Phenomenon

I'm still trembling.  Tonight I shot with a phenomenon.  I almost didn't.

My work is getting around enough now that models contact me to shoot.  For some reason that I can't figure out, though, I get a lot of girls who are minors.  Not eighteen.  Classic trouble.  You know the show on television where the perverted reporter pretends to be a good deed doer and busts pedophiles on video.  You know the show.  Everyone does.  Minors.

I put them off.  It is not me, I promise.  It is the thought of everything that can go wrong and the inevitable consequences of that.  O.K.  O.K.  It is me (I know it is supposed to be "It is I," but it sounds awful in both places).  I am the problem.

So this girl contacts me.  She is sixteen.  But man. . . the pictures in her portfolio kill me.  I write her.  Are you sure you've looked at the stuff I am doing?  Your parents?  Oh, yes, she says, I love them, and my mother loves them, too.

?????????

I put her off some more.  I ask her what she wants to shoot with me.  Again, I say, you've seen my work.  She writes back about some improbable country scene with a milk can, her hair in pigtails, etc.  Definitely sixteen.  Maybe twelve.  I don't do that sort of thing, I tell her.  There are lots of photographers who would jump at the chance to do that, but I'm not one.  I need themes, moods, atmospheres.  I need narrative lines and conflict.  You know, all the stuff of art.

But man. . . that portfolio.  I think she is capable of being a big-time model.  What do I know about such things, but that is what I think.  And I begin to figure. . . it sure would be good to have made photos with her later, etc.  Do you have a prom dress, I ask.  It is a simple shoot.  It will take only half an hour or so, I say.

She agrees.  Her mother will come and sign the release.

I'm nervous all day.  Like sick.  Like I need to go to the bathroom.  What the fuck have I agreed to?  You know.  I'll do something.  I'll be in trouble.  I'll go to prison.

We are to shoot at six-thirty.  I go to dinner beforehand.  Sushi.  Something light, I think.  And sake.  Settle the nerves.  But I always have a whiskey after sushi to kill the worms.  So I cross the street to a bar I've never been to, a new, expensive seafood place.  The bar is nice.  I order a McCallum twelve year.  Oooo.  It makes me feel warm.  After the sake, it is good.  But I jump up.  I've got to shoot!

I get back to my studio, only a few blocks.  I turn on music.  I wait.  Six-thirty.  Six-thirty-five.  I knew they wouldn't come.  Nope.  She probably was driving herself and got lost.  Her mother doesn't even know, I think.  I hope she doesn't come.

The phone rings.  It is the mother.  They are a bit lost.  Easy to do since I am in a crack neighborhood.  Most decent people just get scared and loose their bearings.  I wave them in.

Holy shit!  This girl is unbelievable.  And there is her mother rushing ahead between us.  I am a little drunk, I think.  I have to be careful.

"Hi, I'm ________, and this is my daughter, _______________."  My head is swirling.

"Here, let me help you cary that."

Inside I ask them to sit down.  I don't ask if they want a drink.  I won't be having one myself.   It is the only way.  Talk, talk.  Here, I say, let me show you some of what we will do.  I pull out prints and explain things.  The daughter is blank as I talk.  I am talking to mom.  They have brought a wedding dress.  It is mom's.  How old were you when you got married, I ask.  She avoids the question.  Eventually I find out she was married when she was thirty-nine.  Her daughter is the oldest of three.  What?  Started late, she says.

It is quaint, the daughter in the mother's wedding dress.  But I have to admit--she looks like something.

Mom signs the consent form.  The daughter, she confesses, is only fifteen.  She lied to get her into an agency.  FIFTEEN!  The girl is only fifteen!  I get one of the painters from the studios behind me to witness.  All is good.

"O.K." I say, "let's just get you out of those clothes."

No, I don't say that.  I'm just afraid I did.

I explain to her what I want.  No, I don't.  It is not that profound.  I explain how I want her to bend her body.  She does.  Oh, shit.  I can't believe her.  There can't be anything going on in her other than the instinct to pose.  Her mother tells me she is home schooled.  I ask how long it takes to do the work each day.  Oh, about an hour.

We shoot very, very slowly.  In two hours, I take only forty pictures.  Forty Polaroids.  I have never seen anything like them before but with Sarah Moon or Paolo Roversi.  I can't believe my luck.

"I almost didn't shoot with you," I say.

"Why?" her mother asks.

"I didn't want to go to jail."

Her mother laughs.

"Now, though. . . I don't even care."

This is the first time I've ever seen anything like this.  We are tired.  It is over.  After she changes, I pick up my digital camera and shoot some snapshots.

It is done.  I hope not.