A Fashionable Future
Under the auspices of “capturing something beautiful,” I sometimes enter into the world with a camera. Why I feel that beauty needs to be captured is a rabbit hole for another entry at best. It is more likely that such questions are a sinful waste of what little brain power I posses. Oh, if only such exercises could be deemed masturbatory, that would at least feel good…on the mind. Thankfully, I force myself to do more productive things like writing about how upset I’d be if I actually decided to spend time thinking about why I felt beauty needed to be captured. I am not a smart man.
Believing so completely that one’s face is a piece of art that one acts more like dried acrylic on canvas instead of living, moving flesh infuriates me.
Sometimes shooting models makes me want to shoot models.
Clement however, is youthful; energetic even. He moves and breathes, sweats as he wrestles against the sun and his outfit, smiles and then laughs. Seeing his life from the distance of a camera lens makes my existence easier.
God dammit my pants are way too tight…around the thighs.
As Clement gracefully stretches himself over the warm, metallic edifice of the Disney Music Hall, his burgundy coat radiating with a fierce energy of its own, all I can think is “Fuck, my thighs!” I was impressed at how quickly he becomes comfortable in his own skin on such a warm day. Like a child covered in mud, unfazed by the dirt and the water slowly drying into clay, he still manages a genuine smile against what I assume would be obvious discomfort.
The more he becomes the model I hoped he would be the more my pants feel like a tiny cage, desperately trying to hold two very angry jaguar cubs (The pants are small so the animal must be small. House-cats would also fit in my pants but I’ve seen house cats in a cage; adorable, often content. Jaguars in a cage; angry, sad. My thighs; angry, sad. Science.)
The walls of the Music Hall stand like splashing mercury frozen in time. I follow Clement’s reflection as it moves along the mercury walls to a gorgeous walkway on the south-end of the incredible structure. Two towering tidal waves of metal stretch high above our heads reflecting the gentle blue of the sky. Between these two colossal mirrors I am transported hundreds of years into the future where everyone is so fucking handsome they make their buildings out of reflective materials so people can look at themselves. I take a quick glance at my own reflection and realize that sadly, we are still in 2015, still a part of the very, very flawed world.
As my model and his reflection continue to move effortlessly against brushed steel I continue to be displaced in time as I bear witness to his ability to shape a moment with his sharp features and willing attitude. Without a word of warning he turns a corner and I am left to follow this tear in time toward the west-end of the future.
There he stands, all six feet, two inches atop a breathtaking blue and white sculpture filled with cool, clear water. A spectacular glow of harvest yellow emanates from the leaves of a nearby tree, bouncing off the sky-blue walls of the Music Hall creating a hum that I can see with my eyes. At the center of this transcendent image is Clement, the color of wine, perched atop the sculpture like a playful god. His smile is the perfect combination of the sort of confidence and lack of responsibility I imagine everyone will exude in one hundred years.
In the midst of this beguiling beauty I suddenly wonder if Clemente would be of any use to me should the security guards of the Disney Music Hall have no interest in simply removing us from the premises, but demand blood as payment for our trespasses. My baby jaguars and I can take three, maybe four guards but I would need skilled backup if faced with worse odds.
As I gaze upon Clement’s svelte figure, the powerful fingers that moved with ease through his hair, those long arms with their capable reach, the dark eyes that darted back and forth, and the knowing smile of a man that has a secret or two I realized in that moment, no…. he is too damn pretty to help me in a fight. I mean, look at those lips.
With this realization I begin to coax us back to the car, far from the blood atonement that I was now sure would need to be paid west of the Disney Music Hall.
The walk back to the car was filled with the usual pleasantries and questions about the post-shoot timeline. As we talk about the days to come and the metallic future that now lay behind us, I can’t help but notice his gate; graceful and light upon the ground. He moves with intention and the full control of his body.
Knives.
Maybe he’d be good with knives. All beautiful people of the future should be capable with a knife. It only makes sense in a world where the anxieties of tomorrow are assuaged by a quick glance into a building made of mirrors.
Science.