Worst Day Of Your Life Essay

So, when he insisted that I get a tubal ligation, I agreed.

At my young age, I certainly couldn’t fathom kids of my own. Determined to display convincing devotion to our marriage, I dialed the number of the clinic, made the appointment, and even confirmed the day before.

When I married him in the early 1980s, I soon learned that taking pictures was the way he came to know women—including me.

Just 21 to his 45, I was initially flattered by his desire to photograph me.

He quickly learned the considerable merits of bracketing—taking several shots at the same angle with different settings.

Once he’d settled upon what he determined to be the correct light exposure, he’d bracket left and bracket right in order to assure that he had captured several planes of depth.

This fascinated him—the potential beauty of a specific perspective, and how a perfect pooling of light could illuminate objective reality in innumerable ways.

My first husband was, among many things, a very good portrait photographer.

He particularly adored women’s faces and shot them exclusively through a Hasselblad, a Swedish camera that was used in space by NASA and in the studio by the 1960s fashion photographer David Bailey.

Almost 40 years later, the photos prompted recollections of many events and by twisting my memory’s lens right and left, I was able to cull down the scenes that rendered an accounting of how this man had shaped me.

Many of the stories, brought forth by my shifting expressions on paper, made the memoir cut.

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