Forty frames for one

A usable self-portrait, for me, is the residue of about forty frames I will never show anyone. The process is less vanity than logistics. I mark my spot on the floor with a dark sock so I can find the plane of focus again after I have jogged back to the Nikon D5, checked the rear screen, and jogged out once more. The cable release lives hidden in my palm or tucked behind a fold of cardigan so the frame does not look like a person waiting for a click. I am, of course, exactly that person.

Across the courtyard a neighbor has watched enough of these circuits to form theories. I do not correct them. From that distance I am only a woman in black who keeps returning to the same square of linoleum, as if rehearsing a private ceremony. The camera sits on the tripod like a patient official. I talk to it now, quietly, the way you speak to a kettle so it will not boil over. I suspect the retired photojournalist who sold me the release did the same.

The plan is always tidy: light from the left window, chin slightly down, hands occupied so they do not float. The one good frame arrives adjacent to the plan, never inside it. A blink held a fraction too long, a breath I forgot to control, the sock nudged half a centimeter by my heel. I delete the obedient frames first. What remains is the accident that looked like intention, which is as close to honesty as I manage in front of my own lens.