The old picture, taken in the late 1930’s, shows my dad and his siblings when they were kids. Dressed in somber back, the five kids are grim, unsmiling and stone faced. Seeing the old photo made me realize that we don’t have a group picture of me and my siblings, so I emailed my brothers and sisters, proposing that we have a professional group shot taken. Surprisingly, they agreed. Since this was my idea, it fell to me to choose the photographer. On the recommendation of a neighbor I chose one who claimed to be “a wizard at airbrushing,” feeling strongly that with this group that would be important.
The photographer was conscientious, and sent me an email with tips to “maximize the experience.” This included suggesting that we all dress in complementary colors, and advising my sisters to wear more make-up than usual so they could “shine” for the portrait. “Remember,” said the email, “this portrait will be your legacy.”
When I got to the photographer’s studio, my siblings were already there. I was wearing a black suit as was my older brother. My older brother, who tends to get jittery when we are all in public together, had developed a nervous tic that was causing him to blink uncontrollably. My younger brother, who is the main reason why my older brother gets jittery, was wearing his black suit jacket with gym shorts and flip-flops. “They’re not going to photograph me from the waist down,” he said.
Turning, I noticed my sisters primping in the mirror. My older sister was dressed in hot pink. “I thought we all agreed to wear black?” I asked. She ignored me. Then I caught sight of my middle sister. She had taken the suggestion to wear “lots of make-up” to heart: She looked like she was auditioning for the high school version of “Cabaret.”
The photographer had examples of his work displayed on the walls of his studio, most showcasing a staggeringly unattractive bride. “That is one butt-ugly bride,” my younger brother told the photographer conversationally. The photographer was frosty as his assistant walked into the studio. “Have you met my wife?” he asked and the butt-ugly bride greeted us warmly. My older brother blinked faster.
It was time to start. The bride arranged us, boys in the back row, girls in the front, but since my younger brother’s suit jacket was long and his gym shorts were short, he looked like a flasher, so we had to regroup. The photographer began taking pictures, but since neither of my sisters can go more than about 8 seconds without speaking, every time the photographer took a picture, one of them had their mouth open.
The photographer got annoyed and told my sisters, in so many words, to shut up. This aggravated my younger brother, embarrassed my older brother and forced my sisters into stony silence. My older brother’s tic had intensified alarmingly so on the rare shot were my sisters’ mouths were not open, his eyes were closed. The photographer was not pleased.
“These are awful,” said the photographer. “Why don’t you people show your teeth when you smile?” It is true; we are not a toothy family. “Say “cheese!’” he commanded and obediently we all bared our teeth. We looked like hyenas.
The final product, the best of over 100 proofs, shows my sisters with huge, unnatural smiles. My older sister, dressed in pink seems to glow in the dark, while my middle sister is made up like a Times Square hooker. In the back row, my brothers and I are grim and humorless; my older brother, caught mid blink looks stoned, while I am clearly wishing I were dead.
I guess this is our legacy.