Flattery Will Get You Everywhere

I'm not sure who the artist is.  Maybe Alan Spazalli.  I like it.  I want to photograph it.  I wish this were my photograph.  

Rather. . . why did I get into this.  I am anxious.  I don't want to be a photographer anymore.  But then, you know, something good will happen. . . that is all I can hope.  

I've been obsessed with planning since.  Costuming.  Makeup.  Hair.  I'm overwhelmed by the technical aspect of it.  I carried the heavy boxes of gifted lighting from the garage to the house yesterday.  My back--oy!  I opened the many cases.  It's been a long time since I worked with studio lights.  I seem to have forgotten everything.  There are pieces I can't quite understand and I'm too embarrassed to ask.  I have to get this figured out by Sunday.  

After that, of course, it is what to do with them. . . how to illuminate.  There are hot lights, too. . . movie lights with fresnel lenses and scrims of all kinds.  I've never used them before.  I want to. . . but do I take a chance of experimenting now?  

The girl from the Irish pub texted me yesterday.  Well?  What were my ideas.  When were we going to shoot?  I spent a long time after that texting.  I asked her to send me pictures of how she wanted to represent.  She did some quick mirror selfies with the kind of clothing we discussed.  Holy smokes!  You'll see.  But she surprises me.  She's not what I expected--but is anybody?  Well, yea.  I don't like to think I am easily charmed.  O.K. . . sure.  There's no fool. . . .

I looked for images to send her.  I was careful-ish.  

"I've been doing small, odd projects of late. . . small time wrestling and women's roller derby."  

I sent her some pics.  

"Which one do you want to do?"

Then I sent some of the old pics.  

"I don't want to scare you."

"Ha!  Your buddy already showed me your photos.  I know what you do."

I had a studio then.  I hope I can still.  

"I have a couple options on places to shoot.  The easiest is my house, but if that is uncomfortable. . . . "

I mean, really. . . an old man with a camera and a "home studio"?  Fuck me. . . how have I come to this?

"Sure. . . we can shoot at your house."

I spent too much time with her to get done what I thought I needed to get done before returning to my mother's house.  I couldn't help it, though.  She charms me with flattery.  I used to tell my students that flattery always works whether it is sincere or not.  I don't trust it, of course. . . but there are times when I'll take it.  

She said she worked that night, that I should come in.  She'd buy me drinks.  Or she could come by after she got off at ten.  Would that be too late?  I told her I was staying with my mother.  

Could I sound more pathetic?

As I prepared dinner for my mother and myself, I was thinking about the musical score for the shoot.  It is important.  Very.  I thought I hit on the right groove.  This would set the tone.

"ha-ha.  i was thinking more vibe. i love jazz music, vibey music, amy winehouse."

"Uh-oh."

"What?"

"Kidding.  I can do that."

I'll ask Q to make me a playlist from this.  He's supposed to know such things. 

Later, she sent me more photos.  She is like all the college girls.  They grew up with social media and more.  They all know how to be in front of a camera.  They are beautiful and glamorous.  I looked at the pictures and wondered if I could make anything that would be better.  They all seem to be excel as both models and photographers.  They all have a certain fashion sense.  

I will surely fail, I thought.  There is so much opportunity.  Things have gotten more difficult.  I have the postproduction stuff but they have IG filters.  

I can't get that painting out of my head.  I want to make photographs like that.  A little white face paint, a little rouge and some rags.  

I think bodies are beautiful.  Not mine, but others.  I want to start there and build up.  First the body, then the costume.  Most people have some paranoia about their bodies.  They want to hide the flaws, but that is the place to start.  First the acknowledgement.  I can do the rest once the paranoia is gone.  

But first I have to prepare for the fire-eating pole dancer.  I have no idea what I am in for.  I have to put lights and backdrop and stands into the car and drive an hour and a half to her dance studio.  I've got a lot to get ready.  But I also have mom.  I need to take her to the ortho at one today.  That fucks my day up good.  It wasn't a problem when I didn't have much to do, but just now. . . .

Yesterday was the full moon.  Maybe the girl was influenced.  Maybe she won't feel as eager today.  Maybe it was the gravitational pull on my bones and blood.  I need to be careful.  

It will be 87 degrees today, 17 degrees above the average.  This is not the great news you might be inclined to think it is.  "Spring-like weather," the local weather people coo.  They should be calling it "disaster weather."  But we must act "as if" things will be o.k.  We will not suffer and die.  

We will make pictures.