Van Den Dungen
“Carrying a fucking camera doesn’t make you a photographer,” she said, voice clipped and a little rough. Cigarette hanging from her lips. She had said twice she was going to quit.
Habitual liar, that’s what she was.
“It’s retarded,” she continued, tapping the ash from the slender stick. We watched the grey bits catch in dead summer air and disappear into the ground. “They think we can’t see through them? Oh, I want an SLR to take pretty pictures, camwhore a little bit, facebook this shit. Wear it on my neck like a five pound necklace. Fucking posers.”
“Why are you so angry about this?” she irritated the hell out of me, I’ll give you that. But at least she’s funny when she’s angry. And she went on like a firecracker, stark and bright and a little painful on the eyes.
I don’t know why I put up with her bullshit.
She snorted, smoke puffing out of her nostrils and open mouth, an ‘o’ of indignation. “Surely you can relate,” she snapped. “I can’t go into Far East without bumping into some emo child armed with a Canon.”
I raised an eyebrow. She took a final breath from her dying cigarette and flicked it into the drain.
“So you smoke and then you litter,” I said.
“Or a Nikon,” she continued, as if she didn’t hear me. “God, I can’t stand it. They cheapen the industry with their empty, artsy-fartsy crap. They give people like you a bad name.” she looked back at me, eyes a chestnut brown in the fading morning sun. I raised my camera.
“Hold,” I instructed.
She did, an artful tilt of her head. Beautiful motherfucker, I muttered under my breath. “You don’t have to get so angry over these kind of trivial things,” I told her. She raised her chin – perfect, stop, higher eyeline, thank you, please. The dress clung to her for a dear life (because she fairly breathed life in and out of every word she said, in every move she made).
I lowered my camera, and the anger returned to her eyes, full force and unforgiving.
“I’ll be pissed at whatever the fuck I want,” she snarled. Lit up another cigarette and pressed it into lips made for a pout. Flounced off the set and began to swear at the lighting personnel for taking such a fucking long time with set up. “I’ll fuck you off your high horses,” she screamed. “Who the fuck do you think you are.”
“You don’t have to work with her.” My assistant was beside me, voice low and tainted with disdain. “I could arrange for another model, if you’d like.”
“Hmm.” Like I said, I don’t know why I put up with her bullshit.
The air tasted like too much cancer, and then morning had disappeared behind peeled shophouses. “You said you’d quit,” I reminded her when she stalked back, a growl pulling at her gamine face and then – “Stay right there.”
“Fuck this lighting shit,” she said. Hitched the fabric up and posed. Light seamed through the edges of her dress like magic, her too pretty face painted and proud. Focus, shoot, beautiful motherfucker. If she was a failure at everything else, at least the camera loved her.
“You need to manage that anger a little better,” I said.
She smiled then. Bloody beautiful, this fey, wispy thing – but so empty suddenly. I paused, but then that porcelain beauty was gone and so was that hollow. She was glaring at me now, and god, that frown.
Click. Click. Click.
“Please don’t ever tell me what to do again,” she said. Sweetly. “Do your fucking job and I’ll do mine.”
She stepped out of her dress right after, clad in skinny, skinny jeans with silver zippers by the ankles and a black singlet on her back. Sandals because she can’t walk in heels. “I’ll quit,” she said.
“Smoking?” I asked.
“Modelling,” she said. “Pays like shit.” And there she went, staring down the crew as she did. Firecracker, motherfucker, so damn beautiful either way. Have you ever had anyone capture your vision, your imagination, your perspective – all in one breath? Clothes clung to her. So did photographers.
“I hope she really does quit,” said my assistant, his voice laced with disgust. “What a bitch.”
“Me too,” I agreed, and I caught him by the arm just then. “Can you book her for the next shoot, please.”
Current Location: home
Current Mood: blank
Current Music: John Mayer - Slow Dancing in a Burning Room