I was rummaging around for something or other, as some of us of a more ‘slightly disorganised nature’ tend to do whenever we need ANYTHING, and I came across this photo. Haven’t seen it for years. I call it ‘self portrait in black’n’white’. I could have painted one, put a few tits on my head, morphing into a Minotaur from the neck down, few cherubs floating round, maybe some bloodshed in the background, but instead I stood in front of the mirror with my fabulous Canon AE1 and snapped. I was in a ‘photographic phase’ of life. Which no-one born after 1985 will in any way understand. Because photos were not a part of everyday life. They were something that needed to be arranged. You needed to carry a big, lumpy, expensive camera around with you. And because ‘film’ was expensive, you generally took ‘a photo’, rather than ‘take 9 and pick the best’ as is the current ethos. You certainly didn’t get your camera out every time you ate a croissant or had egg & chips in the cafe. It wasn’t done. Sending photos of your penis was… difficult. But could be done.

I had a ‘dark room’ to develop the films, rather than wait 2 weeks for Boots to do it. Ok, I had a kitchen in my flat with a light-switch. Same difference. Dark enough. And it never ceased to amaze as you put a piece of special paper in a chemical bath and watch the picture ‘arrive’. Slowly, ghostly, quite amazing. Though generally, when done at night, as it kind’a has to be, with a mate or two who are ‘into film’, we’d probably have been a bit stoned, whereby virtually everything becomes ‘amazing’.

I reckon this was about 1985. It’s a very ‘Haircut 100’ sweater. Which my daughters and Tory Boy find most amusing. IT WAS COOL BACK THEN!!!! NO REALLY!!!!

I won’t apologise for the sweater. It’s always unfair to make contemporary judgments on historical norms. Bit like apologising for slavery now. Or judging Mel Brookes a ‘racist’ for Blazing Saddles. So the jumper was state of the art. The haircut was what it was. Having spent the first 5 years of my late-teens having it ‘straightened’ every fucking week, suddenly I was ‘on message’. And the cigarette (again, no-one born after 1985 will know what that is), was an essential. Just for effect. All 20 a day, just for the Jean-Paul Belmondo look.

Amazing that I’m even more gorgeous now than I was then. But I work on it. It’s called photoshop and delusion.

Happy Memory Thursday

A xxxx