The Photoshoot

On my obsession with a Nineties' Vanity Fair cover and motherhood-related fears

Hello! This week I’m sharing a trimmed down and edited excerpt of my memoir manuscript. I shelved it in 2022 after years of writing, editing and submitting it to literary agents and indie publishers. It wasn’t meant to be. I’m happy to have moved on to other projects, like this newsletter and a novel manuscript that’s giving me torticollis. That doesn’t mean I can’t share snippets of my memoir with you, especially ones related to the theme of OBSESSIONS.

Thanks for reading! As always, if enjoy this newsletter, please don’t hesitate to like, share or subscribe. It helps spread the word about my work.

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I guess I’m posting this. My bump by E. Leconte

I was channeling Demi Moore.

A hairy, spray tanned French Canadian Demi Moore. Her Vanity Fair photoshoot had probably been more glamorous than this run-down warehouse situation. There had been champagne and snacks, I was sure of it. An ivory silk robe for her to cover up between takes. Maybe there had been a string quartet. I pictured a large crew of hairstylists, makeup artists, publicists, editors, photographers, lighting experts and dozens of frantic assistants running around, yelling “Miss Moore needs a glass of water with exactly four ounces of crushed ice!” It had been Demi’s Big Nineties Moment. And now it was mine.

I didn’t have a silk robe. Why hadn’t I thought of that? My summer uniform, a palm tree printed tunic I had purchased in the clothing section of a grocery store, was draped over a chair at the opposite side of the room. My washed out navy panties from Costco had been stuffed in my handbag, out of sight. There were no hairstylists. No publicists. No makeup artists, but at least I knew how to work a bronzer brush. There weren’t any assistants fussing over me, desperate to hand me a glass of water with the perfect amount of crushed ice. Still, I was lucky. I had my best friend by my side and a professional who had agreed to go along with my vision. It’s all I needed, really. Before heading to the grey “X” taped on the black plywood floor, I looked at myself in the mirror one last time. I gave myself a quick bronzer touch up on my cheek bones and across my jaw line, then walked over to my designated spot. I hadn’t realized how hot it was. A small air conditioner blasted cool air in the room, but it didn’t make much of a difference. The yellowed plastic box making a racket near the windows wasn’t fit for a spacious photography studio.

I focused on the silver umbrellas shining white light against my skin. Was I really doing this? My heart pounded beneath my rib cage. Had Demi been nervous too? Breathe, I told myself. This was natural. But as I looked down at my chest, I realized that I was too natural. Something had to be done about my breasts.

“I need ice!” I said to G.

G. walked over to the table at the far side of the room and dipped her hand in my iced tea. Then she pulled out a couple of ice cubes. 

“Here you go,” she said, wiping her hands on her distressed denim booty shorts. She returned to her original spot, next to the short woman with gel-laced spiky hair holding the camera.

“Thanks! My boobs have to look as perky as possible,” I said as I rubbed the ice on my breasts. My nipples seized, producing exactly the look I was going for. Demi hadn’t shown her nipples, but if she had, her headlights would have been ON. We had to act quickly before my boobs returned to their normal, shapeless blobby state. I turned to the horrified photographer. “I’m ready for my close-up!”

I turned sideways, shifting my weight to my left side. I pointed my right foot in an attempt to elongate my swollen ankles. Better. Then, surprising everyone, myself included, I stretched into a backbend to showcase the star of the show: my naked thirty-seven-weeks pregnant belly. This was going to look great against the black vinyl screen. 

G. watched with amusement from the sidelines, offering encouragement and posing tips as if she were artistic director for the shoot. She periodically took out her phone to show the photographer the mood board we had created on Pinterest for this major event. We wanted black and white. We wanted elegant. We wanted editorial. We wanted something a celebrity would do.

That’s my problem. I always want something a celebrity would do. Sometimes I wonder if I live in a fantasy land. I probably do. I always have grand visions for myself. This photoshoot was just another example of my delusion.

If I could afford it, I’d book another nude shoot tomorrow. And I’m not even pregnant! I like nudes. I like bodies. And I like mine. Sometimes I fixate on my cellulite, my bacne, my human fur, my ever-present tummy that makes wearing jeans unbearable. But overall, I’m grateful for this vessel and do my best to treat it with respect.

The delusion was my thinking behind the whole shoot. My intention hadn’t been to simply capture a special moment in my life that might not happen again. It wasn’t about the empowering act of stripping down and facing the camera without “fear.” Nor was it about celebrating the beauty and strength of my female body. Vanity was definitely involved. There was provocation for sure, especially since I’d planned on hanging my nude pic in my hallway, like Samantha did in the SATC episode “The Real Me.”

It was a performance.

Behind the bravado and the ice cubes, I was terrified. I was in denial. I had no clue what was waiting for me on the other side of pregnancy. I didn’t want my life to change. I feared my relationship with my husband would turn to shit. I’d seen what new parenthood did to romantic partners: it turned them into sleep-deprived roommates filled with resentment. What would my friendships look like with a baby involved? What about my body? And what about my tonsils that swell up when I go to bed late? Would they be the size of golf balls for the rest of my life?

Above all, I was scared of losing myself.

That’s why I wanted to set the tone. I thought if I acted carefree and glamorous in a photo, then motherhood would be carefree and glamorous too. That’s one of the big life lessons I’ve learned in the past decade: there’s a difference between what you think your life should look like, and what it really is.

Eight years after becoming a mother, there aren’t any nude pregnancy photos of me hanging in the hallway. I never framed any… Turns out I have a hard time looking at them. It’s not that I’m avoiding my spectacular pre-nursing nipples, which sadly, don’t exist anymore.

When I look at the pictures, I see a lack of self-awareness. I see inexperience. I see resistance. And that’s difficult to witness. But I also see defiance. I see audacity. I see vulnerability. Maybe on some level I knew what a wild ride motherhood would be. I knew I’d lose parts of myself. Perhaps it’s time to change my perspective on the photos. Instead of viewing them as a delusional attempt at resisting motherhood, maybe I could see them as an invitation. A “come on, show me what you’ve got” kind of photo.

Maybe it’s time I see them for what they are: pictures of a fearless badass with terrific tits.