Secrets Vol. 2(13)

Finally, he answers my previous question and turns from me. His voice is deep, seductive, "I see shadows and light, curves and lines. Beauty mingled with power. Femininity and softness. I see desire. I see someone who doesn't know if her body is good enough. The position of her hand makes me think that. It sits on her stomach as if she's hiding something. As if she has secrets I'll never know..."

Silence engulfs us and we both stare at his work, neither of us brave enough to speak. My body is covered in goose-bumps. I don't know what to think. I'm caught in the middle. My mind registers things like this as trash, or they are supposed to be, but after seeing it - after hearing Cole speak about it - how can I think that? It was my mouth that said the requirement for something to be art was the ability to evoke emotion, and here I am stunned into silence by something I wouldn't have considered art yesterday.

Damn. I'm a hypocrite. I don't like it. It feels like I've been blindsided, but Cole doesn't stop. He doesn't let me catch my breath.

Instead, he takes another canvas from its resting place and pulls the sheet off. When the drape hits the floor my toes curl inside my shoes. I can't breathe. It's another nude, another woman bathed in golden light. Long dark hair falls to her hips in curls. Her arms are stretched over her head, thrusting her chest out. The light catches the curve of the bottom of her breast, the softness of her jaw, the fullness of her hips - and there are glittering jewels hanging from her nipples.

Staring at it, I'm hyperaware of every inch of my body. My eyes fixate on her breasts, on those dangling jewels. It feels like someone sucked all the air out of the room. Heat engulfs me. I shouldn't be looking, but I can't stop. This kind of thing is too sensual, and it's too beautiful. I can't look away. I can't understand why I don't feel offended, and realize that it's because this is art that reflects Cole's heart. I'm seeing part of him when I look at these pieces. This woman meant something to him. She had to.

Glancing at him, I wonder who she is - this faceless woman who is concealed in shadows and hidden at the back of his closet - locked away from the world. It's part of a life he hides, a part of Cole Stevens that remains a secret.

"Who is she?" I ask finally.

Cole shakes his head once. Dark hair sways over downcast eyes. He doesn't look up. He doesn't answer. I don't know if he won't or he can't. This isn't a random model. The images feel too intense for that.

Trying to be less personal, I ask, "How did you make these? The light is so soft. So stunning. I can't figure out how you did it - "

Cole unfolds his arms, resuming the role of teacher. The softness in his eyes seeps back to the place he hides it in his heart. "It's painting with light. It uses the camera, but the exposure is much longer. The model sits in a pitch black room. I set the camera on the tripod and release the shutter. Then I literally paint the model with a colored light. I move the light over her and it's kind of like a paintbrush, highlighting the areas I want and leaving the rest in darkness. It makes a soft color-wash over her skin."

I blink twice and turn my head back toward the print. "But I don't see you in these." For that to happen, the exposure had to be pretty long - like minutes, not seconds. I'm astounded that he thought to do this. I've never seen it before. At least, I've never seen this concept with boudoir portraits. Cole is watching me as my mind races with questions. He knows I'll latch onto the technical aspect and appears eager to discuss it with me.

"How long is the exposure?"

"Several minutes," the toe of his shoe picks a spot on the floor. Arms folded over his chest, he says, "You won't see me unless I stand still for a moment, but I'm there - moving through the shadows, spilling light across her body like rain pouring from the sky."

Something occurs to me while he speaks. Turning to Cole, I say, "This is the kind of work you want me shooting, isn't it? The Le Femme studio you're putting out East isn't like the one in the city. You want it to be something else - something like this." I already know the answer, but it doesn't stop the shock from spreading across my face. When he asked me to run the Long Island studio and said it was boudoir photography, I totally freaked out thinking he wanted something else.

But this. This intimidates the crap out of me. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to make powerful images like these.

"Yes," he nods. "Or something similar. I want you shooting art. I want your images to be evocative and powerful; seductive and feminine."

I look at the canvas and don't turn my face back toward him. For a moment, I say nothing. A crazy thought is bouncing around in my mind and it won't shut up. Seeing these, seeing this part of Cole, is shocking. I don't know why, but I assumed he wasn't capable of this. I just stand there, mute until he asks again and this time I nod. At this moment, I recognize that my perception has changed. I can feel it shattering, cracking apart like shards of ice, and falling away.

His art has changed me - Cole changed me.

My mind resists accepting it. My body feels like I'm being strangled. I can't do this. I don't know how. Cole's passion spills across the canvas more powerfully than anything I've ever seen. It's feminine and beautiful and powerful. It's everything I want to do, everything I want to be. Wedding photography is something that most women will need at some point. It is a single chance to show them that they are beautiful, but this - what Cole is offering gives me the chance to do that but even more so. I see it. It's crystal clear. And I realize that I want to learn how. My mind is at war with itself. The prudent side is assaulting my rationale trying to poke holes in it. I can't tell who's winning, but my mouth shocks the hell out of both of them when I speak and say the crazy idea that's forming in my head.