Originally Posted Monday, April 8, 2013
I made a mistake last night and watched "Mad Men" with commercials. I swore I wouldn't but I did, and it was terrible. I don't even know what went on dramatically in the show. How do people do it? No wonder Americans are so scatterbrained. I would rather wait until Monday and purchase the show on iTunes than do that again.
My memory of what I saw, though, is that the two hour episode was a letdown. I don't care if the makeup, wardrobe, and hair styles are accurate. . . I don't want to see men in sideburns and mustaches and short bangs again. I don't want to see shirts with wide lapels. I don't want to see dorky colors. Betty going through the hippy slums of the Village, though, was an unpleasant reminder of that sort of rebellion. The world is full of shits and sociopaths. It isn't just the "straight" world.
The weather is surreal here. Last night I cooked for my mother and we ate out on the deck. The air was perfectly cool and dry, the sky far, far above us. I tried something different with the steaks because the night before I had sauteed some garlic and red peppers and then stirred in spaghetti noodles over which I layered grilled chicken. It was so good that I was calling people to tell them. So I decided to try it with everything. I sauteed some garlic in canola oil and then turned up the heat and seared two N.Y. strips on each side before I put them on the grill. I don't know. It didn't hurt the steaks, but it didn't seem to do much for them, either. But I did the same thing with the steamed Brussels sprouts. Viola! I would have called you to tell you about it if I had your number. And so my mother and I sat outside with our tomato and avocado starter and a bottle of wine, pleasantly waving to the neighbors as they walked by. Gracious living at the mansion.
When the last glass was emptied from the bottle, my mother said she thought she would go. How sweet.
My model DID show up Sunday morning at 9:30 right on time. She made me want to make photos again. She was an Irish/Polish mix, a sweetly strange looking girl, too short to be a fashion model, too strong. She had a degree in music from a good private college known for its music program, a violinist who was working in a violin store. She was learning to repair stringed instruments. Once a week she went to another town to learn more from a master. This, she said, was what she wanted to do. I was intrigued. Who repairs violins? I felt I was living in a European movie.
She bordered on ginger but was leaning toward blonde with freckles. Her hair was cut un-stylishly short and she wore no makeup. In her dress she looked thick, perhaps heavy. Her voice did not lilt. In fact, she said little when I asked her questions.
I shot her in her mother's prom dress. It was charmingly cut with the back pulled high like a. . . I don't know the word. . . gathered into pleats to make the butt look high on the waist. I was thrilled. I love to shoot women in their mother's dresses. There is a meaningful continuity to it. Mothers and daughters.
When she took that off, though, she transformed. She was not fat, had no fat on her. She was pale, without tattoos, and she seemed to have lengthened somehow. She moved like an artist's model though she said she had never done that. She was just as matter of fact as she had been when she walked in the door, but she looked like something cut from white marble, static, perfect.
And suddenly now that she was undone, I was able to make her laugh. It was charming and quick like a puff of smoke. As we worked, I would jump up and down and clap my hands, hold my heart. . . . She wasn't confident. It was something else. Comfortable. She was something everyone should be. She was just herself, it seemed, a puzzle and enigma. She was a farm girl from Maryland, not sexy, not sensual. I couldn't help but love her.
And so I am ready to make some pictures again. She comes back on Thursday night. We will experiment with film this time. I will try new things. It is fun again. It is fun.
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