september14–27, 2020| newyork 25meet my eyes as he drove us in a vintage car over streets lined
with tall grass. He came off as a nervous, neurotic artist type. He
was very different from the other “fashion” photographers I’d
met up to that point, men who tended to be L.A. douchebags
with strategically placed highlights in their hair who smelled like
sweet cologne.
I was wearing a tank top that I’d tucked into the front of high-
waisted shorts, and as we drove, I watched the soft blonde hairs
on my thighs glisten in the sunlight. Jonathan never looked at
me directly, but I remember feeling watched, aware of our prox-
imity and my body and how I might appear from his driver’s
seat. The more disinterested he seemed, the more I wanted to
prove myself worthy of his attention. I knew that impressing
these photographers was an important part of building a good
reputation. Does he think I’m smart? Especially pretty? I thought
about all the other young models who must have come to this
bus station in the Catskills and sat in this car.
When we arrived at Jonathan’s home, two children were sit-
ting at the kitchen table. I stood awkwardly at the door in my
short shorts and felt embarrassingly young—unwomanly even,
like a kid myself. I noted the time from a clock on the wall: How
are we going to shoot today if it’ll be dark in just an hour and
a half? Maybe we’ll shoot very early tomorrow, I figured.
I brought my hands up to the straps of my backpack and shifted
my weight from side to side, waiting for instruction. I felt relief
wash over me when a makeup artist arrived at the house and
proceeded to set up on the kitchen table next to Jonathan’s
kids. She was older than me and quiet. I felt more comfortable
upon her arrival; the pressure was off me to know how to be
and how to compensate for Jonathan’s strangeness now that
another adult was there and a woman.
The makeup artist finished setting up and began working on
my face while Jonathan cooked dinner. He offered me a glass of
red wine, which, in my nervousness and desire to seem older and
wiser than I was, I accepted and drank quickly. I took deep sips
as the makeup artist painted a thick, black, wet liner onto the
tops of my eyelids. I opened my iPhone’s selfie camera in my lap
to check her work. She was making me look pretty, transforming
me to fit Jonathan’s aesthetic vision. When he laid out old-
fashioned lingerie on a kitchen chair, I began to grasp what type
of girl he wanted me to be. My agent hadn’t mentioned that the
shoot would be lingerie, but I wasn’t concerned; I’d done count-
less lingerie shoots before. I could imagine her writing to me the
next day, “Jonathan loved you. Can’t wait to see pics! Xx,” as she
had on other occasions.
Jonathan’s kids were picked up by someone who did not come
inside the house, while the makeup artist finished preparing my
face. When he was done cooking, Jonathan, the makeup artist,
and I all sat around the kitchen table eating pasta, as if we were
a small family. He talked about his “crazy” ex-wife and his affair
with a “crazy” actress, now 21 (a year older than me, I noted).
He told me about his marriage’s undoing; that the actress,whom Jonathan had cast for a short film he’d been making at
the time, came to live with them. He showed me naked pic-
tures, Polaroids, he’d taken during their affair. She seemed so
vulnerable in Jonathan’s photos, even though I could tell she
was trying to look strong and grown up from the way she held
her face square to the camera, chin up, her hair falling perfectly
over one eye.
“No one has shot her better,” he said over his shoulder, as
I continued to riffle through the Polaroids.
Something switched inside me then. As I looked at the images,
I grew competitive. This guy shoots all these women, but I’m
going to show him that I’m the sexiest and smartest of them all.
That I am special. I chewed on my lower lip as I handed the neat
stack of Polaroids back to Jonathan.
I wondered where he normally kept these Polaroids. Were
they all meticulously labeled in a giant filing cabinet somewhere
in his attic, the names of young women written in ink on their
assigned drawers? The image of a morgue came to mind.
It was dark, and my hair was still in rollers as I finished my
third glass of wine, my mouth stained purple. I was used to
unusual setups on shoots, but I’d never been in a situation like
this before. I made sure not to eat too much, while Jonathan
silently refilled my glass and I kept drinking. In the industry, I’d
been taught that it was important to earn a reputation as hard-
working and easygoing. “You never know who they’ll be shooting
with next!” my agent would remind me. We finished our meal
relatively quickly, and I helped bring dishes to the sink as
Jonathan washed them. “Thank you, that was so good,” I said
politely. I turned and leaned against the counter, opening my
phone. Jonathan sneered. “You girls and your Instagram. You’re
obsessed! I don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head and drying
a plate with a dish towel.
The makeup artist painted on a bright-red lipstick, and
I changed into a high-waisted pink lingerie set. We headed to
the upstairs bedroom to begin shooting. I sat up on an antique
brass bed frame, my knees pressing into the faded floral-print
sheets. As Jonathan shot the first Polaroid, I explained that
modeling was just about making money for me. “When the
economy crashed and I started to get more opportunities to
work, it just made sense that I’d pursue this while I could,’’
I said. I was used to defining myself with this explanation, to men
especially. “I’m not dumb; I know modeling has its expiration
date. I just want to save a lot of money and then go back to
school or start making art or whatever.”
Jonathan frowned as he inspected the Polaroid. “You girls
always end up spending too much money on shoes and bags,” he
said. “It’s not a way to save real money.”
“I don’t buy bags,” I said weakly, but I began to doubt myself.
I was dumbfounded by his easy dismissal of my life’s plan, and
began to panic. What if he was right? What if at the end of this
I really would have nothing?
He paused then and turned, silently walking back downstairsknew intimately and othersting who owned an image of me.