Pictures at an Exhibition

Michael has always lived on the outskirts; in the suburbs, nickel and dime jobs, but mostly in his mind. By dreaming big he's escaped the poverty of his surroundings. What's saved his life is selective memory. He can recall next to nothing about his first decade on the planet and chooses to forget most of the second. Solitude has been his saviour, spending long, luxurious afternoons in the dream spa. What is he dreaming about? Images.

An afternoon in the cinema can alter your consciousness better than Prozac, Zoloft, or any of the other drugs being peddled by Big Pharma. Michael prefers DVD's. Watching a Lars von Trier film filters out the static of high-speed society; you're free to contemplate the contours of your own soul. Seeing a Scorsese picture energizes, like a shot of caffeine. Woody Allen movies make you wanna have long, philosophical conversations with the girl you've had a crush on for six months. As Manhattan is ending, Michael thinks, “Why not?”

Jaime is not a natural blonde. She was working perfume at Macy's and saw the sunny bleaches consummating more sales, so she skipped over to the salon for a treatment. Now, the CK and Chanel counter is her showcase. At least once a day someone asks, “Are you a model?” She says, “I am.”

Jaime was one of Polly's first models for erotic pictures, five years ago. Then, she was smoldering. Anyone with any kind of camera could capture the magic—just point and shoot. She has one of those faces that are freaks of nature: Cameron Diaz, Bardot; ungodly beautiful that could just as easily have gone wrong. Lots of girls have better bodies, but for Jaime, her face sells the sex.

Recently, she'd been noticing the new dirty girls: barely clothed, tone, tan, spinning their webs to great effect. They consume boys and men like M&M's. At one of Polly's recent shows, Jaime had seen Julia, a 21 year-old co-worker, devour a dude double her age. She confronted her later.

“He's too old for you.”

Julia, smiling deviously, says,

“Daddy's gonna pay.”

Jaime is spraying new product on the wrist of a rich woman when she sees Michael approaching her counter. She's met him before at Polly's studio apartment when he was hanging out with Karl. He was withdrawn, quiet; barely said a word. What is he doing here? Jaime's customer walks away.

“Michael, right?”

“Right, you remembered.”

“What are you up to?”

“Taking pictures.”

“Cool, what kind?”

“Traffic, clouds, trees... stuff like that.”

“Arty huh? Let me see 'em some time.”

“Sure. But I wanted to ask you if... you'd be interested in posing for some pictures for me? Street photography... downtown, black and white.”

Jaime looks at him seriously. She gets this all the time.

“I usually only work with Polly... but it's been awhile. Maybe we could. What are you gonna do with the photos?”

“I'm not sure yet. I want to get Polly's advice before I have a show.”

She can see he's sincere. Michael's so naïve, innocent...

“You said downtown?”

“Yeah, close to Polly's studio.”

“OK. How long will it take?”

“Not more than a couple of hours...”

“My day off is Monday. Let me know when and where.”

Jaime hands him a card with her cell number. Michael smiles. She had cards made up with one of Polly's pictures as a background image. This is the sexiest business card Michael's ever seen.

“Monday afternoon is perfect. Karl's editing something at Polly's apartment. I'll be there too. It's a secret project...”

“What do you want me to wear?”

Michael knows he can't say exactly what he wants. An Araki, or Helmut Newton photo shoot flashes through his mind.

“T-shirt, jeans, skirt... whatever you feel like.”

Sexy, fleshy, tight, he thinks.

“OK, text me Saturday.”

She's actually looking forward to it now. It's been two years since anybody asked her to pose, including Polly. Michael walks away, waves. Julia comes over.

“Who was that?”

Tan cleavage pops from under her bright white shirt.

“Michael, a photographer. We're doing a shoot.”

“I know what he wants to shoot.”

Julia smiles at her like a lover. Jaime is seven years older but feels ancient now, looking down at a perfect princess.

“He's a friend of Polly. They're artists.”

“Probably a pervert. Be careful.”

Julia jets toward a customer. Her sales are skyrocketing. Jaime contemplates her life, for a minute, then moves on.

Michael walks through the mall. Summer girls in short shorts cross his path and he sees them in pictures. They seem to be flaunting their bodies for an invisible camera. He wants to put Jaime in compromising poses but is afraid to ask. Will she be offended or flattered? He thinks of the Daido Moriyama photo: a woman being chased down a narrow corridor (by the photographer) in a short dress. Michael is interested in taking artistic risks. His politeness inhibits growth.

Later that afternoon, in a local, independent cafe, he looks at a series of black and white pictures hanging above colorful, mismatched furniture. Immediately, Michael perceives the photographer's own self-importance. Somber shots of shells and children on an empty beach; a woman, shot from the back, with a towel covering her head and shoulders; young men coming ashore from a swim. The photos are professional but lack emotion. This is a major flaw. He'd rather see grainy pictures shot with old film cameras than the HD gloss that passes for art now. It's almost too easy. The young barista calls his name. Michael accepts his coffee from her. She's beautiful, Japanese. The Moriyama image flashes through his mind. He's back on the street again.