I have a photo shoot scheduled for today, and I’m trying to work myself up to it.

I detest photo sessions. I feel self-conscious, angry, annoyed, I don’t know what to do or how to sit, or what to wear, and I always hate the results. I’d like to blame it on a Bad Photo Experience as a child, but school pictures were never disastrous events. The only family portrait we ever had taken was the afternoon after I had dental work done, so one side of my mouth is swollen and I’m not smiling, but even that photo session wasn’t bad.

My father is an excellent amateur photographer, and he used to bring back stunningly beautiful slides taken of the tundra environments up north, shots of caribou, tiny flowers on lichen on wind-scoured rock, clouds. I was given a camera when I was about seven, and I took pictures because my father and his father did as well. I don’t precisely remember when I came to the realisation that pictures don’t matter to me. It might have been after some sort of deeply moving experience where I later looked at the photos taken at the time and said, no, this isn’t it; this isn’t what happened; this is hollow.

There is a picture of me in my head that actual photographs never reflect. I’ve cried when I’ve seen some pictures of me that others seem to like. I’ve also stared at some pictures for ages, trying to suss out what it is about photographs that makes me hate them so. I hate approximately ninety-four percent of all pictures of me. Others seem to think they’re fine, sometimes even great shots of me. No one I’ve ever spoken to about this understands how these photographs hurt me on some inexplicable, deeply felt level.

HRH has used several explanations for why I dislike pictures: cold light, flat image, lack of life to add the spirit to the physical representation. Blah blah blah. Artist talk.

The only photographs of me that I’ve ever loved immediately are our wedding pictures. Maybe it was the professional photographer with personality. Maybe the love and light of the day, and my spirit shining stronger than it does on an average day triumphs over the cold 2D images. Who knows?

All I know is that I hate photo sessions, I usually hate the results, and today at noon I have one. We’re using a digital camera, so we can wipe the ones I hate out of existence right away. I’m working with an amateur photographer whose work I’ve seen and enjoyed, who has also worked as an actor and director, so he’ll be able to direct my positions and expressions. I hope to all the gods he has patience with me, because I won’t.

Cameras scare me. And that truth makes me angry, because I don’t know how to deal with it.