Raisin’ Hell
In light of the remarkable news stories this week, I’m inspired to tell you a little story. Seeing Wendy Davis filibuster the livin hell out of the special legislative session and then hearing people talk about it the next day, saying things like “If Molly Ivins was here to see that! Oh lord she’d be having a field day!” And it’s true. Afterall, she was a woman who lived by the words “Give ’em hell!” And it’s people like Wendy Davis pulling off an eleven hour filibuster and the supporters packed into the capitol dome in solidarity that make me proud to be a Texan. Seeing the scene play out, it’s hard not to be moved. I close my eyes and see my great, great grandmother, Miriam Ferguson, in that dome. Two portraits, a younger Miriam on the ground floor and an older, wiser up on the second – one for each of her terms as governor. And then there is a marble bust on the ground floor that greets lawmakers and protestors alike. I think of all the times I’ve visited the capitol dome and felt her presence there. I can’t help wondering who among that massive crowd standing in support of Wendy looked upon the images of Miriam as well and thought of all the courageous women who helped pave the way in this big red state. Combine that with the supreme court striking down DOMA, and it’s a good week to be on the right side of justice and equality, no matter how far there is still left to go… So in the spirit of raisin’ hell… Here’s the story behind Unwed with Calla Lillies, a photograph from a series of portraits I took in 2001 of my friend Dylan, a gay man, in a wedding dress…
This story starts like most good stories, with pure intentions and absolutely no idea of the hell that was about to be raised! I was taking a portrait photography class in Austin a couple of years after I had moved back from Brooklyn. Between my time at Pratt and my job as the assistant to a highly regarded portrait photographer in Austin, I had more experience than most of my fellow students. The teacher, Don, had pulled me aside earlier in the semester to tell me that my work was stellar, that I was probably good enough to teach this class, and I should feel free to explore the assignments more creatively if I was so inspired. All was good until the day I showed up to the ‘bridal portrait’ critique with a gay man in a wedding dress. Don was outraged! I mean really fuckin pissed! I thought he was joking at first because his reaction was so far out of proportion to the occasion. There had been plenty of times students brought in work he didn’t like. And by no means was this a poorly executed photo, technically speaking. I thought it was a rather striking, even if a bit unorthodox, wedding portrait. But then Don’s face started turning all the colors of rage. And there was a very loud confrontation in front of the entire class. He couldn’t even look at the photograph to properly critique it. But he kept saying it was not an acceptable wedding portrait. He threatened to fail me. I pulled out the sheet he had given the class that described the assignment. I read it out loud. Nowhere on it did he specify the bridal portrait had to be of a woman. He didn’t even use a single feminine pronoun! I wasn’t trying to be a smartass. When looking for a model, the only person I knew with a wedding dress on hand was Dylan. I thought he’d make a beautiful bride. We were in the 21st century afterall! Why hold ourselves to such archaic and oppressive notions of love? Times were a changing, best keep your eyes on the horizon if you want to be relevant.
Don squirmed in his seat and couldn’t look me in the eyes as he tried to justify his anger at the sight of a gay man in a wedding dress. I asked for specific reasons why this was an unacceptable photo. I mean the least he could do was give me a proper critique. He went on a hysteric, rather incoherent rant about how brides should be smiling, don’t I know that brides are always happy, and if they’re not happy, well it’s the job of the photographer to make them look happy damnit! And under no circumstances should a bride be positioned squarely to the camera, don’t I know how terribly unflattering it is to position a bride squarely to the camera! And I should know better than to have the widest part of the wrist showing, don’t I know the narrow, dainty part of the wrist should always, always! be showing because what kind of bride wants wide, manly wrists! And there was way too much contrast, the colors were way too saturated, the lighting should be soft, high key! What terrible lapse of judgement did I have when I decided a cross-processed bridal portrait would be a good idea! This might be appropriate for a funeral, but certainly not a wedding! The horror!
I laughed in disbelief. The pose, the contrast, the stark expression on Dylan’s face, it didn’t even remotely occur to Don that I made every single one of those decisions on purpose. I showed him alternate images from the same photoshoot. Happy smiling, dainty-wristed, contrapposto, high key images. Attempting to explain why I chose the stark image over all the others was like talking to a brick wall. The whole point was completely lost on him. There were a dozen or so students witnessing this exchange, and I looked around the room to see if I was the only one thinking this situation was absurd. One student spoke up to say it was the most stunning bridal portrait she had ever seen, that if she was the bride, she would love to have a portrait like that more than a traditional one. A second student agreed and added that he actually liked the affect of the cross-processing to achieve the colors and contrast, that it stood out from the rather bland standards of traditional portraiture, and that it had in fact achieved something well beyond a mere bridal portrait. A handful of others looked at me with sympathy, not knowing what the hell to say. The rest just watched on in silence.
That weekend, I found myself in the company of some smart n rowdy liberal Texan types at Molly Ivins’ monthly Final Friday party. Her parties were (and still are, even so many years after her passing) the stuff of legends. It wasn’t my first time at Molly’s, and it wouldn’t be my last. I walked toward a group of folks I had not met before. They seemed fun and a mutual friend was among them, so I joined their conversation. After several minutes of listening to their witty banter and chiming in with a few quips of my own, my friend informed me that I was talking with one of the most prominent board members of the ACLU and several of his judge n lawyer friends. I could tell by the way my friend introduced them, they were Very Important People. I’m not really swayed either way by such things, I just thought they were fun. They loved the fact that I didn’t seem to care who they were. As I was one of the youngest people there, they were curious to know what kinds of things I was up to in life and school. My friend urged me to tell them about the wedding photo scandal, so I did. It was a lively conversation. There was plenty of hootin n hollerin interspersed with more serious, attentive listening. Typical at Molly’s place. As I finished my story, Mr. ACLU patted me on the back and told me I was doing something pretty damn important and that some day I’ll recognize that for what it is. He told me to keep on raisin’ hell. Molly and some of her guests echoed from across the room, “Give ’em hell!” I was young and impressionable and liked the sound of givin’ people hell, so it was an easy sell.
A few days later I was printing photos in the darkroom at school. The head of the photo department saw me there and called me into his office. Lynn, a genuinely good human being. I had had many a hootin n hollerin conversations with him over the years. We had developed a good rapport. He told me to sit. He looked very serious. I had never seen him this serious. He looked at me from over the top of his glasses and said, “Now Laura Lea (which he pronounced more like Laaahly), how come all these times we’ve talked, you have never once told me that you’re over there hanging out at Molly Ivins’ place shootin’ the shit with all these fellas from the ACLU! I’ve been trying to get an invite to those parties for years!!!” And he laughed and laughed, that big belly laugh of his, and then said, “Now you’re not the only one with friends at the ACLU, y’know. One of my friends over there gave me a call the other day. He told me Molly was mentoring you in the finer art of hell raisin’ and that maybe I should take a lesson or two from you!” And we both laughed and laughed some more. And he continued, “Now darlin’, listen. Don’t you worry, you’ve been one of my favorites for years but don’t you go tellin anyone that, it wouldn’t be fair. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t know many men signing up to wear a wedding dress! That photo is a bit unorthodox to be sure, but the best ones usually are. And you know what, I’m just an old fella been around the block too many times, half my friends are dead or dying, but hell if I didn’t get to all the places I’ve been without ruffling a few feathers along the way. I know things are changing. I’ve seen a million goddamn bridal portraits in my time, and you know what? I can hardly remember a single one! But I’ll never forget yours. You really have something there, so stick with it. Alright? I’ll talk to Don. You don’t need to worry about him.”
The next assignment for class was a portrait of a couple, the kind a newly engaged couple would ask for. Two of my mother’s friends had taken a keen interest in the wedding photo scandal as it unfolded. They’d ask my mom for the latest updates whenever they ran into each other, and she mentioned the couples assignment I was in the process of planning. Her friends, two straight women in their fifties, thought it would be good for the cause if they posed as lesbians lovers. In the nude. I thought it was a terrific idea!
At the following Final Friday party, I saw Mr. ACLU talking with a big group of folks I didn’t recognize. I didn’t want to interrupt. I looked over periodically to see if there was an opening in the conversation so I could thank him. There wasn’t, but he looked my way and gave me a thumbs up, accompanied by an inquisitive look on his face, as if asking a question. I nodded affirmatively and enthusiastically, holding two thumbs up. He smiled back, and somewhere outside I swear I could hear Molly and her friends hollerin’ “Give ’em hell!”
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Postscript… I have heard from several people over the years since this story unfolded that the photography department now explicitly takes the position that bridal portraits can be of either a woman or a man, without regard to gender or sexual orientation.
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Dedicated in loving memory to Molly Ivins, Miriam Ferguson, and Lynn Jones…
May their no-nonsense shoot-from-the-hip hell raisin’ spirit live on… in all y’all.
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