There is something rarely captured now in a child’s face, conditioned as they are to having their photo taken, to posing, to knowing they (or their caregivers) can instantly delete what doesn’t fit within their aesthetic. When these pictures were snapped, such was not the case.
I am sure my mother wanted me to smile but I didn’t. The first photo, at 3, with the violin, obviously a show-off moment, a dramatic punctum in time for which I have donned a little woolen dress, but I look down, dis-engaged, caught in my own context. The latter I have no idea of the occasion. I found it cut out like this. Perhaps it’s my 7th or 8th birthday. I liked checked shirts and hair clips and earrings but otherwise also relished androgyny. I look intense, guarded, again, swirling within my own mind.
Nothing much has changed in this way.