit out any references to who he might have been dating at the time. Then I get to enjoy my carefully-constructed illusion that he spent the first twenty-six years of his life patiently waiting for me. Despite my insatiable curiosity in many other areas, I have very little interest in people sharing uncomfortable moments from their pasts, especially if the story will make me uncomfortable too. That sounds just awful. Who would want that? So I edit, and expect others to do so as well, as a courtesy. Just extract the lessons and drop the stories.
“I need your help,” says my sister Shannon on the phone. “I’ve got pictures from the day Wyatt was born, and I don’t have a stitch of makeup on. Can we take a trip to Photoshop Land?”
Disney World be damned, Photoshop Land is the real happiest place on Earth. It’s the magical world of meticulously clone-stamped perfection where Faith Hill has arms the size of wrapping paper tubes and Mariah Carey looks like an oil painting. If the camera adds ten pounds, Photoshop removes fifteen. In my house, no photograph is made available for public viewing without first taking a trip through the happiest place on Earth. And now my friends know that if they tag a picture on Facebook without running it past me first, I’m gonna be pissed. Usually I’ll just swipe it from their page, make the necessary changes, and e-mail them the new version.
It’s not ENTIRELY driven by vanity. That’s only part of the rich tapestry of neuroses involved here. I see digital manipulation as no different from editing stories when you’re in mixed company. My fiancé’s friends know I would rather set myself on fire than hear stories about his ex-boyfriends, so when they reminisce in my presence, they’re kind enough to edit out any references to who he might have been dating at the time. Then I get to enjoy my carefully-constructed illusion that he spent the first twenty-six years of his life patiently waiting for me. Despite my insatiable curiosity in many other areas, I have very little interest in people sharing uncomfortable moments from their pasts, especially if the story will make me uncomfortable too. That sounds just awful. Who would want that? So I edit, and expect others to do so as well, as a courtesy. Just extract the lessons and drop the stories.
My entire family does this.
Over time, photos become the inarguable link to our histories- a trip down memory lane that gives newcomers a sense of our personal journeys. I hate that. When I look back at pictures from my birthday in 2005, there’s the ex who turned out to be such a dick. There’s that zit which of course popped up in the middle of my forehead that morning. There’s George with the red wine stain on his shirt. Well, not anymore. Photoshop Land creates an alternate reality where my skin and George’s shirt remained flawless, and that ex is replaced by a carefully-positioned potted palm tree. I don’t have to destroy the pictures, as previous generations of my family have done. Our family albums indicate which eras are open to discussion. If there are no pictures from 1967, it’s best not to ask why. But now, the visuals can match the edited stories. Empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays? Click. Drug paraphernalia? Click. Regrettable relationships? Click.
Over time, photos become the inarguable link to our histories- a trip down memory lane that gives newcomers a sense of our personal journeys. I hate that. When I look back at pictures from my birthday in 2005, there’s the ex who turned out to be such a dick. There’s that zit which of course popped up in the middle of my forehead that morning. There’s George with the red wine stain on his shirt. Well, not anymore. Photoshop Land creates an alternate reality where my skin and George’s shirt remained flawless, and that ex is replaced by a carefully-positioned potted palm tree. I don’t have to destroy the pictures, as previous generations of my family have done. Our family albums indicate which eras are open to discussion. If there are no pictures from 1967, it’s best not to ask why. But now, the visuals can match the edited stories. Empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays? Click. Drug paraphernalia? Click. Regrettable relationships? Click.
This software is the greatest technological advancement ever, with the possible exception of the Sham-Wow.
This has actually made me less self-conscious about pictures. It used to be impossible to get me to open my mouth in a photo, because I hate my teeth. Now I smile like I’m in a Crest commercial and let the airbrush deal with it.
As time goes by, my nephews will become curious about their own family background, and when they look at photo albums they’ll see the world as we choose to remember it. They might not remember their mother putting on full makeup every Christmas morning, but there’s the proof in the picture. If they ask why we look so horrible by comparison when viewed in person, I will tell them not to question it. It’s best to just enjoy the moment, and we’ll review the photos later.
This has actually made me less self-conscious about pictures. It used to be impossible to get me to open my mouth in a photo, because I hate my teeth. Now I smile like I’m in a Crest commercial and let the airbrush deal with it.
As time goes by, my nephews will become curious about their own family background, and when they look at photo albums they’ll see the world as we choose to remember it. They might not remember their mother putting on full makeup every Christmas morning, but there’s the proof in the picture. If they ask why we look so horrible by comparison when viewed in person, I will tell them not to question it. It’s best to just enjoy the moment, and we’ll review the photos later.
