[hypotemuse]

I must confess that when Mark asked me at short-ish notice if I'd volunteer at the photography workshop he was organising, I didn't expect it to happen. Mark thought he was coming down with something; I wasn't feeling too great and I trusted something would 'crop up' forcing one or both of us to cancel. I'm someone who normally has to be dragged kicking and screaming in front of a camera, and the uncertainty lowered the barrier enough for me to say yes. We'd discussed him taking my photograph a number of times and I'd always chickened out. This time, the prospect of going out to eat afterwards with Mark, his wife Jo and the other participants appealed as a motivation to get out a bit and break the seasonal lethargy.

Being relaxed in front of a camera is, like playing the upper register on the clarinet, a skill I've never mastered. I've always found it mildly inconveniencing but not really annoying. I looked at this as a challenge. I was inquisitive and nervous. Being shot in black and white also appealed to me. The instructions were straightforward too: a dark top and a coat with a fur collar if possible. (Had Mark said: "A pale blue top would be nice, and a sunny disposition. Oh, and please do wear something frilly and feminine and pink," I'd have been up sh*t creek.) There were also some additional instructions for the Man, who was pencilled in to appear out of focus as an extra. This didn't happen, much to the Man's relief.

The workshop took place outside, on a college campus. It was a couple of degrees below zero with a vicious windchill but luckily the gymnasium was open and heated and provided a welcome refuge between shots.

"He's forgotten about you," I whispered gleefully as we sat upstairs watching the handball. "Should I go and remind him?" (I'd like to say the Man's response was unprintable but he doesn't really do unprintables - they're my strong point. But it was unambiguous.)

I've always been a highly proficient camera dodger. Photographers at large at functions and family gatherings are never drawn to me; I have a knack of retreating unobtrusively into the shadows. Maybe I subconsciously feel I've something to hide; maybe I believe cultures that believe a photograph violates or robs the soul of its subject are on to something. Maybe I'm just too private, and too proud. Maybe I don't think I'm interesting enough. Maybe all of these. I remember once taking part in a group activity where we made plaster casts of our faces. On inspection, it seemed to me that every other member of the group's cast was instantly recognisable by a salient feature, be it cheekbone structure or the bridge of a nose. Mine was almost expressionless in comparison: narrow, small and with 'flat' features.

It's strange the perceptions we form and how we see ourselves, and there's not always a great deal of rationality behind them.

The first impression I got from all of the shots he sent me was how vulnerable I look, coupled with a slightly begrudging admiration for Mark and his skill that allows him to penetrate the armour and draw out the essence of his subjects. I recognise myself in all of the photos but in one particularly, I can see my whole life. This is the one I love the most. I love all of them - I didn't expect to be delighted by any of them.

The shot Mark initially posted to the internet - the one he has since removed (thank you!) - provoked the most visceral reaction. Although it has since grown on me, I still think I look forbidding, unapproachable and not just a little scary. Think Philip II of Spain catching his first glimpse of the Virgin Queen in a miniature and evacuating his bowels in his hose*. This was the shot Mark chose to share, and I feel a bit bad about my veto. But it was just too much. This one remains under wraps.

I don't think the shot is particularly unflattering, but stark and unapologetically raw. It might have been taken during the 'throwing down the gauntlet to the camera' phase, which came after the 'appease the camera' and before the 'let's pretend I'm somewhere far away from here' and "freeze out the camera, oh God, can we go home now please?" phases. If this makes the sitting - standing? - sound like torture; it wasn't - I was curious enough to register how I felt: how I reacted to both the lens and the photographer and when, and what triggered the transitions… often my awareness of the surroundings as well as the photographer's directions.

In hindsight, one of his directions - to brush my hair out of my face - made me feel uncomfortable. I didn't say anything at the time, because it was a workshop, and not a commissioned sitting. It was about the photographer honing his skill, not me getting the most flattering pic in the world.

It was an enjoyable and instructive experience, and I came away with the revelation that, although I don't think I'll ever feel totally at ease being photographed, letting down your guard can be liberating, (never thought I'd say that!) and the realisation that portrait photography needn't be exclusively the domain of shiny happy extroverts (not that I'm saying I'm the exact opposite). And I won't deny that being likened by a Facebook commenter to 'Jeanne Moreau in her heyday' gave me that warm secret smile. Just a little, and because one of my first thoughts when I saw the shots was: "Ooh! That French actress; whatshername?" And then: It's only photography; let's not get above ourselves, now. It's the photographer; not me. And it is. The work of an intuitive and highly accomplished one.

The images are here. A set of images Mark took at the workshop is here. Mark's thoughts on the relationship between photographer and model are here.



*Nice image, but historically inaccurate: being her half-sister's widower, he already knew her.

Several things made me contemplate what it means to be Swiss this week, first and foremost the news that a sculpture by Alberto Giacometti has become the highest selling work of art (at auction) ever, followed by my son's observation that Sig. Giacometti and his sculpture are depicted on the 100-franc note. And so they are, and I should be sent to sit on the naughty step for forgetting (I have not handled a 100-franc in a while - I like plastic, more's the pity - but the LDR obligingly produced one for inspection). I praised son and was quietly proud of his powers of observation, at the same time hoping he wouldn't prove to be observant in a different way (more on this later).

Giacometti was Swiss in the way Le Corbusier was - he legged it for Paris at the very first opportunity - and in a way Segantini wasn't (thought he was but it turns out he was an Italian who painted one of the most beautiful regions of Switzerland). But, happily for me, now I know that the Walking Man aka L'homme Qui Marche aka Der Gehende Man (according to your preferred news medium) aka The Man who was Burnt to a Crisp in the Unfortunate Incident of the Petrol Tanker and Walked, Indefatigable can be attributed to Giacometti rather than Segantini (I was forever confusing the two), I shall no longer make this rather embarrassing, low-brow error. Hurrah. (I still wish the Swiss could claim Segantini, who painted nice stuff, as their own and offer the Italians Giacometti in return.) Incidentally, Giacometti and Le Corbusier were Swiss in the way Herzog and De Meuron are Swiss, and Meret Oppenheim and Paul Klee weren't - they were naturalised; in Klee's case, posthumously. They were Swiss in a way Camille Saint-Saëns wasn't (Swiss mother) and Roger Federer and I aren't (Swiss fathers). It's a not very well kept secret that many Swiss are indeed half-Swiss, because the Swiss - at least the sensible, non-xenophobic ones - like to outbreed. I credit to the Swiss half of my DNA my ability to function like a semi-normal human being.

Secondly, the sirens were tested last week. They are tested around once a year or so, always at 13.30 on a Wednesday. They are kept in good nick for all eventualities, such as Switzerland being invaded by the EU, and possibly Iceland. It is the most awful gut-clenching wail; a dirge heralding a nuclear winter no one in their right mind would wish to survive. Seeing as the average Swiss household has its shelter stuffed to the hilt (all new houses had to be built with one during the Cold War) with wine, army rifles and/or skis rather than packet soup and iodine tablets, not many would. However: being Swiss means the wail of doom does not set your nerves jangling. English-speaking expats always comment on the siren testing, just like they always comment on the fact that Swiss people from all walks of life use trams, buses and trains. That means you and me and your neighbourhood drug dealer and the president. Anglos find this astounding for some reason.

Thirdly, son came home from religious education proclaiming that being baptised meant God loved him, which made me spit all flavours of gall. The system in Switzerland is such that schools do not provide religious education (there are no faith schools in Switzerland, at least not any I've heard of), but the state church does (in our case, the Bernese Evangelical-Reformed Church). It is of course not compulsory to send your child, but, well, it's 'done', and so, with a catalogue of misgivings, I send him. I tell myself he'd feel left out if he didn't go (he would; he's that kind of kid), that he has been baptised after all and we haven't opted out of paying church tax (so much more civilised than tithing, and you get that glow from knowing you might be helping feed the poor, somewhere). And then there's culture; Christianity cannot be separated from culture and history and general knowledge, regardless of how you feel about it. What you have to know about Swiss Protestantism is that it is of a staunchly Zwinglian bent, meaning that half a millennium ago, iconoclasm was practised on a grand scale. Oh, and you can forget transubstantiation, which might give the ritual of observance an - albeit creepy - allure. Sitting in a reformed Swiss church is about as uplifting as sitting in the dentist's waiting room, and that's saying something - mine has a periodical on philanthropy (he can well afford it) and well-thumbed back issues of the Nebelspalter. To top off my misgivings, son confidently told me today that "God loves everyone, even you, Mummy."

Fourthly, this has been a week of rampant bad wifery on my part (I am all the kinds of bad wife you can think of to the power of ten; double this figure and you're getting warm) and I've been given a fresh opportunity to witness the long-suffering equanimity if not to say indulgence of the Swiss husband. The same Swiss husband I turfed out of bed last night; the one who sure-footedly and with a well-rehearsed sparse swivel-and-grasp motion pulled the spare duvet out of the wardrobe in the dark, tucked the fat beige cat under his arm ("Take the bloody cat with you, too," I strongly advised) and spent the night snoring and coughing up phlegm on the sofa. The same husband I confessed the midweek hypnotics session to, whereupon he replied "I'd noticed, it's OK, it's the weather, it'll pass." I am humbled. I'd also like to say I'm purged of all impurity in thought and deed, but I am most definitely not.

The image below was taken two days ago. It was, as the title suggests, a lucky shot in every respect: I had the camera with me; was in the right place at the right time; dusk was falling and the dense tenebrous clouds lent the scene a mysterious quality that offset the amber and vermilion-streaked horizon. Winter sunsets are always a wonder to behold on 'my' lake: due to its geographic alignment, proper sunsets are visible from the valley floor in winter only, which makes them extra coveted. Summer sunsets are a delicacy we go up for (a sunset - or rise - from a mountaintop is a wondrous thing) or to the flatter lands.

The Christmas/New Year period has been a bitter-sweet one for me; there were thoughts on loss and the process of letting go, but also exciting news of new beginnings. I hope 2010 will bring empowerment, enlightenment, joy and love to us all.

Imogene xxx







Firework photos taken on Swiss National Day, 1 August 2009

Keen to help me avoid slithering down the slippery slope of pre-Yuletide despondency, the LDR suggested after breakfast that we go and photograph the frozen waterfall.* And he said it in the kind of get-yer-boots-on manner that I find quite irresistible, especially when I’m on the brink of being a bossy belligerent bitch. Mindful of the excruciatingly painful but highly effective shoulder massage he gave me on Saturday, I thought complying might be a good idea.

The waterfall is on the opposite side of the mountain; on the southern shore that gets little sunlight in winter. The temperature gauge in the car showed an exterior temperature of thirteen below. Not scorchio, then. We parked and trekked along to the waterfall, where the LDR scared me witless by balancing along an icy ledge to get the photo he wanted, bringing down icicles left, right and centre, one of which I saw in my mind’s eye stabbing him right through the skull. He likes pissing me off like that and I didn’t laugh; just turned on my heels and stomped back down the path, trying not to slip on the rocks camouflaged by packed snow and crisp golden beech leaves dispersed like long-forgotten refugees. And when he caught up with me I snarled and thumped him, but it was a playful thump and a content snarl.

There was a group of people down on the bridge, seemingly the only others who were crazy enough to be out. Little wonder they turned out to be English. One of them asked the LDR in perfect if accented Swiss German whether he’d mind taking a photo of them as a group? And the LDR obliged, and answered the guy in English, because that’s what the Swiss automatically do. Speak their language with the hint of an accent and they’ll reply in English. Even the ones who don't speak English. They can’t help themselves. (Me, I can, but that's because I'm an arrogant, antisocial cow.) And the guy was about to strike up a conversation with him when he said: “My wife speaks English; she comes from England.”

I hate it when that happens, and it inevitably does. I can’t explain. I can’t explain it to him and I can’t explain it to you. Well maybe I can, but don’t feel I should have to. I don’t like being reduced to a nationality or a language** - especially when it's one that a trillion people speak anyway - and get inexplicably tetchy when my hand is forced. There. So we exchanged niceties and one of the older chaps said “Isn’t it cold?” And I said breezily: “Nooo… it’s only minus thirteen!” And he looked at me as if I’d told him his knob was hanging out and there was green slime gushing out of his ears. I was frankly too cold to care. When we got home, I sat on the edge of the bath, dislodged a cat (they lie nose-to-tail on the bathroom floor in this weather; one on the warmest spot directly behind the door - she doesn't mind having her head bashed in) and thawed red toes on warm tiles.

All in all, it was a good weekend.

*Please do watch the slideshow. It's good. I promise.
**Nope - it's definitely because I'm an introvert; an antisocial one to boot. And it was bloody frigid and I was all bundled up in my duvet coat, my nose thrust into the collar, my face turned from the wind. Too much effort to speak.

I cannot show you my Christmas tree in its entirety; you would weep in horror and beg me to have it put down. It presents a persuasive case for Christmas tree euthanasia. It looks like an arthritic old lady. A stooping arthritic old lady like the one I saw on the tram; wrapped up against the cold in fading furs from a gentler and more prosperous age and armed with diamond-studded dignity, a parchment complexion and pencilled-in eyebrows.

The tree doesn’t have a bad life; it is a free-range Nordmann fir living an Elysian tree existence on my patio, where it grows merrily in all directions, sprouting lush bright green tufts on the ends of its branches in spring. The cats probably fertilise it when I’m not looking. It enjoys all the advantages of a happy and carefree tree adolescence. Unfortunately, it is repaying my generosity by growing up fat, asymmetrical and ugly. It could take a leaf from the only-other-fir-in-the-garden’s book. Small but perfectly formed, it grows in the southeastern corner, fertilised by dead cat. Could this be the secret of its beauty? Maybe I should dispatch a moggy when the family isn’t looking.

The tree came in yesterday, after a period of acclimatisation in an unheated room. It was decorated by me and the nine-year-old. The nine-year-old was a bit hyper because that’s what Christmas is for. Meanwhile, the LDR went out to buy a crucial piece of kit needed to link something up to something else, ignoring my advice to wait until Monday and consult someone who could sort the problem out in two seconds flat. He came back with a piece of kit crucial to linking something up to something else, but the something else is something we don’t actually have. I snarled. He snapped. I swore. He slammed the door. I yelled after him to come back and slam the bloody thing properly.

This might not come as a great surprise to many of you (not that you are many), but Christmas really gets me down.