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I don\u2019t consider myself a \u201cbeauty girlie.\u201d I\u2019m not subscribed to skin care-focused subReddits or YouTube channels. I never learned how to contour the first time it became popular in the 2010s, let alone new-wave techniques like underpainting. I can\u2019t remember the last time I wore mascara or eyeliner\u2014which, to be honest, are the only makeup I own.<\/p>\n
But I’m still a woman in my mid-30s on Instagram, and the algorithm is hellbent on convincing me that I should be doing more. It\u2019s a constant reminder that my everything\u2014skin, hair, ass\u2014could be smoother, longer, tighter, better. One second, I’m pausing mid-scroll, entranced by the seemingly poreless glass skin and visibly toned figure of a stranger in a video about their daily routine; the next, my feed is filled with ads for bio-collagen face masks and glute-growth workout programs.<\/p>\n
Someone is always trying to sell us something on our feeds, and our desire to purchase is amplified by insecurity. I\u2019d like to say I\u2019m above the influence of such manipulation, but being served that kind of content daily has still had an impact. Sometimes I catch myself pausing in front of my full-length mirror a little longer than necessary, comparing my nose and thighs against the filtered faces and fitness influencers that inhabit my phone. The only way to avoid it is to avoid being online altogether, which isn\u2019t in the cards for a writer like myself, whose income depends on keeping up with what\u2019s relevant and engaging in self-promotion.<\/p>\n
Little did I know that the antidote to my self-conscious doomscrolling would be as simple as sitting still long enough to be truly witnessed.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t exactly a confidence boost I was seeking when I booked a live portrait session with Portland-based painter Tyler Bingham. It was the end of a beautiful, brutal summer. I\u2019d come out the other side of a breakup that had emotionally devastated me, so I flung myself around Oregon, checking off all the boxes that had been on my to-visit list since I\u2019d moved to Rose City six years before: Crater Lake, the Alvord Desert, the Wallowas.<\/p>\n
I was in a season of wanting to be captured, of wanting to look closely at the woman who\u2019d endured a heartbreak she thought she could not. I wanted permanent images of the in-flux person I was, especially in the midst of the constantly, instantly changeable social media landscape. Somewhere along the way, I had new headshots taken and even did an outdoor boudoir photoshoot in the Columbia River Gorge. Dressed in nothing but lingerie, I glanced back at the photographer\u2019s camera while the sun set against the mountains behind me. It was an homage to the newfound freedom that accompanied my sadness.<\/p>\n
Then I learned about the opportunity to be painted from life via Bingham\u2019s Instagram stories (yes, I see the irony). He said to think of it like a tattoo session: up to eight interactive hours during which we\u2019d collaboratively fashion an artistic heirloom in real time. Having sat for more than 20 tattoos, I immediately understood what he meant: Each artwork is like a time capsule, a fleeting moment of life permanently etched onto my body. The portrait session would externalize that process\u2014and at $800 would cost less than some of my biggest tattoos. That it wouldn\u2019t require needles digging into my skin would be a nice change.<\/p>\n