Anyone who knows me knows that when something bugs me, I must express it or I’ll explode, leaving shrapnel everywhere.
I don’t want to explode, so I’ll get right to it. Let’s start at the beginning of this phenomenon: In October, 2007, I attended the races at Keeneland for the first time.
As we drove onto the property, my friend, Clay Robinson, explained a vision that confused me: acres and acres of young people (early, mid-20s), tailgating on the rolling hills of the property.
Young women, clad in dresses that barely covered What God Gave ‘Em and stiletto heels, accentuating the length of their legs. Young men who thought they looked special because they had donned Madras Bermuda shorts with their bow ties and navy-blue jackets.
Funny thing was, of course, that none of them looked special: regardless of colors or patterns, they all looked the same.
This, Clay explained, was a strange mating ritual, as predictable as the sun rising that morning…
As the day wore on, many of these f!llies and colts made their way into a bar on the third floor of the Clubhouse, where they drank and flirted the day away.
We both wondered if any of them found their ways to the rail, to watch an actual horse race.
The following summer in Saratoga, I noticed that many of these weanlings had shipped north for the meet. Fresh air, fresh opportunities to find Mr. Right. Or at least, Mr Right Now.
Now, I’m all about young people coming to the races. Of course, the next generation of horse racing fans and owners will come from the flock of birds who now are in high school, college and beyond. I’m not a dope–I know that we “older folks” won’t live forever.
And many people believe that the way to grow the sport is to cater to the digital cravings of this younger gen. The prob I have with this is that digital media has created an entire generation–or two!–of people who have the collective attention span of a fruit fly.
I still maintain that the way to get people utterly and absolutely hooked on horse racing–I mean, in LOVE with the sport, and betting on it–is to introduce them to A HORSE first. Novel concept, eh? (Not really: NYRA is very proactive with this–check out their horses in the backyard this summer.) Introducing anyone to horse racing via digital platforms may turn them into bettors–for a while, until the Next Big Thing comes along.
But once that love of The Horse has wormed its way into the human heart–nothing, but nothing, can remove it. Love The Horse first–teach handicapping, use digital media to maintain the relationship–second.
Yes, this does relate to my title, about using horses as props.
You see, much to my dismay–or disgust–the other day I saw Yet Another Photo of a young woman on Facebook (Not a shock here.) But this Yet Another Photo was of a young woman with a horse. (Again, no surprise.)
The part that flipped my switch was that, for the Nth time this month–I mean, perhaps the 50th time–said young woman was posing with a horse in the most contrived fashion possible. The horse was wearing shoes–probably aluminum.
The young woman was wearing the uniform of the Keeneland f!llies who ship to Saratoga: a skirt that was so short that I could see her liver, and ridiculously-tall stilettos.
She had her leg kicked back–so we could see the length of her leg, and the curve of her calf–as she kissed a horse in a saucy manner.
Ugh. My mind went all a-whirl. You see, that very same day, I’d been at the barn of the amazing Trainer, Gary Contessa. His wonderful wife, Jennifer, and I had a lunch date, but first we met to love on a horse, the precious and beautiful Ginned Up.
Jennifer is a horsewoman. Even though she wore a darling little red sundress for lunch, she also wore sneakers–in fact, she’d texted me before I left home, to remind me to wear practical shoes because the barn area was muddy.
The previous Thursday evening, she’d worn a sexy, strapless white mini dress and high heels–at the CAPTAIN gala honoring Mucho Macho Man and Wise Dan.
Jennifer, you see, understands the concept of context. At a gala, mini dresses and heels are appropriate–not in a barn.
I’ve spent two days thinking about the many women I know who are pros in horse racing. When Trainer, Abigail Adsit, is at her barn, she’s wearing Ariat boots and jeans. Ibid., Exercise Rider, Catherine Toner.
Ibid., ibid., ibid., every other woman, girl–f!lly, mare–who works with horses.
Let’s go over this slowly: Horses live in barns at farms or race tracks.
Horses generate…muck.
Barns at tracks and farms are surrounded by dirt.
Dirt can turn into mud.
No one in their right mind would go to work at a barn–any barn–wearing stiletto high heels.
Ergo, the young women in the aforementioned pictures walked up to the barn in practical shoes and changed into the stilettos for the photos. (If not, they teetered through deep dirt, and got the heels all dirty.)
Check out Abigail Adsit’s Facebook page. Or Catherine Toner’s. Pat Rich Turner. Betsy Aurelia-Parker. Any one of myriad women who work around horses all day long. They’re dressed appropriately for their jobs.
Ergo, the race fans who are scantily-clad with stilettos are posing with a horse for the photo opp. And the concept of posting sexily with a horse makes me want to hurl. (Inter-species implications always freak me out.)
I am ALL about young women and men falling in love with horses, thence with the sport of horse racing. I am not about anyone using a horse as a prop, with the goal of making themselves look sexier.
The Digital Age has given us many blessings. It has also given us ample opportunity to make every circumstance about ourselves. (Who could have conceived of the word, “selfie”–never mind, making its way into the Merriam-Webster Dictionary?)
It sounds like I’m just a curmudgeon, dumping on young folks for being young. I am not–read me correctly. I know scores of young women and men who work with horses every day of their lives, and they know what it’s about. They work day-in and day-out with horses in the most intimate of ways. There is no more genuinely intimate relationship than that of a horse and her/his caregiver. And if any of those young people ever heard you suggest that that intimacy was sexual–they’d read you The Riot Act. And probably kick you.
Stilettos have no place at a barn. Posing with a horse while you’re clad thus is degrading to The Horse–and to yourself. Think about it.
Ironically, every horse on Planet Earth–including the extraordinarily beautiful Thoroughbreds at a race track–is naked, except for their horse shoes. There’s nothing sexual about their nakedness, it’s their natural state–the way God made them.
And yet–no woman, no man, no Chanel mini dress or Jimmy Choos–on this planet can make any human being nearly as beautiful as any Thoroughbred, anywhere. Any horse, for that matter. Give it up: no matter how beautiful you are by human standards, you can’t hold a candle to a horse. (Don’t feel badly! It’s not you, it’s just Nature: the ugliest horse is more beautiful than the most beautiful human on Earth, if for no other reason than that The Horse always is in touch with the guts of the thing–with their Reality.)
Take a cue from the horses, themselves. Get back to basics. (I’m not suggesting that you get naked.)
I’m suggesting strongly that, the next time you consider having your picture taken with a horse–you wear Just Clothes. Practical shoes. The best photos will come when you interact naturally with The Horse–if s/he hugs or kisses you, that’s groovy. I guarantee that photos of any human in genuine, honest, true interaction with a horse makes a FAR better picture than a posed shot in which The Horse–God’s most magnificent creation–is used as a prop for your vanity pic.
Let The Horse show you how to be real. In photography, as in Life, itself–The Horse always knows best.
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