From a photographic perspective, this shoot was an unplanned, under-equipped, happy accident of sorts. I was on vacation with my bestie, Melissa, and I only brought my pocket sized Canon M100. By the time we decided to shoot, an adequate number of Pina Coladas consumed, the sun was setting. We were staying in the lush jungle of Tulum, Mexico, so we found a secluded pocket where Melissa felt comfortable undressing.
So my critical eye goes directly to the flaws in the photos, and all I see is noise from lack of light. But, what my heart sees is one of my favourite humans being as brave as ever, confident and stunning in her skin. We spent a lot of that trip talking about this major milestone in our lives. Turning 40 carries such stigma for women. We are basically told that our desirable days are behind us. That we are past our “prime” and that everything goes downhill from here. And to that notion, Melissa and I say a big F*ck You!
We decided that these images should be captured in order to celebrate this moment in time. I was so happy to give her these images to look back on and feel amazing and beautiful about her body and all that it has experienced to this point. And to feel empowered to move forward into this new decade, absolutely feeling herself… As she should. As we all should.
Here are some beautiful words from Melissa…
After an impromptu nude photo shoot in Mexico with my best friend, Mavreen David, I decided to write about what it means to love myself at age 40.
Thank you Fashion Magazine for the published piece. And thank you Mavreen David for your brilliant photography, and for being the only human I would ever let photograph me in the nude :)
Turning 40
On the cusp of my teenage years I found myself making a definitive mental list of things I loved and didn’t love about myself. I was sure I hated my hands; all bony knuckles and skinny wrists. My mother called them otherworldly, but to me they were simply extraterrestrial. I longed to trade in this so-called “character” for more plain, unassuming hands. My nails were ragged and dirty, so I preferred to keep them hidden. I would bring them out to crack my knuckles and then I’d nervously shove them back in my pockets.
Once, around that time I found an old activity book of mine in our basement. I must have filled it out when I was 6, because that’s how old I said I was on the first page. It was overflowing with drawings and questions and answers. Listed in the back among the Q&A: what is my favourite physical feature about myself and why. My answer? My hands! My stated reason: “I like the way they look.”
I loved them at 6, hated them at 13. At what age did my feelings change? When did I decide my favourite feature was my least favourite? Had I been taught that different is bad? I made a pact with myself to honour that 6-year-old who loved her hands. It’s as though women are formed by subtraction, by ‘taking away’ things we once loved about ourselves. Now, at middle age, I’m ‘taking back’ more of what I love about my body.
I love more than my hands now. As I approach 40 I find myself enamoured with my entire body. It can be a source of frustration and sometimes pain, but also of accomplishment. It’s a body that is well used, but still indignantly youthful. I’m grateful for both sides of that coin. Breastfeeding may have stripped away the erotic thrill of baring of my breasts, but as my son pulled and sucked and gazed up at me, I somehow felt sexier than ever. I am THE giver of life! It was a power I hadn’t fully realized. The body unfolds in new ways and the spirit follows.
I’m not saying that it takes being a mom to become a woman, but for me, this experience erupted in me some kind of Medusa/Madonna hybrid. I am all powerful, but softer than ever. Beyond motherhood, beyond postpartum, a redefined autonomy is taking shape. Now, I am sexualizing myself from this new place of ease. A cougar in comfortable shoes, shamelessly enjoying her own reflection. I’m having sex instead of being had by sex. It’s carnal and thrilling and I’m only half annoyed that my post pregnancy tits have started to lose their buoyancy when I suddenly feel so at home in my skin. But I remember my adolescent pact: I will love all of myself.
From the moment I decided to love my hands again, they have been unstoppable. Aching from the girth of the guitar neck and the sharp steel strings, they’ve made music. This instrument is mine; calloused flesh to mahogany wood. They’ve touched lovers with gentle power and held my baby with a certainty I didn’t know I had. I felt it as if the force of love itself exuded straight from the tips of my fingers and palms, like when my dad would put his hand on my forehead when I was sick or my mom would stroke my cheek and call me by my nickname, Mitzi. I channel this and pay it forward. Sometimes ready for a fight, but mostly creating, nurturing; these hands are composed of strength and tenderness.
But I don’t have control over time. Or how it will age my body and mind. Smile lines may give me character, but only until they literally kill you. Old age will win - if I’m lucky - and then death. I’ll do my best to at once laugh in its face and pay my respects. I’ll be equally humbled by life’s hardships and privileges. I’ll hopefully do more than survive. I’ll live. It’s obvious, but still a revelation, to say I am fortunate to possess this complex body filled with feelings, thoughts and music. I’ll try not to hang desperately from the precipice of youth, but I’ll no doubt, from time to time, gaze longingly at it from where I stand. Middle age, middle earth, middle of nowhere- I’m ready to explore these uncharted territories.
Melissa McClelland ~ As published in FASHION Magazine, September Issue 2019
