La Vie En Rose
I feel like I’ve photographed enough weddings to recognize that when brides and grooms get engaged, they consult and reference certain related material. When I got engaged, I forced myself into a pinky-swearing session that I wouldn’t purchase ANY bride rags. Instead, I’ve taken on conferencing with Emily Post’s Etiquette book (thank you, Mum, for that fine purchase).
Emily’s a mine of information when offering up the ‘correct’ way to do things. Of course, by ‘correct’ I mean, ‘Emily told me how to do it so now I don’t have to think about it’. She’s covered everything from parents’ meetings, to returning gifts due to broken engagements, to an actual budget for your weddin’, and for those who finish reading her wedding chapter, the appropriate way to elope.
In addition to photographing weddings, I pretty much dig Photography in general. Creepily for me (creepily in a good way, mind you), I tend to drool over all those non-traditional and somewhat disturbing photographers. Larry Clark is my favourite Dementor, Chuck Close’s painting/photography gives me the best headaches, and Sophie Calle just leaves me in blind confusion until I finish viewing whatever project she happens to be executing.
Attempting to plan one’s own wedding is rumoured to be stressful and it has been a little, but I think that’s mostly due to my family residing in the Mid-West and Boy Wonder’s in California. Wherever this shindig is taking place is going to be a struggle for someone to get somewhere. BW & I have been trying to cut this affair down to the basics in order to actually have a swell time planning and wrangling in family and friends to accompany us. Lemme tell you, e.a.s.i.e.r. written than done. Overall, I’m more than willing to give up notions of what I sort of always wanted if I happen to get married. In fact, overall, I’m genuinely enthusiastic to just get hitched to this Boy I adore and all those other stuffingz will probably work themselves out.
However, this morning, between my Bobby’s Red Mill oatmeal and disinterest in shaving this ceremony down any more, I started thinking about Sophie Calle. I met Sophie Calle (in my own mind) during college in Nova Scotia, by way of a documentary project prodding developing personal and potentially marritail relationships. Ironically, Boy Wonder is the one person who should be most taken aback by the title of this Calle piece & also the person who will probably understand my warped sense of humour when it comes to my best photographers.
In 1996, Sophie Calle released No Sex Last Night (just a title, people, and in no way reflects any part of my own life-except that the film rolls like ranch). The brief background is this:
Sophie (our French Heroine ‘Phototexual’ Filmmaker) and her aloof but ‘handsome’ cast mate, Greg Shephard, drive the American dream from New York to California. Being an Artist who truly dedicates herself to her craft, Sophie documents this expedition to the pain where she has convinced herself that Greg will fall so hard for her that he’ll have to marry her. (I live for work like this-probably because I’m too chicken to ever do anything similar.) Unfortunately, or not, Sophie’s plan is poxed by Greg’s reluctance towards…pretty much anything. The two travellers share hotel rooms, meals, scenery, and a life for miles and States. Each morning is recorded by Sophie’s voice announcing the yay or nay regarding sexy-times the previous night.
Really, the only interaction (indirectly) between Greg & Sophie is via cameras, which almost prove as counsellors for the couple to mirror their relationship with each other. Confusingly and questioningly, Greg and Sophie do get married in Las Vegas and she continues to document their lack of consummation. Certainly, you could state this film is following their sexual habits, marital status, and the level of disinterested frustration journeying along their relationship. Aaand you’d be right, at least in my opinion, because that’s the impression I furrowed my forehead towards the first time I saw the final documentary.
Now, finishing up my oatmeal and looking for other subjects to occupy my daze, it’s remarkably easy to tilt my head and observe, ‘It might not matter how small or large or delicate or doused a wedding ceremony is. It probably just matters whether or not you make it to California.’