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She took a devastating portrait of her in-laws, who barely spoke to her, their scowls barely concealing their grumpy disdain.

Whenever she shot herself, she blocked out her face with a giant hat or some other prop; sometimes she was just a blurry smudge darting across the frame.

Maybe they are a group of chattering women, who have internalized a societal shame about taking pleasure in one’s face in public, who have learned to be good girls, to never let their self-regard come off as a threat.

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Her daughter gave it to her, a toy to stave off the solitude of aging. She made hundreds of silver albumen prints, practicing and practicing in a kind of fever dream until she had created a unique method of applying a soft, dewy focus to her portraits of British celebrities.

In front of her lens, Cameron made everyone look gauzy, beautiful, ethereal.

I don’t know why Julia chose to glower, but if I had to guess, I would think she knew she could grimace for a full hour. The type of camera Julia used wasn’t made for experiments; each snap was a big commitment.

We aren’t bound by her constraints now, with our ability flood our clouds with unlimited smirks, kissy pouts, tongue waggles, goofy winks, and come-hither stares.

She had no one to share her face with, and so she kept it to herself like a secret.

One day, two years after she started taking pictures, Clover killed herself in front of her bedroom fire. She swallowed potassium cyanide, the agent she used to develop her photographs.

She copyrighted her technique, sold prints to museums, and wrote myth-making prose about her process in her memoirs: Julia took only a few pictures of herself, and in them she looks far less imposing than her subjects, who were usually stoic, grizzled male intellectuals or creamy-cheeked actresses and debutantes.

In her own portraits, she looks glum, dejected, staring at the ground or into the lens with a withering squint, as if she cannot believe she is doing this. Vintage cameras had long exposure times, requiring the sitter to hold the same expression forever.

When we can take endless shots from endless angles, we start to discover dimensions of ourselves we never even knew were there.

That girl in the park taking selfie after selfie after selfie? She’s figuring out which parts of her face she loves; she’s doing confidence fact-finding.

This is why they think selfies are a phase, something they can wish away.

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