Chiara wrote this text after her boudoir session. Translated from French.
I’m sitting on a very comfortable sofa, shoes off, my book in my hand, a coffee on the low table. So I read, and now and then I step out onto the terrace to smoke a cigarette.
It’s the first time I’ve been in this apartment.
I’m not alone. Behind me, someone is working.
Six weeks ago, I didn’t know this person.
We don’t talk.
This person is Steve. He’s working on his photos. His photos of me.
His photos of me that he has just taken, for nearly three hours.
These photos of me are my gift to myself.
Steve is the photographer I chose for this gift. Good choice.
Rewind.
About two months ago, the idea came to me: look, I’m 43, and for the first time in my life I love my body as it is, exactly as it is, with its marks, the scars from operations and illnesses, from the tumour in my breast, the traces of pregnancies and breastfeeding, the stretch marks, the cellulite and even some hair.
When I say body, I include my face, with its wrinkles and the other traces of life.
An old fantasy started coming back to me, now and then, then every day, then several times a day: treating myself to a photoshoot.
For my twentieth birthday, I had asked my stepmother for a photoshoot as a gift.
It was different back then: I didn’t feel beautiful, I could see how little I looked like a model, or like a girl you pass in the street and would like to photograph.
My request was an attempt to love myself, to surprise myself by finding myself pretty, if not beautiful.
My stepmother understood, said yes, and arranged for two women photographers to come to the house on one of those rare days when I was the only one home (there were eight of us under one roof at the time), and I received my gift with great gratitude.
I still have those photos, I love them, I look at them sometimes, with nostalgia and often that familiar line: oh, what were you complaining about! You were beautiful there, now it’s a disaster!
Then my perspective changed.
On that girl back then, who was certainly beautiful, but not confident, who didn’t accept herself, who didn’t like the way she embodied femininity and searched for it desperately in the eyes of others, of another, of a man.
On myself today, next. I’m the way I’d like to be and, most of the time, I love myself. I dare. I own what I stir in others, whether I want to or not, and I also accept that in some people, I stir nothing at all.
I catch myself, in front of a mirror, smiling at myself, enjoying myself, reminding myself that, well, look at that, I’m not bad at all.
So it came back.
I wanted photos. Of me, of my face and my body, without too many clothes.
One day I said it out loud, to someone.
The next day I searched online. Man, woman? Black and white, colour? Partly undressed, completely naked?
Two days later, I asked in the right place, following a sudden flash of inspiration.
As so often in life, when you’ve truly decided something, everything falls into place. One of the two people there answered straight away: “But yes, a friend’s husband does that. He’s very good, impeccable, proper, professional and all. You can tell him I sent you.”
I followed his account for a few days. I liked his photos. I sent him an email.
First step: a phone conversation by appointment. To understand my project, to explain how a shoot day unfolds, some of the prices. And why he does this.
It’s touching, his story.
The contact was direct, warm, simple, reassuring.
I felt it was “the one”.
“You can come and see the apartment where the shoots take place, if you’d like a little more reassurance.”
I don’t need reassurance. I’ve decided.
“Shall we set a date, then?”
Yes, I want to. Exactly 43 days later. Like my 43 years.
I thought about it, then didn’t, then did again, then stopped, then often, every day. I talked about it with a few people. Always enthusiasm, sometimes surprise.
Steve emailed me a guide with ideas for “outfits” (which are very scant indeed).
I joined his private group for women only, and invited two or three friends.
The restrictions were tightening. 5 November became a distant day.
Again, all the postponed plans, waiting until you’re allowed, once more, to do this or that.
On Friday evening, 30 October, Steve called me to bring our shoot forward. To the next day. Just when I no longer believed in it, when I had resigned myself to not thinking about it, for now, to get through each day.
An unexpected gift.
“OK, I’ll come tomorrow, great!”
Last tips for skin, hair, waxing and so on. Emails about the journey.
Until I finally decided to try to sleep, he reassured me, and this time, yes, I needed it. My things ready in a small suitcase, I finally fell asleep, late.
I arrive at the apartment-studio at 12 on the dot, my heart pounding.
A professional makeup artist, Julie, is there. She’s radiant, smiling, we talk about everything and nothing while Steve works at his desk.
At first I’m relaxed, then a strange feeling creeps in: this is taking too long, it must be boring to look after me for so long, and for Steve to wait. But no, actually, they’re relaxed, it’s my day, they’re here for me, all is well.
I breathe. I start to enjoy it. Honestly, when in my life has anyone done my makeup and hair for more than an hour? It feels wonderfully good.
“And what if I cry when I see my face?”
“It’s all taken care of: it’s super waterproof,” Julie tells me kindly.
I see myself. That’s not me, I think at first. But actually, it is. Goodness, it really is me. I’m moved. Julie and I smile at each other. She packs up her things and comes to say goodbye through the window of the terrace, where I’m smoking a cigarette to calm my heartbeat. I put my hand on that heart and mouth the word “Thank you”. She looks sincerely happy for me.
She even gave me makeup tips for afterwards, for every day.
With Steve, we choose three or four combinations of clothes and lingerie.
We go back to the living room. He gives me all the instructions at once, instructions he’ll have to remind me of for every photo, “and that’s normal, you can’t remember everything when it’s not your job.”
Steve doesn’t touch you to show you what to do. He mimes it. He shows you with his own body. He commits himself completely.
Back to the bedroom-bathroom, where he leaves me to change; he’ll wait in the living room.
I put on the set. OK, how do you walk into a room half-naked, in front of a man you barely know, as if it were normal?
And actually, it’s fine. Steve is always natural, so naturalness settles in.
After the first poses, he shows me the result on his camera.
Wow. Is that me? Are you sure?
And so on, for two, three hours. Little by little, a bond forms and you feel better and better, more and more in your place, you dare, you let yourself be guided, you trust, you slip completely into this new and so magical role. Breaks now and then, with a drink, through a straw so as not to spoil the makeup.
I can smoke whenever I like.
“Once more” “Let’s redo it” “Perfect” “Relax” “Are you OK?”
At one point I wince, a movement hurt, he saw it immediately.
Between two set-ups, we chat about everything and nothing, about his work, about other things in life. Even though I’m wearing almost nothing, we chat, I’m completely at ease. As if I were dressed.
The apartment’s beautiful light starts to fade: we pick up the pace. A few more important photos before it gets too dark and yes, we make it, the result is very beautiful, we’re happy, for different reasons of course, but ones that bring us together.
The shoot is over. Steve needs an hour, an hour and a half, to make a first selection to show me. Normally I’d go for a walk, have a drink, on my own.
But it’s raining, there are the restrictions, everything is closed, I don’t have my car, I’m far from the neighbourhoods I know. Exceptionally, I can stay.
“But don’t look at what I’m doing. It has to be a surprise.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to spoil it for myself!”
I go quiet, get dressed again, repack my suitcase and settle down to read.
Back to the opening scene. That’s why I’m here, book in hand, in this living room, with Steve, whom I haven’t known for long, working on my photos at his desk.
Then, suddenly: “So, are you ready?”
I don’t know.
No. I’d happily have carried on reading, smoking and drinking coffee, in peace, no one asking anything of you, nothing to do but pass the time.
Yes, I’m ready, I can’t wait.
Selection, re-selection, we manage to choose which photos we’ll keep, which we’ll print or enlarge. He guides me in the choice, while leaving me completely free.
Sometimes he says: “Here, it’s up to you, I love them all.”
Then it’s done.
A bit of paperwork, the eternal admin.
He shows me a virtual preview of the album.
I’m overcome with emotion, I’m surprised by it, after all that. I look at myself. It’s me. The photos are stunning. I’m beautiful. I feel beautiful. Just perfect as I am.
Steve is touched. But it’s for moments like this that he loves what he does.
After a last chat on the doorstep, I leave, it’s nearly 9 pm. It’s strange to say goodbye with masks on.
I’m truly happy.
Everything was perfect.
The day for me, for me alone.
If I could, I’d give a day like this to every woman I love. And even to those I love less.
And to all of them, actually.
I love myself as I am. I captured this new love, thanks to Steve’s photos.
I won’t forget it again.
Read Chiara’s blog (in French): https://tinyurl.com/yxm3n2zk
Other women talk about their session in their stories. To live yours, discover how a boudoir session works or write to me.