Passport

A man had to go into a foreign land. It was a land that required his face. A face that had seen many things. A representation of this face. This is how the people of that land were reassured he was who he said he was. Or rather, the land of his birth said he was. And how he looked in daily life. The image had to be found quickly, if he was to see this foreign land, at all. The hairy mole on his cheek, the wrinkles of work, the scar when he fell on his face, these realities had to be kept. He was no oil painting and not about to show his best side. Indeed, his face had to be centred and looking directly at the viewer, not tilted in any direction, with his tongue in his cheek, doing rabbit’s ears, or other poses of that nature. Retouching was out of the question, but some kind of idealism informed their expectations. His image had to be clear and focused, no Pre-Raphaelite lighting of flushing flesh or post-punk photographic ‘red eye’. His personal tastes did not enter into it. A plain white background was required, as if he spent his whole life standing in a modern art gallery. Perhaps he did, live in art galleries, which is why he might have been going into a foreign land. That was not their concern. Plain white helped show the contrasts with his face, just as uniform lighting brought out his recognisable skin tone, also moles, wrinkles, scars, and his unshaven stiff upper lip. Other hair, however, was to be kept off his face, his rock star tendencies resisted in the interests of the visibility of the edges of his phizz. Eyes open, mouth closed, none of that Leonardo grotesquerie thank you. Nor was the image to have him laughing, frowning or even, as he was most commonly to be seen at parties, worksites, symposiums, and gallery openings, smiling. It was required to find a miniaturist, as this unsmiling portrait had to be not much larger than his thumbnail. Peculiarly, the miniaturist had to be paid for not one, two numbskull thumbnails. Identical, using “dye sublimation”. Although not overtly religious he wasn’t to be wearing his national hat. If so, the hat had to be worn in a way that showed his face from the bottom of the chin to the top of the forehead. Turbans were okay. The edges of his face on either side also had to be visible. It could prove a right pain in the neck. Spectacles, a feature of his face that lent hauteur and even respectability, were not allowed. Nor the various glittering ornaments to his face, which might outdazzle the contours of his prominent cheekbones. His hearing aid, however, which made him look in appearance not unlike the latest electronic device, was allowed. Once he had secured these two timeless specimens of miniature art, he would be just about ready to step into the belly of a large steel bird, flown without delay to foreign lands, the only possessor of his distinctive countenance. He was confident he could find a miniaturist who knew about dye sublimation.