Why I Chose Not To Post A Photoshopped Picture Of Myself
I am not a model, an actor, a singer or a well-known dilettante photographed incessantly by the paparazzi after becoming famous for my reckless and overly hedonistic lifestyle. I’m so unknown that I heard murmurs by photographers on a red carpet I recently attended, asking each other if Pitbull had lost a lot of weight recently. My ego suffered volumes that day.
I consider myself lucky in that respect, as I can get my unsweetened Matcha almond latte from Urth Caffe without being mobbed for autographs or requests by teenage girls for selfies. I can run down the street unmolested by passerby, needing only to make eye contact as a tacit hello with other runners. I can shop freely at Trader Joe’s without the fear that someone will assume I’m pregnant if I am wearing a hoodie.
I don’t generally wear hoodies, partially due to the beautiful nature of Los Angeles weather and partially due to the fact that I really don’t own any hoodies. But if I wanted to wear one, I could wear it with pride, or sloth. It would probably be sloth. Definitely not wrath, envy, or lust. Perhaps it would be gluttony. Or as a result of my previous gluttony. Let’s say that I could wear a hoodie as a prideful sloth as a result of a gluttonous lifestyle. I should probably run to Kitson and buy a hoodie, because it sounds quite appealing once I think of it in that way. I wonder if their hoodies are comfortable.
A few days ago, I was confronted with the moral dilemma that plagues millions of Americans on a daily basis: Should I post a picture of myself, taken during a photoshoot by a professional bi-coastal fashion photographer, if it had been photoshopped to make me appear slimmer and fitter?
As an overly neurotic gay man, I tried to weigh the positive benefits and negative effects of such a photo.
I recalled an individual I know who recently changed his profile picture on Facebook to a heavily photoshopped version of his face so that he appears to be devoid of emotions, feelings, or a soul, for that matter. And people say that there is no truth in advertising.
On the negative side, I thought about the bullying I very occasionally endure while living in West Hollywood. On more than one occasion, I’ve been referred to publicly as “WeHobese”, the horribly offensive slur, by someone I considered a friend.
“WeHobese” is a portmanteau I had coined a few years ago to describe the plight of the non-anorexic men in West Hollywood, who would be considered “thin” or “emaciated” in any other city in the world. These are the people whose mothers in New York attempt to feed them brisket by gavage when they visit or whose fathers push plates full of oily French Fries upon them to accompany an otherwise healthy dinner.
In West Hollywood parlance, these men are obese. There is not even a term in the gay lexicon to refer to them, as they are not heavy enough to be considered a “bear” or “cub”. They aren’t chubby enough to be cute and lovable. They are written out of the discussion, unfetishized by the masses, considered to be unlovable outcasts.
I considered the tens of miles I run on a weekly basis, my carefully cheated-on diet, and the gym I occasionally visit so I can stare at myself in the mirror. I thought of the stylist at Diesel who once suggested to me in the changing room, “Maybe you should think of trying on a size 31”.
If I were to post a picture that would depict me with a waist size of 26” with a chest size of 33”, I would be enabling the impossible and unrealistic expectations of others. When I say “impossible”, I mean, a doctor would have to surgically remove my ribs and literally shave my ilium down a few inches to make it work.
Had it been destined for me to be so slight and slim, I would have born in Tokyo to Japanese parents. That wouldn’t have been such a problem, considering their fabulous fashion sense and their obsession with fresh raw fish and rice wine. That was unfortunately not the case.
I’m not choosing to refrain from posting this picture on Facebook in order to make a controversial statement like Lena Dunham, Lady Gaga, Keira Knightley, or Beyoncé. They love and own their body image, and are respected for it.
I, on the other hand, would live in constant trepidation that someone will call me out as the fraud I am.
And I would have to agree.
Original:
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Photoshopped:
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All photos by Mike Allen.
18 Jun 2014