I had an extraordinarily blissful weekend -- floating around for brunches and drinks with friends. Suddenly everyone is outside in their winter boots and leggings. Admittedly, I am one of them. I am reinventing my style from sweet summer casual to New York hip. I unearthed a black floppy hat and would wear it with everything if people wouldn't stare so much. Why don't girls wear hats anymore? I wore mine to dinner and again to a late luncheon knowing my friend would enjoy the sight. White sangria in a tall glass looks better with a hat. Nearly everything looks more interesting and alluring with a hat.
I accompanied my friend over to a local art space. They had just opened a new exhibition of mostly photographic works and I knew he would be interested. It's a place we'd tried to visit several times to network; it's always been closed. Alas, the lights were on and we entered. I watched the confidence slowly leak from his body -- arms and head slumping as he walked from one piece to the next.
"This is too good. There's no way" he muttered.
I gave him a hopeful look and reassured him that his work was phenomenal. The artists exhibited here were from L.A., New York, Canada -- nothing local. We walked around separate and then together -- in awe with most of it. The gallery owner sat with legs propped up on his desk, talking to small Asian man.
The owner glanced our direction, "Are you from New York?"
My friend replied, "She should be."
It was most certainly the hat. Maybe the hat coupled with tight jeans and a rock n roll, black on gray layered look. Whatever it was, it became our "in" to make small talk. I walked over and asked him about showing some local work. He asked my friend if he was an artist. My artist friend stammered and mumbled something.
I spoke up, "He's a photographer."
It was a good fifteen or twenty minutes of eye contact and connection. I became the PR girl. The New York PR girl. My artist friend became quiet -- very, very out of character for him.
Since then, my artist friend booked several new shoots. It seems he's rediscovered some vigor with his project. I'm on the path to convincing him to give up nudes and start a series on bulbous fruits and autumn squash. He's unmovable. He let me and his buddy into his studio after brunch and I began doing what I usually do when I'm in other people's spaces. I began organizing. (why can't I do this with my own stuff???)
His coffee table is piled with various model photos strewn in several directions in varying sizes. Then, there's this incredible heap of release forms (at least five hundred) in an overstuffed manila folder. I carefully stacked them all in the same direction.
"Look at that!" he said proudly. "I'm going to continue to shoot this series just so I can get more paper for that folder."
I tried not to look affected. If nothing else, I am empathic; I can completely understand his concept of beauty and the art and angles of the female figure. Beauty. Youth. The play of shadow and light.
I started in on reorganizing his series of sample model photos; there were ones printed on various papers or fabric or covered with wax or coated with some albumen mixture. I arranged them by size -- strictly just focusing on the task -- as I watched my friend start to nervously twitch.
"Does this bother you?" I teased.
"No. Well, it's just I don't really know what you're going to find in there."
Little did he know I wasn't even paying much attention to the little girls in panties and underthings. I was simply in process of making things look "calmer."
Perhaps I am a quarter of a muse, one quarter housecleaner, one quarter confidant, and the rest is just looks.....now in gray and black for the winter season.
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