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She copyrighted her technique, sold prints to museums, and wrote myth-making prose about her process in her memoirs: Julia took only a few pictures of herself, and in them she looks far less imposing than her subjects, who were usually stoic, grizzled male intellectuals or creamy-cheeked actresses and debutantes.In her own portraits, she looks glum, dejected, staring at the ground or into the lens with a withering squint, as if she cannot believe she is doing this. Vintage cameras had long exposure times, requiring the sitter to hold the same expression forever.After her death, Henry would destroy all of Clover’s letters and write her out of his autobiography; he almost managed to make her disappear. If I could go back and climb upstairs to her studio, I would tell her to show her face.If you ever feel scared to take your portrait and push it out to your feed, let me urge this: don’t focus on your anxiety, focus on all the Clovers, on all the women who felt the heat of a camera in their hands but were cut off from sharing with the world, who burned silently and alone for the chance to connect.I think about the ones who never got to use front-facing cameras, that technological ease and excess that we have so quickly taken for granted.
That girl in the park taking selfie after selfie after selfie? She’s figuring out which parts of her face she loves; she’s doing confidence fact-finding.
hot One: Open on a woman snapping a picture of herself, by herself.
Maybe she is sitting at an outdoor cafe, her phone held out in front of her like a gilded hand mirror, a looking glass linked to an Instagram account.
She took a devastating portrait of her in-laws, who barely spoke to her, their scowls barely concealing their grumpy disdain.
Whenever she shot herself, she blocked out her face with a giant hat or some other prop; sometimes she was just a blurry smudge darting across the frame.
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Sometimes it takes a hundred selfies to capture the one that rings out with recognition: this, think about Marian Hooper Adams, who went by Clover, the society doyenne of post-Civil War D. Clover and her husband, writer Henry Adams, lived across from the White House in a grand, creaky manse, where she played hostess to intellectuals and diplomats as they came through town.