Matching Curves (2004)
I just do art because I’m ugly and there’s nothing else for me to do. ― Andy Warhol
[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Bananas. Not only is there a giant one in this picture, in case you hadn’t noticed, but it’s also perhaps the kindest way to describe the model. She was from one of the barrier islands off Georgia’s coast, near Savannah. A trust fund baby, Daddy’s only little girl, who had grown up with every privilege possible. She saw one of my pictures in a magazine and decided that she simply had to come shoot with me for a whole weekend. I needed the money, so I took the job not knowing the girl’s reputation, nor the trouble into which she had a habit of getting.
My first warning came moments after meeting her at her motel, one in the higher-end of the Hilton chain. She carried a number of credit cards that Daddy had provided, but despite each one having an excessively high limit, she had already maxed them all out for the month, and it was only the 12th (strange how I can remember that date). So, checking into the hotel was a bit of a challenge. Hotels don’t like to accept cash anymore. She stood at the desk and argued with the night manager for the better part of an hour, calling him every dirty name in the book, before finally calling Daddy, who gave them yet another credit card number. She then called a sorority sister, at 1 AM, who was a regional manager for the chain, and complained. The manager’s phone rang immediately afterward.
After checking in, she changed clothes, and then wanted to go out to the clubs. I knew several club managers and owners personally, so that wasn’t going to be a challenge. What bothered me, though, was that we were supposed to start shooting at 8:00 the next morning. It was already almost 2:00. She promised she’d have no problem waking up and being fresh, so off we went. First place we went was doing jello wrestling. She volunteered to participate. Second place was doing wet t-shirt contests. She needed to do that as well. I almost lost track of her at the dance club. I had already nicknamed her bananas, to her face, by the time I tucked her into her bed at 4:30.[/one_half]
[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]I left messages for all the places we were scheduled to shoot, postponing everything until afternoon. Even if Miss Bananas managed to wake up, which didn’t happen, I knew it would take a couple of hours’ worth of makeup and water consumption before she’d be in any condition to take pictures of any kind. We had talked through several concepts before she arrived, most of which involved nudity in some form. I was hoping to tone down the ideas a bit toward something a bit less pornographic and more editorial. When she finally woke up, a little after 10 AM, we ate brunch then headed out. This was going to be an interesting day.
After she bought half the clothes at one boutique (Daddy had wired her cash), we started taking pictures. Convincing her that a public park in the middle of a Saturday afternoon was not a good place to be flashing her ample breasts was not easy. After more than one close call with police, I insisted we move inside, to a rented studio where I wouldn’t have to worry about being arrested for her actions. Along the way, she wanted some fruit. The banana shot was one of the first we took in the studio, and arguably one of the best. You would need a very dirty mind to imagine what she did with the banana afterward.
Over the course of the weekend, we managed to drop over 2000 frames. Only three photos remain, none of which records her face or her name. Interestingly enough, she was arrested for cocaine possession the moment she stepped off the plane back in Savannah. Apparently, she thought her tray table was a good place to set out lines. One of the flight attendants called ahead to local police. I never heard from her again. I sent pictures to the address she had given me on her release, but received no confirmation that she ever saw them. Gwen Stefani was right, this shit really is bananas. So, how’s your Monday? [/one_half_last]
Dust On The Trail
Dust On The Trail. Model: Lisa Petrini
A photographer is like a cod, which produces a million eggs in order that one may reach maturity. ― George Bernard Shaw
[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Death can be a difficult issue to discuss with children, especially when it comes to family members. One moment, you think they have a grasp of it, then later, seemingly out of the blue, the topic comes up again with new questions that need to be answered. With a five- and a six-year-old around the house, the subject comes up surprisingly often, sometimes in ways we weren’t expecting. Trying to figure out how best to respond to those questions and situations is a mixture of wiping tears and trying to not laugh at the wrong time.
We were driving past a mortuary and its large cemetery one afternoon when Baby Girl pipes up and informs us that this was where her pre-K teacher, Miss ‘Nay, works. When questioned as to why her teacher would work at a cemetery, the little darling responded without hesitation, “That’s where she puts the people she doesn’t like.”
Miss “Nay was horrified to hear of the exchange. She’s a jolly, pleasant woman who does a great job with children, but might be a bit superstitious. “I can’t stand dead people,” she told us. “I don’t even go to funerals.”
More frequently, and certainly with less humor, it is Little Man who raises the subject, frequently in tears over the loss of his great-grandmother a couple of years ago. Trying to explain to him that people don’t live forever and that his great-grandmother had lived a long life does little to appease him. She’s not here now, and that’s what counts. At other times, though, he can look out across a cemetery and explain that once one has expired that, rather than becoming dust, our bodies become tree seeds that grow new forests. While perhaps missing a biological step or four, that perspective of a renewable life is certainly less traumatic and easier to discuss.[/one_half]
[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Growing up in rural Oklahoma, and especially the son of a minister, death was such a normal part of life for us that we were almost callous about it. After all, we played and ran in large fields where it wasn’t unusual to come across whole sun-bleached skeletons of cows. The general opinion of ranchers at the time was to only remove a cow carcass if it was diseased and posed a health risk to the herd. Coming across skulls in the dust just wasn’t that uncommon.
Western philosophies have evolved over the past couple of generations where we no longer see death’s natural role in the life cycle. Instead, we see that passing from life to dust as the ultimate unfairness, the unjust removal of someone important to our lives. We expect explanations where there are none to be had and look to blame people who are not genuinely at fault. In matters of violence that should never have happened, our sense of outrage stems from our own sense of privilege that the deceased should never have been taken from us; a warped sense that it is we, more than the dead person, who have been short-changed.
Today is the thirteenth anniversary of my mother’s sudden and very unexpected death, a mere six months and four days after my father’s passing. I was living in Atlanta and one of the challenging decisions we had to make was whether the boys should go to their Mema’s funeral. To do so would mean them missing the first two days of school, but to not take them would deny them the emotional closure we thought they might need. We left the decision up to them. They opted to not go. As one of them put it, “We’ve been to enough funerals this year.”
Life is a wonderful thing, but sooner or later we all become dust on the trail. Love now. Live now. Find peace. Embrace the full cycle of life, even when it seems unfair.[/one_half_last]
Share this:
Like this: