When I went to pick up my book-jacket photos yesterday, I had a shock.  No, I don't mean the photos themselves. They just threw me into a depression.  But let me back up.

The arts building downtown is locked on Saturdays.  It's a cavernous space, with studios and galleries, performance spaces and crannies.   The photographer (let's call him Gramps) unlocked the front door for me and we walked through the empty building, our footsteps echoing.  No one there, not even the weaver who usually works on weekends.  No presences, not the spirit of art, not the ghosts who had walked the night before.

We went into his studio.  I heard the pleasant sound of water streaming.  "Where's the fountain?" I asked.  "That's the toilet," he said.  

There, on his computer screen, in full color, was a male nude.  Artistic?   Definitely a matter of opinion.  The colors were all peach-toned.  I'm sophisticated.  I didn't stare.  And then the screen shifted and there were little male nudes juxtaposed against a woodland scene.  Witty.  I could tell.   

I like male nudes.  I like art.   But we were alone in the basement of a huge old building, most of it in the dark.  Gramps didn't know me, wasn't a bit interested in me--that was very clear.   The onscreen projects were seriously male.  (To be fair, there were gorgeous portraits of every gender and age on the walls--that's what attracted me to this artist/photog).

So I guess what bothered me was that his photos of me didn't show the kind of glamour he was applying to male genitalia.  Was I jealous?  Me?  

I took my boring little head shots and raced home, had a scotch.  Lagavullin, distiller's edition.  I looked better in the mirror.   Even without the woods and stream and peach flesh.

Found some good portraits of me done by a woman who obviously revels in photographing women and children.  I'll go with one of those.