Chapter 10 The Photoshoot
I wake up, turn over, and avoid looking at the small calendar hanging across from my bed.
Ugh! There is no way to avoid it. Today is the day I start my new job.
This past week has been all fun and games, but that ends today.
I want to crawl back under the covers. A personal assistant. Who am I kidding?
Vee and I head out and I enjoy our walk to the Twenty-third Street station, as the sun shines down upon us. Vee looks completely in her element. I stumble along behind her as we jump on the E train and head down to the Village with a bunch of other commuters.
I’ve ridden the subway before, but just like wandering around Chelsea, this feels different.
Sitting next to Vee who, even though she is fresh-faced with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, gets glances from men and women alike, I feel their eyes upon me too.
Normally I could be sitting naked as a jaybird on the subway and people wouldn’t notice me, but today they are noticing me.
Amazing what a little makeup and clothes can do.
I’ve been getting better at putting on my makeup, although my eyes are still a bit of a problem. It’s awfully hard to put makeup on one’s eyes when said eye needs to be closed to do it properly. Vee assures me I will get the hang of the one eye squint in no time.
Vee did my makeup today and when I looked in the mirror, I realized she does have the magic touch.
My blonde hair is pulled back in a low pony and Vee has pulled a few strands out of the elastic band so they artfully frame my face.
Of course, when I tried to do that, the hair hung down like strands of dry hay, but when Vee wielded her magic hot wand, she made these loose strands twirl around my face like graceful dancers.
I meet people’s eyes and smile, and they smile back. Energy is racing through my veins, and I struggle to sit still. What a wonderful feeling to not be a shadow as I walk around the world. These are people I’ve always seen but who had never seen me until now.
I lean over and ask Vee the same question I’ve asked her for two days straight: “What do I do when we get there?”
She shushes me and gives my fingers a quick squeeze. My stomach does a little flip, which is better than what it did at five this morning when I thought I was going to throw up.
We exit the subway at Spring Street, walk a few blocks, arriving in front of a large building that looks like an industrial warehouse.
It’s gray and forbidding. Vee walks up to a door that blends into the wall, making it almost invisible, and pushes a ringer.
The door opens, and a large man shouts, “Vee!” and crushes her to his chest, lifting her off her feet.
Vee suddenly looks like a small rag doll.
He sets her down and exclaims, “Well, nice to see you. Where ya’ been?”
Vee gives him a big smile and shrugs, “Nowhere,” before hurrying past him.
The man puts his beefy arm across my pathway and asks gruffly, “And who might you be?”
I see a twinkle in his eye as he says it, but I’m so nervous I can’t squeak out a response.
Vee does an about face and laughingly scolds, “Carl, she’s with me. Leave her alone.”
Carl says in a low voice, dripping with innuendo, “Ahh! Fresh meat.”
Vee hustles me past him and whispers, “Don’t worry about Carl. He’s harmless. He loves to do characters; his pimp character gets pretty raunchy if you let him go too far with it.”
Vee steers me around a group of people with clipboards that look harried and eases me through another set of doors—and we step into sheer madness.
Bright lights fill the room reflecting off a long row of mirrors that appear to go on into infinity.
The glare is blinding. People are running around with hairspray in one hand and brushes in the other.
Others are dabbing and blotting the skin of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
This place makes Vee’s suitcase of makeup look like child’s play.
Vee plops down in an open seat and two people rush over and start working on her. She motions for me to take a seat in a folding chair set up a little off to the left and out of the path of sprays and spritzes that are being liberally applied.
I watch, fascinated. There is a buzz in the room that comes from many animated conversations, the constant hiss of spray bottles, and the swishing of brushes.
Clutching my notepad to my chest, I take a deep breath; this is what life smells like.
Not flour and sugar, but powders and perfumes.
Where beautiful things become too beautiful to be believed.
Once Vee is transformed, we head to the photographer’s area.
Vee keeps a bright smile on her face the whole time.
She parries questions about her absence with playful responses, and she poses for what seems like hundreds of pictures.
She changes into three different outfits and has her hair and makeup redone each time.
Her smile is bright and unwavering. She catches my eye and signals for water.
I hand her a cold bottle and she takes sips without a word.
After seven hours, we leave the shoot, stepping out of the same steel door and Vee wilts in front of my eyes.
The bright smile is gone, her eyes look dull and tired, her shoulders slump, and while she is still beautiful, the camera has sucked out her energy.
She looks hollowed out, as if each click took a bit of her soul.
She hails a taxi, and we quietly ride back to Chelsea.
While I’m giddy with the splendor of it all, I understand what I saw today isn’t real.
What shows up on the magazine covers are just surface beauty; it doesn’t show the robbing and stripping away of someone’s spirit that occurs while the glossy photos are being created.
I watch Vee in the dark of the cab and hope she can replace what was taken today.
When we get home, Jake is there with a pizza, and we sit quietly munching. Vee picks at the slice on her plate.
Finally, she announces, “I’m going to bed. I’m plumb tuckered out.”
Jake shakes his head, “But you’re going to do it again tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Vee smiles and gives me a hug as she walks by.
“I’m glad you were there today. It made it so much better,” she says tiredly.
I hug her back and say, “Thank you. That is so nice.”
Looking at Jake, I explain, “I didn’t do anything except sit all day. Oh, I did get her water a couple times.”
Jake nods his head, “Hydration is important.”
We all laugh, hollowly, and Vee drifts out of the room.
The next morning, I’m relieved to see Vee doing her thirty sun salutations on a mat in the sunny little alcove she calls her meditation room.
Back when I was babysitting her, I learned from Jake this means she’s going to have a good day.
If Vee can’t muster up the energy for her morning yoga routine, he told me, life was going to be too much for her to bear.
On those days, he would go into protector mode and try to keep life from running over Vee so she could make it to the next day and hopefully her namaste would return.
He explained it kind of joking, but I’ve since determined it is very true.
I watch Vee with the sun shining down on her wispy blonde hair and when she is almost done, I join her, struggling through the last ten sun salutations. After those ten, Vee stops and takes a big drink of water from her bottle. “Okay, keep going Em. You’re looking good.”
“Ugh.” I groan. Then I slide back on the mat and push myself up into a downward dog.
“Okay, breath in, plank, chaturangas, breath out, upward dog, to downward dog. Let your breath lead the way.”
My breath is loud and fills the tiny space.
My arms are aching by the time I’ve done five more salutations under her watchful eye.
Chaturangas are killers. While I’m strong from the years of working at the bakery, it turns out your triceps are not often used when rolling dough or serving pastries, and triceps seem to be the most important muscle in yoga, other than your lungs.
Vee keeps trying to teach me about the importance of breathing to get through the routines, but it doesn’t make any sense to me.
I’ve never had to think about breathing before, so it’s hard to see how concentrating on something that happens no matter what, helps you do one more flow.
After another impromptu lesson, Vee skips off to the shower and I try a few more moves.
I giggle when I see myself reflected in the large mirror on the wall.
My hair is a mess and Vee’s too-long sweatpants have come unrolled, making me look like a child playing dress-up and Twister at the same time.
I need to buy some sweatpants that fit me, as Vee’s castoffs fit around my waist but are so long that they will surely trip me up one day, and that will be the end of me.
Vee keeps threatening to go back to her favorite hot yoga studio and drag me along with her.
If that happens, I can’t show up wearing rolled-up sweats.
I will need to try to appear as if I belong, while at the same time I try to disappear.
Today’s shoot is back at the same warehouse building. This time Carl gives me a salute and states grandly, “Welcome back, little one.”
I smile and stop. “Hello, Carl.”
Vee gives my arm a yank and I stumble behind her toward the makeup room.
Today the shoot is for a fitness company, and Vee is in the cutest pair of shorts and a tank top. At one point, she is supposed to be catching a basketball. The photographer looks around and spots me at the edge of the far wall. He gestures, waving me toward him.
Approaching tentatively. He points to Vee and barks, “Hurry, hurry. Here, take the ball and toss it to her.”
Vee is in a jaunty pose in her shorts. I’m frozen.
Balls and tossing are not things I have much experience with.
Picking up the ball tentatively, I bounce it in my hands, trying to figure out how to do this.
I mean, I know how to throw something; it’s just the ball is big, and the space is small with a lot of lighting and expensive equipment all around.
The photographer is looking at his camera display. He raises a finger and counts, “One, two, three.”
I reach the ball down between my legs and heave it up in the air. The ball sails up and up and then starts coming down. I hold my breath. Vee sees it and does a graceful pirouette, jumping up with an athletic grab, a triumphant smile on her face. The photographer’s camera clicks away.
“Again,” he demands.
I trot over to Vee, retrieve the ball and she gives me a grin that says she’s glad I’m now even more a part of the shoot.
We repeat the sequence several times. I’m no longer nervous but almost enjoy tossing the ball. At the end, the photographer turns the camera in my direction, and I hear the shutter snap. He gives me the slightest nod; his eyes coldly scanning me up and down.
Vee changes quickly, and we head out to the street and jump into a waiting cab. It is getting colder and I’m wearing one of Vee’s coats that hits her at her waist but hangs down almost to my knees.
“That was so much fun having you be part of the shoot. What did ya think?” Vee gushes.
“I didn’t like how the photographer looked at me at the end,” I say, making a face. “It felt like he was appraising me—analyzing my features. Maybe even my worth?”
“Oh, he definitely was,” Vee says. “They can’t help themselves, it’s what they do.
That’s pretty much what it feels like to be a model.
Everyone looking at your hair, your face, your body—thinking, does it work?
Does it not? Uhh, too athletic, too edgy, too pretty.
” Vee sighs. “I was told once I was too pretty for the shoot. It made me feel so bad about myself. Even my mother was disappointed that I was too pretty. This is a crazy industry. Sometimes when I’m posing, I think I could start gushing blood or something, and the photographer would say ‘Hold that look, the blood is just perfect. Stop it right there,’ and then I picture myself collapsing in a heap as they continue to click, click, click. ” Vee laughs quietly.
I frown, imagining what it would be like to have the photographer’s cold, appraising look constantly focused on me.
He took one picture and looked at me for just a minute or two and my soul was chilled, and I felt unworthy of breath.
Vee just went through hours of being treated to that feeling.
Do you ever get numb to that? Glancing at Vee slumped against the seat. It doesn’t seem so.