Behind His Lens(5)

Even though the scene is a complete mess, it makes me smile. No one thinks about the manpower that goes into one single photograph in a magazine. You see the flawlessly airbrushed model and subconsciously want to buy whatever she’s wearing, but no one considers the assistant that had to hold the diffuser for three hours to block unwanted shadows. I like seeing the behind-the-scenes of production; it makes the end result all the more amazing.

“Where the hell is our model?” A deep voice suddenly snaps from behind the digital monitors set up for the director and head photographer. The gruff voice takes me by surprise and I have to swallow my nerves before answering.

“I’m sorry I’m late! I lost track of time,” I chirp lamely. Deep Voice doesn’t even have the decency to raise his head above the monitors.

“Charley, we need you in hair and makeup, please,” the art director, Mrs. Hart, chimes as she rounds the table away from the cranky photographer. Mrs. Hart is one of the best directors in the industry and I can’t believe I’m getting to work with her. Not to mention, at just shy of fifty, she still looks flawless. Everything about her oozes style. I’ve looked up to her for some time. I’ll have to stay focused and make up for my tardiness. First impressions are important, and she probably already has a negative opinion of me now. I don’t want her to think I’m taking this photo shoot for granted— It’s paying my rent for five months, and in New York, that’s no small feat.

“Hello, Mrs. Hart.” I smile brightly. “It’s such an honor to work with you. I’m so sorry for being late.” I shake her hand hurriedly and keep talking as I walk toward the corner where the makeup crew is set up. Vanity mirrors hang in front of black, swivel chairs.

Mrs. Hart replies with a genuine smile before turning to the inspiration boards where Polaroids of each outfit are being pinned by her assistants. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least she doesn’t seem to mind that I was a teensy bit late. Now I’ll just have to work on the photographer.

I drop my bag out of everyone’s way, up against one of the black tables, and then gaze upon a sight that never seems to get old. It’s the only part of modeling I don’t have to pretend to enjoy. Laying on the surface of the table is every kind of cosmetic imaginable. Creamy blushes, silky mascaras, and bright lipsticks are lined up in perfect rows, ready for the taking. As a painter, I love gazing upon the rows of makeup as if they’re the tools for creating the perfect masterpiece: unyielding beauty, flawless enough to conceal the demons lying beneath the surface.

I thumb a bright red lipstick that looks like a sparkling ruby and try to commit the name to memory. Nars - Heat Wave. How fitting. I may have to pick up a tube on my way home later.

A throat clears softly behind me and I look up to see the pink haired girl prepping her curling iron and smiling over at me.

“I think we’ll all try to work on you at once, Charley. If that’s alright?” she asks timidly. Her demureness is strange to behold in an industry where everyone seems to take what they want, when they want it. I’m usually the shyest on set, but I think she may have me beat today.

“That sounds great, Ms…?” I reply, sitting down in the black chair in front of her.

“Oh! You can call me Joanie!” she answers swiftly as she unravels a shiny black smock. Before she can slip it around me, I peel off my old college sweatshirt. The razorback tank top hidden underneath should provide me with enough warmth now that I’m inside the studio, and they’d kill me if I ruined my hair later on.

I sigh happily into the seat and meet Joanie’s eyes in the large mirror before me.

“Have at it,” I joke with a shrug, knowing that my body is about to go through one major transformation.

In a matter of minutes, I have five different women pulling and plucking me. A small, wiry haired woman is buffing my nails before applying a simple, cream polish. Joanie is curling and tweezing my hair into a modern up-do that pulls my long blonde hair off my neck.

Most of the time I have to keep my eyes closed so the other women can work on my makeup, but every now and then I chance a peek at myself in the mirror. I know I’m pretty, or I wouldn’t be hired for jobs, but it amazes me that with the help of five well-trained women, I can end up looking sort of, unreal. I realize it’s just the makeup, but sometimes I let myself imagine that the radiance shining through is coming from me instead.


“How are we doing over there? Are we almost ready for wardrobe?” Mrs. Hart asks as her designer heels clap across the stained concrete floor, heading in my direction.