My wife and I did an 'intimate photo shoot'
Fantasy, reality and dysmorphia
Low libido and bored with life. The algorithm knows. An ad pops up on Instagram for a giveaway—a couple’s ‘intimate’ photo shoot.
I shouldn’t.
But I do. I enter the competition with two taps of my finger and don’t think about it again.
I win it, of course.
Fantasies are fantasies. They are preserved for the ‘unreal’. Almost everyone has sexual fantasies of threesomes or, I don’t know, a candle up the bum (yeah?). The actual, boring logistics of organising such a thing - never mind the psychological burden of letting go of internalised Catholocism and body shame - is exhausting. Fantasies are fun for the very reason that they are not real.
My wife and I had talked about how we had very few nice photos of ourselves. We acknowledged a plateau of hum-drum heteronormativity in child-raising that is inescapable for everyone.
Yeah, maybe one day, we should do one of those photo shoots or something.
Fantasy and reality collapse.
Let me say this: it’s tasteful.
The studio is lush. They also do family and bridal photography. It’s very James Street, very Fortitude Valley, with crushed linen and warm neutrals. They offer us a glass of wine.
There’s also been an entire onboarding process. An online ‘creative profile’ that asks us what looks we’re most comfortable with, the clothes we will bring, etc.
Marta Andrzejewska (@yourartmore) is our photographer. She is warm and friendly and giggles when we giggle. That’s good because we giggle a lot for the first hour (we end up there for over two hours). She is exceptional at her job—not only taking photos but engineering a safe, relaxed space.
I’m not in love with my body. I never have been. But it takes me almost no time to relax in Marta’s company. I follow her direction - move here, look up, hand there, etc. And I am reminded that conventional beauty is formulaic. It’s all lines, curves and angles. Don’t trust yourself in the bathroom mirror. Take someone who knows the formula and has the right light. Boom.
We don’t see the photos in this session. But Marta’s reaction is so genuinely delighted that I am convinced we are now the hottest couple on the planet. It helps - and I say this with all sincerity - that my wife is a fucking bombshell. Also, she has plenty of experience in front of a camera. Me? Less so.
Emily’s neck is long and swan-like, offering poise and elegance. My neck is in a constant state of five o’clock shadow, offering the neck beard of an incel or domestic terrorist.
Emily’s body has the smooth, feminine lines of a Renaissance painting, while I have the rectangle banality of Soviet-era brutalist architecture.
But in the shoot, I don’t care. I’m happy to provide a shadowed jawline in the background to her sculptural allure.
I feel I could conquer a country when I leave the studio.
We will see our photos in one week.
The ‘unveiling’ happens in a special lounge. We sit on a couch opposite a giant television to view our special ‘presentation’. Steven, Marta's partner, guides us through the process. He’s Californian, kind, and positive.
A day earlier, I’d said to my wife: ‘surely they’ll let us watch it by ourselves? Like, the guy will leave?’
No. Steven stayed.
How bizarre is Steven’s job? How many times has he sat with an awkward couple?
The lights dim, and the studio’s logo appears on the television. A deep, resonant bass runs through a sub-woofer.
‘JESUS,’ I say, because I can’t help myself. The pictures haven’t even started yet.
Marta is excellent. Steven is lovely. The photos are great. My wife is so stunning.
I am still me. That’s the thought that plays in my head. What about those clever angles? The lighting? The shadow? What was the sense of freedom I felt in the shoot? What muscles have I gained from my (measly) six weeks of committed gym time?
My tummy is still my tummy. My hairline is still my hairline. My brow and jaw is pure Burton, so I am reminded of my brothers and father, and I cringe at myself.
A cognitive wrestle ensues.
Calm down.
Stay here.
Just look.
We spend another hour there, going through files to print and save. As time passes, the self-criticism becomes quiet. It doesn’t ever fade to the level where Sex God Confidence can emerge miraculously. But I can at least sit with the images and find myself in my eyes.
True body dysmorphia requires a level of obsession that I don’t possess. I’ve witnessed it in others. It’s a genuinely crippling disorder that over-runs an entire life.
However, I avoid mirrors and pictures like the plague. When I don’t think about my body - when it remains a fantasy and not a reality in front of me - then I can feel a humming confidence, even self-acceptance.
I can’t avoid the ‘real’ when the photos are presented to me. But the ‘real’ is my projection: I cannot view my face without comparing it to my family. I can’t see my shoulders without the slump.
The images themselves are a fantasy, constructed with knowledge of light and angles that communicate intimacy. Yes, it felt intimate in the studio, but nothing as intimate as when my wife and I held each other in the dark, out of sight, burrowed into our own world.
There is no real. There is no fantasy. It is all and nothing at the same time. The thought is a little consoling. I am proud of the images we created.
My idolization of Emily is also a projection; no matter how ‘real’ I insist on her beauty. Yet another week later, when we are perched on the couch by ourselves, flicking through the images on the iPad, she gives a self-critique that flabbergasts me. The things she points out about herself are invisible to me, but starkly real to her.
She lacks the most self-compassion when we are alone together. In the room with Steven, she felt confident via his gaze. ‘When I see what other people see, I’m like, yeah, it’s great,’ she said. By herself, she’s left with nothing but her projection of herself.
That was a flip for me. In the room with Steven, I dismissed his compliments, eager to apologise because he had to look at my body and ‘pretend’ (as I saw it) to be enthusiastic. I don’t think that reaction is gendered on my part. In the gaze of others, male or female, I defend myself against their presumed critique by self-deprecating. It’s been my tactic since I was nine.
But by ourselves, on the couch with the iPad, something else occurs in my brain. It’s an inarticulate cognitive dissonance. I don’t know how to see myself because I’ve never looked at myself like this. I don’t hate it. I don’t love it. But in some pictures - when Marta could grab a moment where I wasn’t self-conscious - I recognised a part of myself. Not ‘sexy’ or ‘intimate’ or anything hashtagable. Just me. There. Both real and unreal at the same time.
There were 46 images in total. Yes, plenty were raunchy and showed more skin, but there were also plenty that were safe. Photos were taken at Verve Studios by Marta Andrzejewska, who is a wonderful photographer and a force of nature. And her partner Steven facilitated a great experience.
I’ve mused on body image before, like in this week where I was feeling blue. For sex adjacent posts, there’s also that time I went to every sex store in Brisbane for research (no, really).
These photos are beautiful. And I delight in your honesty in the multiple truths of it all at once.