Shreds of Modesty

Are you comfortable doing a handstand in the candy isle? Holding your hair up in an elaborate bun while pretending to put on make up next to a rusty car on a main street? Sulking picturesquely next to some antique mirrors in front of your local coffee shop?

Spent my lunch break doing self-portraits, which manifested itself in a very shameful display of cowardice. Focus, meter, set camera down on a more or less suitable object (ahhhh, saved camera with crippled wrist from landing in slime and motor oil), finding that window when no pedestrians face me, but damn, people walk fast or slow, whichever is the one I don't need. Then trying to keep that seriously sexy face while they walk, stall, get the kid out of the buggy, the cigarette out of the pack or the phone into the bag, point and laugh. The latter only in my mind or maybe not. It's very difficult to be vain and even more difficult to find a purpose for the vanity. I need a hypothetical explanation to those curious minds as to why I am face down on a park bench in the freezing cold, waving blue mittens into the directions of the lens like a lame duck, while holding my head still and stiff in that previously focused-on spot on the arm rest, hair hopefully nicely disheveled, a great clump of mud on my boots just in the frame and the self timer beeping with increasing frequency.

I think I need a crew to give me more credibility, someone to fan me, someone to hold the reflector and most importantly that critical mass of people that makes it look like something creative and purposeful is going on that Joe Schmoe is just not able to grasp upon passing by.