On the last weekend in October before the summer heat finally broke for good, I found myself standing at the feet of King Louis IX’s horse at the top of Art Hill. The sun was beginning to set, flooding Forest Park with rose-colored light. On the other side of the statue of St. Louis, a group of horn players mimed playing the trombone in time with a Bluetooth speaker for reasons I could not discern. Beyond us, as the hill descended toward the Grand Basin at its foot, people walked, slept, told jokes, made out. And they posed for photographs – a few autumn weddings, more homecoming dresses, acquitting themselves in front of flower gardens and fountain backgrounds and the muses guarding the Art Museum’s front door.
My phone buzzed in the breast pocket of my sage green coat. Just parked. It was my own photographer, Sarah Rue. Can you come to the silver tree? I want to use that sunset.
A photo of Eric O. Scott at sunset [Sarah Rue Photography]
I have never had an easy relationship with the aesthetics of Witchcraft. By that, I mean I had a sense from a young age that there was a certain way that Witches were supposed to look, and I did not look like that. Witches were supposed to be cool and mysterious, the logical endpoint of Goth, all clad in black and silver and shiny leather. When I wore black, I just looked like someone with noticeable dandruff. There were other popular aesthetics within the community, of course. Walk through a Pagan Pride event today and there will be plenty of booths hawking Ren Faire fantasies and tie-dye psychedelia, among others. The adjective “Witchy” has a wide set of connotations. But none of them particular felt like they fit me.
There were a few things going on there, I think. Beyond anything to do with Witchcraft, I have a deep-rooted loathing for my body and appearance, the spoils of growing up a fat and bespectacled child, and I spent much of my life trying my best to ignore my form altogether. I have worked on this, especially as the gods have been kind enough to send me reassurance that some outside authorities do find my visage pleasing, but still: I had trouble seeing myself as a Witch because I had trouble seeing myself at all.
The other issue was my unusual relationship to Witchcraft itself. I was born into a Wiccan coven and raised by a family of Witches; I never chose this, exactly. Modern Paganism, and especially Wicca and other forms of modern Pagan Witchcraft, have the narrative of conversion – of choice – built into their cultural mythology: every Witch has the story of how they rejected what was expected of them in favor of their own true will. The choice of aesthetics might be a minor part of that momentous decision, but it was a part of it, nonetheless. I can imagine most Witches consciously deciding to reach for that marbled sarong or that dress of black lace, deciding what kind of Witch they wanted to present themselves as. But my magickal life had happened to me by accident, and the same could be said about my sense of fashion.
I started thinking more consciously about my clothes in my professional life a few years ago, after my boss called me up to gently inform me that some of the union members I represent had complained that my appearance was “disheveled.” I started to build a wardrobe, investing in Oxford shirts and haunting my local thrift stores for sport coats. By the time I bought a straw Stetson fedora for the summer months, I considered myself a bit of a dandy. But though I dressed better for work, it didn’t seem to have much to do with my magickal life.
A photo of Eric O. Scott in the “as above, so below” pose [Sarah Rue Photography]
While I was reporting on the Witches Moot at Tower Grove Pride last month, I read a notice for a photography session at the event. “Whimsy, Wonder, and Witchcraft! A Witchy Megashoot!” The call invited everyone at the Moot to participate in a group photo, dressed in their favorite costume – “whether that’s classic Witchy attire, a personified version of your zodiac sign, or your favorite deity, demon, god or goddess,” the notice continued. “All interpretations are welcome – the wilder and more whimsical, the better.”
I knew I wouldn’t participate in the photo shoot – for one, as nominally straight and cisgender journalist, it would not have been my place to be in a photo meant for Queer Witches, and for another, I was going to be in Chicago that weekend and miss the Moot altogether – but I did find myself wondering. I had been thinking of getting actual headshots for years. If I were going to be photographed in something that represented me as a Witch and a writer – if I were to have a photo of myself as Eric O. Scott, the voice that has appeared in this publication since 2012 – what would that look like?
The Witches Moot photo shoot notice had a link to the photographer’s Instagram. Mixed in with lovely shots of Tarot card reenactments and Queer weddings, I saw another notice. Fall Mini-Sessions, it read. Call to book now!
I called.
A photo of Eric O. Scott with Pan horns and a lit candelabra [Sarah Rue Photography]
Sarah talks about the golden hour light as though it were a birthday present. “Oh, that’s perfect, that’s perfect – oh, that’s so good!” she says, raising her camera. She runs through the camera’s specifications as though they have any meaning to me, though I respond with an “oh, really?” that I hope conveys my genuine appreciation for her knowledge. She poses me against the silver tree – a stainless steel installation by the artist Roxy Paine whose formal name is Placebo – and has me look at the sunset, then at the camera, then off toward the museum. I don’t know what my face is doing. I am hoping that it’s conveying something like mystery, authority, and maybe – just maybe – a little sexiness.
My face may be beyond my control, but at least I could pick out my clothes. I settled on something I think of as “mid-century occultist” – button-up shirt, slacks, a green linen coat with a medieval pilgrimage badge in the lapel that reads “Herte Be Trewe.” I describe this to Sarah as a “Lord Summerisle vibe.” Around my neck, the Thor’s Hammer on a silver chain that I have miraculously not lost in the years since I wrote a column about how I keep losing my Thor’s Hammers; on my right hand, a silver Vegvísir ring; on my left, my wedding band. And, most important, my hair, which I usually keep tied up in a tail, but today I let free, curly, voluminous, uncut since before I started writing this column. Its edges burn in the sunlight, in some photographs giving me a halo of fire.
After these set-up shots, Sarah asks if I have anything specific in mind. “A couple,” I say. I describe first how I would like to have a shot of myself with one hand pointing up and another to the ground – the “as above, so below” pose of the Magus. Then I point to my canvas messenger bag. “I brought some props, if that’s okay,” I say.
Sarah looks inside and finds an athame, a brass candelabra, a blue ceramic chalice, and a set of small horns on a leather thong.
“Oh, I love props,” she says.
A photo of Eric O. Scott holding an athame and chalice [Sarah Rue Photography]
Sarah sends me the photos a few days later. I get her text while I am waiting to board a plane for a work trip to the Twin Cities. I can’t bear to look at the photos at first. I think I look wall-eyed and hideous. I send them to Meg for her evaluation. Are there good ones? I text. I have felt too self-conscious to really look.
Eric, these are all good! she texts back.
I don’t like what my face is doing in any of these, I say. I was trying to smolder and they all look blank.
There is definitely smolder here, she says back. Take a little time and look at them again later.
I take her advice and put them away – I have to get on the plane anyway. I look at them later on, once I get to Minneapolis. I can see all the flushed blood in my cheeks after rushing up Art Hill, and I can see exactly how hard I am trying to look intriguing, and I can see the rumpled sleeves of my jacket, which perhaps could stand to taken in for alterations –
That is to say, my eyes are drawn to my own flaws, just as they are in my writing, in my magic, in my life. But then I take a breath and open my eyes anew. I let the rush of embarrassment pass. I find that I do like them. Sarah takes good photographs. And the light of the sunset was, indeed, so good.
In one photo the sunlight shines against the blade of my athame, and it glows with magick light. I inherited the blade from Web, a member of my coven who passed away a few years ago. I look from the golden knife to my own face. I am older now than any of Web’s generation were when they took up Witchcraft and hived off our coven. I wonder how long the athame had been with him, and how long it will be with me.
I look at the photograph. It’s not quite Lord Summerisle, or Gwydion Pendderwen, or any of those other mid-century male Witches I wanted to pattern myself after. But still, I recognize the type. I look at the photograph and I think to myself, that is a Witch.
Author’s note: Many thanks to Sarah Rue Photography for these photos. If you are looking for a Pagan-friendly photographer in St. Louis, I really can’t recommend her enough.
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