I think I should have lived my life
before 1826. That’s the year the first photograph was taken and the only
thing I hate worse than Brussell sprouts is having my picture taken.
Of
course, it was all my mother’s fault. I don’t why I was the only one of
her three offspring born with extremely crooked teeth. And because my
old man was an alcoholic we couldn’t afford braces for my teeth because
we barely had enough money for distilled spirits. So whenever anyone
would try to take a photograph of me I’d either cover my face with a
pillow cushion or steal the film and expose it to the light. That’s why a
photo of me smiling is more rare than an albino alligator, an honest
politician or a happy cow buyer.
You
can imagine how terrible it’s been for me to hide my face in a
techno-world where cameras hang from every lamp post, potted palms could
be taking your mug shot and everyone carries a smart phone capable of
exposing my lousy dentition to the world. It doesn’t help that I’m
superstitious and believe in the old bromide that says in any photograph
of three people the person in the middle will ALWAYS die first.
My
fear of photos is only going to get worse. Farmers are urged to film
their corn growing 24/7 to be more “transparent” and ranchers are urged
to appear on Facebook and You Yube to show what swell people we all are.
I don’t know about you but I live in constant fear of being seen
picking my nose in public or of failing to remember to shut off the
camera prior to a “bio-break.
Famous
old world artists used to cover their masterpieces with canvas until
they were finished painting or sculpting lest they be judged
prematurely. These days we are afforded no such luxury. Viewers and
consumers want to see every stroke and if the artist, or the farmer, or
the rancher, isn’t careful their career could be cut short. I’ll give
you a good example.
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