Costumes

A few days ago, I took pictures of one of my co-workers because another co-worker is designing banners for a job fair they are holding in three weeks.  It was a laughable attempt at my usual quest for photographic professionalism. And it turned my thoughts to a question in my mind about the costumes we wear in our daily lives.

I had already purchased a better lens for such portrait and telephoto shots.  I had planned to purchase a nice tripod later but the delivery from America was such a laughable event, I have decided I shall not order anything from usual suppliers again while I am in Armenia. 

I asked the team in the conference room if they were was a tripod I could use.  At first there was a bit of a language barrier as no one in the room seemed to understand what I meant by a tripod.  I finally said a stand to hold the camera and they understood but no one knew if they had one.

The project leader showed me a photo she wanted me to replicate of a businessman holding a small placard.  The idea was to have this pretty young co-worker dressed in the colors of our theme holding a similar placard that said, “I am looking for a job”. The placard was to be at chest level with her fingers gracefully holding it on either side.   She had worn a dark blue blouse to work and brought a lighter blue blouse emblazoned with flowers. We took five pictures of her in each blouse.

I shot the first round of pictures in the hallway where I thought the lighting was the best in the office.  I had no lamps, no way to control the light levels and eliminate even the slightest of shadows.  I figured out, after the first ten shots were rejected, that it was not the best lighting.  Also, the young woman’s hands were not balanced on either side of the picture and the placard was often dipped to one side or the other.  On a couple of pictures she had curled the fingers of her left hand. In two of the shots, she was wearing a ring on her left index finger and a small beaded bracelet on her left wrist.

We talked through the issues of the first round of pictures.  I asked if someone had a ruler, so I could mark spots two and a half inches down on the back side of the placard to help the young woman have her hands parallel. I also decided the lighting in the kitchen would be better.  The meeting that had been going on in there earlier had ended and the street sounds would not matter in still shots. We moved in there.

Now, I am hyper-sensitive these days about touching anyone much less someone of the opposite sex and especially a beautiful young woman. I asked her to stand with her back near but not against the wall.  I would ask her to move her hands up or down, in or out. I tried to explain pulling the placard closer to her body. I wanted so much to go and touch her hands and place them where I wanted but my nervousness would not allow me to get close.  The Armenian culture, we were told, has very defined gender roles.  Men do not touch women to whom they are not married, especially young, unmarried women. I am uncomfortable enough with a young woman without the addition of anxieties of committing a social feaux pas.  I decided to be bold and lightly touch her wrist to level the placard.

I mentioned to her how awkward I felt at the moment.  She assured me it was okay and not to worry. Now those of you who know me can imagine how blushed I became framing, positioning, and posing this beautiful young woman. Then, I am staring at her from behind the camera. Awkward!!!

After several shots in her navy-blue blouse, she went to the restroom and changed in to her lighter blue, floral print blouse. In that moment, I remembered a time when one of my waitresses exchanged her stained blouse for a clean one with me in the room.  I think if this young woman had done the same thing and changed in front of me, I would have hemorrhaged from embarrassment.

Upon her return, she quickly moved to the spot I had positioned along the kitchen wall.  As she found her hand position and held up the placard, I noticed that her blouse hung crookedly on her shoulders. I, with heart nervously pounding in my chest, walked up to her and tugged lightly on the right shoulder and straightened her blouse.  She could have knocked me over with a feather at that moment but only said thanks.  After the blood rushing to my face had subsided, I moved back to my camera and took several pictures of her in the lighter blouse.  We took some with her ring and bracelet but most without them. Perhaps, to put me at ease, she laughed and said take one more.  She held the placard up, turned and told me to do a profile shot while laughingly said these were her jail pictures. I apologized for taking so long steadying the camera explaining my use of chair backs to rest my elbows.  She asked me why I hadn’t I asked her for the tripod. She knew right where it was.

Twenty-five shots later, I put the pictures in my laptop and began working. After straightening, cropping, adjusting lighting, etc., I was relatively happy with four shots.  I shared them with our project team leader.  She selected two pictures and we worked a little more on the lighting and resolution.  The picture was to be blown up in to large banners, so we wanted the resolution to not pixilate.  We settled on two of the pictures I was most pleased with; one in the navy blouse and one in the light blue floral printed blouse. When the team leader asked my opinion, which was a bit surprising, I said I like the lighter blue because it had a feminine quality. The lighter blue blouse was the choice.  I had actually liked one that had the light blue blouse with the ring and the bracelet, but I agreed the one without jewelry looked the most professional.

This is the Navy-blue blouse

This is the Light Blue with Jewelry

The winner used for the Banner

This last picture is of the young co-worker in her jail picture pose.  She was laughing so hard and did not think I was taking the picture.  I could not resist. It is my favorite of the day because it shows her personality so well. I know she would say she does not look very nice because of her laugh but I disagree.  Look at that little innocent face and think of her in jail.

This is where the story takes the funniest of turns. The project team and our director had a meeting while I was not in the room. I have grown accustomed to this practice, but it is a bit uncomfortable at times.  It turns awkward when they discuss a decision that was made without my presence as though I should know about it.  I am learning that I am no longer in charge of very much and how to roll with the punches to my professional background.

 As I walked home with two of my-co-workers that evening, the one who had been my model mentioned to me that the plan now was to take a picture of me holding up a placard that said, “I have a job to offer”.  It would be a counter picture to the one of her looking for a job. It is a job fair we are planning after all.  The young woman asked me if I would wear a costume for the picture. I almost tripped on a rock in the hilly road we traveled as I was laughing so hard. My co-worker looked so innocently confused by my reaction and almost on the border of my having hurt her feelings by my laughter. I would never want to hurt this young woman who never laughs at my language mistakes.  I apologized and explained my laughter was more at me than at her.  In Armenia, they use the term costume for dressing nicely. I explained to her that in America, a costume was like wearing a disguise. She looked forgivingly my way as I assured her that I would bring a proper costume the next day, but I would not wear it to work as it is so hot.

Understanding that the color theme of the banner was light and dark blue, I prepared a “costume” of a Navy-blue blazer, light blue shirt, and a Navy-blue tie with a light blue and silver Fleur de Lis pattern.  Knowing that it was going to be a waist up photo shoot, I almost did the old television sportscaster trick of wearing Bermuda shorts with a Blazer. I did wear jeans.

I was sitting in the kitchen writing some notes when my co-workers began to arrive.  The banner team leader was first to arrive.  Seeing me dressed in jeans and t-shirt, she asked me if I had been told to bring a “costume” for taking a picture.  There was that word again, but I was better prepared and did not laugh. I assured her that I had and that I would be ready whenever she said it was time to take the picture.  She told me she wanted me to set up the shots and someone else would be behind the camera. On my list for the camera store in Yerevan, I mentally penciled in a remote switch.

The young co-worker “model” asked me if I wanted the tripod as we finished drinking coffee, a morning ritual.  I assured her that I wanted it and was glad to have a tripod for this shoot. I explained that doing a portrait shot like this would be greatly eased with a tripod. She went to a cabinet somewhere and returned with the tripod.  I took the camera, lenses, tripod bag, and a pad of sticky notes and headed off to the kitchen.

I set the equipment on the kitchen table closest to the windows.  I walked over to the wall and standing there, calculated about where the center of the sign would be on my chest and put a sticky note on the wall to mark the spot.  I went back over to the table, put the larger lens on the camera and opened the bag with the tripod. 

The tripod was a very lightweight affair.  The arm to control moving the camera up and down was a bit stripped. The platform holding the camera wiggled a bit.  I was worried this little tripod might not hold the camera with the large lens. (Mental note pick up a new tripod while in Yerevan.) I finally got the camera aimed and steady, or at least as steady as it could be. 

I went back to my desk and read the Washington Post while I waited for the team leader to tell me it was time for the picture.  I have learned to have patience in times like this.   Those of you who know my habit of expediency would be shocked to see me sitting quietly reading knowing there was work to be done.  You would be right in assuming that my insides were boiling.  What made the waiting more uncomfortable than usual was knowing that the next task I was to be involved in would have me in front of a camera.

I have spent more years than I can count behind a camera, shooting still shots or videos. I have been a cameraman at weddings, ceremonies, political rallies, sporting events, too many things to list. I was always the director, the person behind the lenses.  Now, my big, ugly, restaurant scarred, freckled hands would be a focal point for a camera shoot.  I was ready to jump out a window by the time the decision was made to take the picture.

The team leader said the placard I was to hold was ready.  She asked me if I would mind putting on my “costume” so we could take the picture (the best part of this story is that word).  I agreed and went off to the men’s room to put on my “costume”. I got the tie nice and straight and realized I had not dimpled my knot. I almost undid the knot but realized the knot should not be in the final shot. I was so annoyed with myself when I went to button my blazer realizing the impact of the food I have been eating here in Armenia.  My Blazer was a bit tight instead of loosely fitting across my chest. 

I went to the kitchen and explained the camera setup to the two young women who had the unfortunate task of taking pictures of me. (They must have lost the bet.)  I am already embarrassed because the Blazer is tight, and I do not like being in front of the camera but now I realize I will be posing and being posed by two beautiful young Armenian women.  My face was redder than a tomato. My speech stammered.  I am amazed my hands were not shaking too much to hold the placard.

The two young women busily worked and instructed me to move my hands up or down. They had me hold the placard with one hand reaching out with it as though I were offering it to someone. I thought it was a clever symbolic idea but the shot did not work very well.  Twenty photos later they were satisfied with a few.  I was glad I had not fainted.  Imagine me being ordered around by two young beautiful women. 

The team leader came and looked at the pictures while the camera was still set up and approved of a few asking me to do a little editing magic.  I assured it would be done quickly.  Editing pictures of myself, you have got to be kidding me.  I knew that project would be over quickly.  She selected one of the edited pictures and I was so happy to be finished with this.

I almost did not include the selection of my picture.

Now, my dear reader, if you have dared to stay with me for so long, I come at last to the word “costume” and why it made me laugh so much.  A costume to us Americans is a disguise.  We wear costumes at events or Halloween parties.  We use the term when we are talking about what performers wear on television, in the movies or on stage.  Academy Awards are given for costume design.  It is how people become someone they are not.

I realized as I have paired down my personal belongings over the last year in preparation for this grand adventure of coming to Armenia for the next two years how many costumes I owned. I wore many of those costumes from choice but many more from responsibility.  They helped me play the roles I needed to play even though I often cheated in my wearing of a costume to incorporate some of who I think I am in to the most serious of “costumes”.

My tuxedo, worn with silk bow tie and cummerbund or with a long silk tie and vest, was always shod with my alligator Lucchese Cowboy boots.  Once I even skipped the silk tie and wore a leather bolo tie with a turquoise stone in the silver pull.  I was glad that the director of the black-tie dinner posed for a picture with me and said she liked that I had stayed free enough to make that choice.  It was all still a costume.

As a union leader dabbling in the world of politics, one of my advisors told me I needed to stop changing my hairstyle. I needed short but styled hair and a goatee neatly trimmed. I agreed with my advisor and maintained that look for many years. I sported suits tailored to fit me with tailored monogrammed shirts. Ties were always conservatively done with a few Dr, Seuss ties thrown in for when I read to children.  It was a costume I wore for many years.  I remember thinking of the scene at the end of Orwell’s Animal Farm when the other animals have troubling distinguishing the pigs from the people.  I was determined to add something to my costume to keep me form being just like the politicians with whom I worked.

I remember once shocking a young teacher when she, not knowing who I was or the title I held, ordered me to help her with some kindergartners.  As I sat on the floor in my Navy-blue suit with a group of five-year olds, her principal retrieved me for our meeting.  Despite my costume, the teacher in me had overpowered the union leader.  The young teacher was so worried that she had offended me. I assured her that sitting on the floor with her “kindy’s” had been the best part of my week.

Then there is the costume I wore when I play Blues with various bands including my brother.  When you dear reader think of a Blues player, the image of a man in a black suit with I white shirt, black skinny tie, and dark glasses no doubt comes to mind.  I showed up wearing a flashy western shirt, embroidered with some outrageous western scene, and pearl snap buttons. I had on jeans, boots and a cowboy hat.  The “costume” exudes country music and not Blues.  I loved shattering assumptions when the audience saw me step to a microphone.  They expected Roy Rogers and got Little Walter.

I have the “costume” I wore when I went to the gym every day.  I usually wore shorts and dri-fit shirts.  The workout shoes varied from cross trainers to bicycle cleats depending on what I was doing.  I learned to never wear my contacts and always had on glasses often with a doo rag of some sort.  I wanted to be as unrecognizable from the political “costume” as possible.  I once saw myself being interviewed on ten television screens while I was sweating on a stair stepper.  I was glad I did not look so much like the guy on the screens although a few people looked back at me.

We all have our costumes to fit the different parts of our lives.  We change our costumes constantly as we shift from place to place.  I remember a line in a song by the Talking Heads where the singer says I have changed my hairstyle so many times, I don’t know what I look like. My Armenian companions use of the word costume made me face how many disguises I have had.