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Authors: Nicholson Gunn
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stepped away to use the
ladies room, he finished off the last of his drink in a mood of quiet
contemplation. When he’d first encountered her at Helmut’s studio, it would
have been impossible to imagine their even speaking to each other again. He
could, if he wanted, tell her about this. If he asked her to think back, would
she remember the photographer’s assistant she’d unwittingly dispatched on a new
career path? But when he saw her coming back towards him from across the room,
her smile whole and intact, he thought better of raising the issue.
They met at his studio the following week for the shoot.
Thinking to ease in, Stephan began with some simple, austere setups,
photographing her in casual clothes against a plain white background. Penny was
on-hand to assist, positioning a reflector disk to angle the natural light from
the skylight onto Jenny’s face. She did her job as required, with her usual
professionalism, but it was clear from her demeanor that she was not especially
taken with Jenny Wynne, or by Stephan’s cozy rapport with his new friend. A
couple of days later, minus assistants, the two of them met in the garment
district for a session of outdoor location shooting in a warren of narrow
alleyways between old brick buildings. The location was perfect, the aged,
soot-blackened brick walls providing a compelling visual foil to Jenny’s
smooth, pristine skin.
He felt a sense of deja vu shooting her now. It seemed to
him almost as if fate had decided that this was something he needed to do. His
approach this time was the antithesis of Helmut’s tack back in 2000: informal
and candid as opposed to stuffily contrived. The difference was in part
self-conscious, in part a matter of taste.
He was attuned for serendipity, for Easter eggs of real
emotion and grace, and he kept finding them. In their meetings to date, their
conversations had flowed as if they’d been reading from a script. Now their
physical interactions on opposite sides of the lens seemed to have been blocked
by an unseen director.
At one point, now deep in the labyrinth of alleyways,
they found a swing, someone’s idea of a joke, or of art. It was just like one
of the swings in the playground of his primary school – a black rubber seat
shaped like a band-aid held aloft by steel chains. In this case, however, the
chains were anchored not to the traditional A-frame but to a steel pole wedged
between the brick walls of the abutting buildings, four stories up. It was
quite the contraption, and didn’t look entirely safe, but before he could voice
this observation she had already hopped onto it and was gliding elegantly
through the null space of the alleyway.
“Give me a push, dammit!” she cried, her voice a
delighted squeal. He obeyed this directive, careful to put his hands on the
small of her back and not lower down, lest he bring the beautiful, shimmering
moment to a sudden, terrible end. Then he stepped back and snapped a couple of
shots in quick succession as she whizzed past him, narrowly missing a steel
garbage can with her foot.
“I want to go higher,” she shouted, pumping her legs for
altitude. “As high as it’ll fucking go!”
He continued snapping pictures, image after image,
killing off a roll and hastily loading another, laughing in unison with her as
she soared through the air right there in front of him.
It went without saying that most of the setups they
concocted wouldn’t make it anywhere near the pages of the Telegraph –
although one of them might pass muster as the author photo for her collection
of columns. But it didn’t much matter to him. He was having too much fun to
much care, and the photos were good: spontaneous and alive with energy, just as
he had hoped. That energy, it was clear, owed more than a little to the rapport
they had quickly established. They had clicked so easily at the magazine
awards, and the attraction he’d felt – which she seemed also to feel – was
still
ladies room, he finished off the last of his drink in a mood of quiet
contemplation. When he’d first encountered her at Helmut’s studio, it would
have been impossible to imagine their even speaking to each other again. He
could, if he wanted, tell her about this. If he asked her to think back, would
she remember the photographer’s assistant she’d unwittingly dispatched on a new
career path? But when he saw her coming back towards him from across the room,
her smile whole and intact, he thought better of raising the issue.
They met at his studio the following week for the shoot.
Thinking to ease in, Stephan began with some simple, austere setups,
photographing her in casual clothes against a plain white background. Penny was
on-hand to assist, positioning a reflector disk to angle the natural light from
the skylight onto Jenny’s face. She did her job as required, with her usual
professionalism, but it was clear from her demeanor that she was not especially
taken with Jenny Wynne, or by Stephan’s cozy rapport with his new friend. A
couple of days later, minus assistants, the two of them met in the garment
district for a session of outdoor location shooting in a warren of narrow
alleyways between old brick buildings. The location was perfect, the aged,
soot-blackened brick walls providing a compelling visual foil to Jenny’s
smooth, pristine skin.
He felt a sense of deja vu shooting her now. It seemed to
him almost as if fate had decided that this was something he needed to do. His
approach this time was the antithesis of Helmut’s tack back in 2000: informal
and candid as opposed to stuffily contrived. The difference was in part
self-conscious, in part a matter of taste.
He was attuned for serendipity, for Easter eggs of real
emotion and grace, and he kept finding them. In their meetings to date, their
conversations had flowed as if they’d been reading from a script. Now their
physical interactions on opposite sides of the lens seemed to have been blocked
by an unseen director.
At one point, now deep in the labyrinth of alleyways,
they found a swing, someone’s idea of a joke, or of art. It was just like one
of the swings in the playground of his primary school – a black rubber seat
shaped like a band-aid held aloft by steel chains. In this case, however, the
chains were anchored not to the traditional A-frame but to a steel pole wedged
between the brick walls of the abutting buildings, four stories up. It was
quite the contraption, and didn’t look entirely safe, but before he could voice
this observation she had already hopped onto it and was gliding elegantly
through the null space of the alleyway.
“Give me a push, dammit!” she cried, her voice a
delighted squeal. He obeyed this directive, careful to put his hands on the
small of her back and not lower down, lest he bring the beautiful, shimmering
moment to a sudden, terrible end. Then he stepped back and snapped a couple of
shots in quick succession as she whizzed past him, narrowly missing a steel
garbage can with her foot.
“I want to go higher,” she shouted, pumping her legs for
altitude. “As high as it’ll fucking go!”
He continued snapping pictures, image after image,
killing off a roll and hastily loading another, laughing in unison with her as
she soared through the air right there in front of him.
It went without saying that most of the setups they
concocted wouldn’t make it anywhere near the pages of the Telegraph –
although one of them might pass muster as the author photo for her collection
of columns. But it didn’t much matter to him. He was having too much fun to
much care, and the photos were good: spontaneous and alive with energy, just as
he had hoped. That energy, it was clear, owed more than a little to the rapport
they had quickly established. They had clicked so easily at the magazine
awards, and the attraction he’d felt – which she seemed also to feel – was
still
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