Open Writing

Just talking about your ephemeral holiday adventures is not enough, these days you need a picture to prove it.

It could be an inspiring close-up of your left ear snapped by a hidden professional while you were looking the other way or just a scintillating view of hubby’s tonsils as he eventually got the joke. Whichever way you look at it, most of us find these exposures irresistible, no holiday would be complete without one.

You may consider your holiday expensive, but the plastic-coated memory could be even dearer than you anticipated. These ‘masterpieces’ are not executed in oils but they are almost as extravagant. Nevertheless, it is a vital part of the holiday fun. Sharp clicks here, a blinding flash there and another technicolour memory is preserved for the family album.

Living proof that dad lifted his head out of the deck chair, took off his jumper and said ‘cheese’ last Friday.

Or just evidence for work-mates that flesh and blood does exist beneath the overall. It’s on eternal record that toddler actually parted his pout and bared his front teeth one sunny afternoon by the sea.

Casual epics so carefully contrived – big sister just happened to be posing in her bikini, one leg seductively bent and stomach muscles rigidly controlled while boy friend is calmly relaxing on the beach towel with fists rigorously clenching his bulging muscles to bursting point.

Photograph albums are splendid conversation pieces, something to laugh and browse through during the sombre winter evenings. My ‘snaps’ are very aptly named. They have a disjointed, slightly sinister appearance. Here we see three smiling legless bodies, accompanied by half a Father. This is a scintillating Father before his swim, although he hasn’t a face the legs are unmistakable. Now this stranger emerging from the pool looks divine, but who is it? Oh yes, it’s really a picture of youngest daughter Amanda, that is the top of her bathing cap in the bottom left corner.

Unfortunately some will always remain a mystery. What special significance do the three telephone wires have, and is there a family lurking behind the enormous rock? I ask myself. Perhaps this ‘gift’ is inherited from my father whose photographic genius has been a continuous surprise for over sixty years. He always spent holidays with a camera strapped to his chest.

Incidentally, he never had a cough until he sold it and bought a movie camera. But his avid enthusiasm was not infectious. We have a large box at home filled with black and white versions of my mother’s differing negative expressions.

One year she persuaded us all, except Dad, into a studio for what she described as ‘a real photo’- a still-life version of our holiday. None of us were prepared for the eye-boggling explosion of the flash bulb. The result looked like the all-winners of an Eddie Cantor lookalike competition.

This situation has altered now of course. My Father has now become a ‘Movie Mogul.’ But the transition from midget Brownie to the wide screen is not easy. We first had to sit through the life history of his garden, featuring the third rose from the left, followed by the exciting adventures of an aeroplane, followed by negative comments from Mother and snores from the dog.

These cameras take some mastering. I used a whole film capturing the antics of our troupe on a seaside skating rink, without learning the technique I felt like Ken Russell as I zoomed the lens from one exhibitionist to another without taking my finger off the button.

The result made slightly billious viewing with skaters and sky spinning furiously past. When I turned up the lights and wheeled in the supper, I noticed a pale green tinge on our guests’ bewildered faces and the snacks went much further than I expected.

But we love them really and spend many felicitous evenings enjoying them all over again. We have built up quite a collection over the years and my Dad has become most proficient. As he often threatens, he has enough film to run for a week!

But it must be most satisfying to posses the photogenic features of the magazine model. Exquisite bone structure and deeply set eyes are a definite asset. I long to emulate the mysterious, sulky expression they seem so fond of portraying, but annoyingly, if I don’t show my teeth I look as if someone’s just told me I have only a month to live.

And how do they achieve the cool windswept romantic aura, with a gentle breeze caressing their sun-bleached silken strands? All a gentle breeze does for me is whip my frizz into a frenzy.
But an unsightly clumsiness seems to be creeping into some of the fashion features lately. The tall angulars are poised in ugly hip-thrusting positions. Our teenage daughter pointed out an advert the other day. The photograph showed the back view of a young girl in red cotton shorts and a black halter neck sweater. She was
gracelessly perched on a wooden form with her thighs spread inelegantly, hands on hips. I used to sit like this when I was eight months pregnant, for an obvious reason! But my daughter had not noticed the ugliness, she was just interested in the red shorts.

So it ain’t the way you wear it after all – it’s what you wear, OK. Happy postulating.