Photography Tips from The Birth of Venus
Carmen Rising
My tendrils are long, the way God intended, though they look pixelated. Did you get as close as possible? No one will appreciate your run-in with the Renaissance when there’s a shoulder eclipsing Zephyr’s foot. I know the guide rushed you along, but this is The Shot. Will your 289 followers care that you were running on half a cappuccino, three hours of jet-lagged sleep, and a single dose of extended-release Adderall? Not when your digital copy of Love herself fails to transcend their miserable lives back home. Get it together. I’m the reason you’re on this trip to begin with.
Lighting is everything. I’m soft and diffused. There’s a rhythmic alternating of light and dark across the scalloped shell. You added a flare which doesn’t quite capture the glory of a goddess crowning from the ocean’s birth canal. I’m sure if you had pleaded with the front desk, they would have given you access to the museum’s dimmer switches.
The graceful curve of my body juxtaposes the tumult of the sea. Such a feat it was for Botticelli to paint that horizon, and an even greater feat for me to balance on those waves. But couldn’t you get a head-on angle? There’s more wall sticking out on the right, not to mention the top is crooked. I know there is a “do not cross” line on the floor (more of a suggestion). If you insisted that your photo would be visible on stories for 24 hours, I’m sure the guard would have made an exception.
If you look closely through your lens, you’ll notice the general outline of a figure draping me in fabric. Not only was birthing myself tiring, but it was also very cold. The Hora of Spring was there to greet me and signify the bounty of the season. You ought to be familiar with the concept, given that you decided to come here on a Saturday in the middle of July when the fanny packs are in bloom.
It took Botticelli two-to-four years to complete me. And I have been bestowing love and sex on humanity for all of time. The blur along the edge feels quick, like you spent three seconds. Oh, but the water closet line was long, your dinner reservation was special, and Rick Steve’s guidebook already burned a hole through your pocket. Please, you cannot rush greatness. Resist the urges, blink away the fatigue, and press the round button a thousand times, if that’s what it takes.
On that note, were you moved beyond the physical shuffle? There’s a haphazardness to your shot. Could you taste the sea spray? Feel the thunder rolling in? Were you sad that my gaze never met yours? Did my bosom overwhelm? Did you hear the angels speak? Annie Leibowitz falls in love with her subjects—can you say the same?
It is no wonder I am banished to the archives, squished between your Duomo group shot and your hand dripping with pistachio gelato. No one needs to recount their artistic failures. If you had muscled more, caught the morning sun, and stood a moment longer, your keepsake would have inched closer; felt more like the moment you turned the corner; been something worth remembering. But don’t worry, that’s what gift shops are for.
Lighting is everything. I’m soft and diffused. There’s a rhythmic alternating of light and dark across the scalloped shell. You added a flare which doesn’t quite capture the glory of a goddess crowning from the ocean’s birth canal. I’m sure if you had pleaded with the front desk, they would have given you access to the museum’s dimmer switches.
The graceful curve of my body juxtaposes the tumult of the sea. Such a feat it was for Botticelli to paint that horizon, and an even greater feat for me to balance on those waves. But couldn’t you get a head-on angle? There’s more wall sticking out on the right, not to mention the top is crooked. I know there is a “do not cross” line on the floor (more of a suggestion). If you insisted that your photo would be visible on stories for 24 hours, I’m sure the guard would have made an exception.
If you look closely through your lens, you’ll notice the general outline of a figure draping me in fabric. Not only was birthing myself tiring, but it was also very cold. The Hora of Spring was there to greet me and signify the bounty of the season. You ought to be familiar with the concept, given that you decided to come here on a Saturday in the middle of July when the fanny packs are in bloom.
It took Botticelli two-to-four years to complete me. And I have been bestowing love and sex on humanity for all of time. The blur along the edge feels quick, like you spent three seconds. Oh, but the water closet line was long, your dinner reservation was special, and Rick Steve’s guidebook already burned a hole through your pocket. Please, you cannot rush greatness. Resist the urges, blink away the fatigue, and press the round button a thousand times, if that’s what it takes.
On that note, were you moved beyond the physical shuffle? There’s a haphazardness to your shot. Could you taste the sea spray? Feel the thunder rolling in? Were you sad that my gaze never met yours? Did my bosom overwhelm? Did you hear the angels speak? Annie Leibowitz falls in love with her subjects—can you say the same?
It is no wonder I am banished to the archives, squished between your Duomo group shot and your hand dripping with pistachio gelato. No one needs to recount their artistic failures. If you had muscled more, caught the morning sun, and stood a moment longer, your keepsake would have inched closer; felt more like the moment you turned the corner; been something worth remembering. But don’t worry, that’s what gift shops are for.
Carmen Rising is a writer based in Brooklyn. Her writing has been featured in The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Teen Vogue, and elsewhere. She holds an M.A. in Cultural Reporting & Criticism from NYU.