I never had the luxury of having this self-righteous confidence in my image that is seemingly required for today's socializing.
Maybe that's why I've been described as "unreal." A one-time description of being unreal wouldn't be worth a mention.
I find that writing about people calling me unreal is, in and of itself, borderline self-indulgent. I genuinely lose my beauty sleep over this, so follow along. I think there's something redeeming here.
A few months ago, I went on a date that went more than well. She came back to my place, where she kind of took the reins of where the night was going. She took my hand and led me up the stairs, telling me to get undressed. I've never been the one to be submissive in this context, but what the hell. I locked eyes with her in my bed. I'm completely naked. She's fully clothed. She scans me head to toe and tells me I'm "unreal."
A few weeks later, I tell a stranger at a bar a story from college. They ask, "Are you even real?"
It’s not a compliment or an insult. But after hearing it enough, I start wondering — what’s so unreal about me?
I don't know what sets me apart. It's confusing.
Look in the mirror, and what do you see?
One day, I’m a Greek marble statue, the next a Tim Burton creature.
What do you see in photos of yourself? Are they all grotesque unless you take them?
When in a group setting, do you look at the other people in the photo and compare?
I thought this was a self-image issue, but it's not. It's much more complex — unfortunately.
Lights, Cameras, and Taking Action
After the drunkard at the bar asked me if I was real, I wondered if he was just so intoxicated that he was losing his grip on reality, and that I may have been overthinking it.
His comment festered in my head. It made me rethink just how many times I’ve been called unreal.
An overnight ceiling stare marathon, and part one of Netflix's Wednesday season two later, somehow I had arrived that I needed someone artistic to take my photo. Someone who can use the medium of photography to show me who I am through creative expression.
I needed a photographer to objectify me at face value. Who and what do they see when they first meet me? Direct me as they see me. Model me as if they don't know me.
The problem is, I don't want it to be anyone I know.
Some of my best academic memories in college were my beginner film photography class. Sitting in the red room for hours, ruining prints with chemicals that hadn't been replaced in weeks. My professor was near senile, in her last year before retirement, so it was a free-for-all class that didn't teach much. However, there was something so personal and romantic about the process that made me decide that asking a beginner film photography university class to take a photo of me was the best solution for this mission I was on.
I found a summer course at the closest university to me. I walked around the building for fifteen minutes, looking at the classroom schedules on each door until I found the class. There were only four people in the room. All women, three students, one professor. All staring at me as if I had entered their sacred space.
I look around, give an awkward wave to the class, and say, "Hi."
The professor replies with a "Hi" back.
I walk over to her and give her my spiel. She laughed at first, but she quickly caught on to my determination and knew I meant every word.
She looked at her wristwatch, looked at the slide on the presentation screen, then made her internal decision — all while I'm sitting there smiling with pursed lips and my hands behind my back.
She agreed.
In the back of the classroom, there was already a white screen with lighting equipment set up. The professor put down a black stool and told me to sit while they prep their cameras.
Two of the girls decided they wanted extreme close-ups, while the professor and the other student went for full-body shots.
They took their turns, directing me, telling me what to do. I felt strangely comfortable in this setting. I didn't feel conceited by any means, but it felt good to feel special, even if they might not have entirely wanted to be in that moment with me. In hindsight, maybe a strange man walking into a classroom demanding photos of him, in today's climate, would garner promising results if they were asking an entire classroom for a favor. I may have been walking the line between hostage and mania. They still did exactly what I was hoping.
I walked out of the classroom, not able to see the photos until they've been processed, but I was smiling. Not because the mission was a success, but the audacity.
I never exchanged information with any of the photographers. I don't know if I will ever see those photos.
I don’t know if I got what I was looking for. Maybe being “unreal” just means acting on my curiosity.
I can live with that.