That's what goes through my head, during post-processing, when I look at my photos from a model shoot. Make him or her look their best. Make them want to share that photo. Make that photo appeal to other photographers so that the model gets more gigs.
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| Model: Denisa Strakova |
For the subject, I'll make sure that there are no harsh shadows that can cause unflattering lines. I'll bring in more colour, if the skin is too pale or tone the colour right down, if I want to present a subdued effect.
With every model, I close in on skin, looking for blemishes or marks that are temporary. I remove pimples, scabs, and bruises. If there is a birthmark or mole that draws the eye to the point of distraction, I take it away. To some degree, I smooth out the skin to soften the model.
These manipulations I do without much thought. The model wants to look his or her best. But when I shoot friends, family, or random people—for example, at a festival or on the street—I tend to leave them as they are.
Unless, of course, they have a big zit on their face. I don't want people looking at an image of themselves and saying, "Oh, God, that's embarrassing."
Imagine my dilemma, when I find myself processing some candid shots at a festival, and seeing something in a photo that made me think that I would have to put my editing skills in question.
She was a lovely woman with an arm in the air. When I captured the image and saw it on the small viewscreen on the back of my camera, I told myself that it was a keeper. Back at home, on my 27-inch monitor, I had to pause.
Often, an image looks good on a small screen but when enlarged on a monitor, it can be out of focus or simply not sharp. This wasn't the case in this photo. The woman was sharp, the exposure was right, there was nothing that I felt I needed to do to enhance the photo. She had not a single blemish on her face that would need retouching.
It was that outstretched arm.
I didn't see it when I saw her, couldn't see it on a small screen. Enlarged, at home, however, I couldn't miss it. A long scar ran from just above her wrist, along her arm, ending almost at the inside bend in her arm. Her dark skin was lightened where the seam flowed.
All sorts of thoughts came at me at once: was it an accident? Was it self-inflicted? How did it happen? How long ago did it happen? Why did it happen? How did she feel about this visible scar? Does she have any emotional scars that remain?
Of course, all of these questions had the same answer: none of my damned business. Still, I couldn't help feeling a tinge of sadness for the woman and the circumstances around the mark.
As I was prepared to add just a touch of fill light to illuminate her surroundings, it occurred to me that if I had all of these questions and began jumping to several explanations, what was to stop anyone who saw this photo from thinking the same things?
The story in the photograph was the woman and what she was doing in that moment. It wasn't the history behind a scar. And I didn't want the past story to become a distraction with the present one. So, I did something that I had never done before with a random person in a series of photos:
I removed the scar. Call it photographic surgery.
I used the same tool—a scratch remover—that I use to remove electrical wires that run overhead and seem to cut into my subject. I then used the makeover tool to blend her skin tones, and finally used a touch of the skin-smoothing tool to make all of her skin look the same.
I typically do this to make my subject look good. This woman already looked great. What I did, in essence, was to add a mask.
In the end, I couldn't tell that there had been a scar, and I knew that when I shared the photo (which I have already done but for obvious reasons am not doing so, here), no one would know.
Was I wrong to do this? I wasn't sure until I told DW, one of my biggest critics—of everything. She agreed with my reasoning. The scar was this woman's story to tell. Not mine.
I had a different story to tell.
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