I call his studio at eleven the next day, half expecting him not to know who I am. “John Martin Photography,” his voice comes over the line.
“Is this John?” I ask and he confirms. “This is Alison, I met you at Sage’s party last night.”
“Alison. I’m glad you called. Coming in?”
“Yeah, if you still want me too.”
“I do,” I can hear the smile in his voice over the line.
“Great. Do I need to bring anything?” Somebody is awake upstairs, and I wonder if it is Cici, her feet moving down the hall toward the bathroom. The condo has been quiet all morning, with Cici sleeping in, Connie and Darla at work, and Sybil closed up in her room.
“No, just your bones.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.” The sun outside is glowing, and the winds are still whipping over the mountain, hot and dry. I dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, not wanting him to see me trying too hard. He said to bring my bones, and I am.
His studio is in Escondido, a single-story strip mall, with John Martin Photography sandwiched between a yogurt shop on the left and a sushi restaurant on the right. Down the line of shops, I see a clothing store, a Claire’s boutique, and a Hallmark store. I park in front of the studio and push open the door. A bell rings above the door.
The entryway is carpeted in dark gray, and the walls are white with John Martin Photography stenciled high above the counter. A door opens on the left side of the wall, and John comes out. He leans in and shakes my hand, “I’m glad you came. Come on back.” He holds the door open for me, and I step through into the space behind the wall.
“You’re like the wizard,” I say, laughing. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” I call out into the cavernous room.
“From Oz? Yeah, kinda.” He laughs, and I let my eyes wander from the shelves of props, to the racks of clothes, to the backdrops hanging down from the ceiling on casters and rails that circle like a racetrack on the ceiling. Great black sided, white faced rectangle boxes on stands aim toward the area in front of the camera.
“So what do we do?” I ask, a little knot of nerves wrapping in my stomach.
“Well, I thought we’d just see how the camera likes you.”
“Okay.” I don’t really understand what he means, but I let him move me up to the backdrops, and he indicates that I should sit down on the box draped in black fabric. I prop my heel on the edge of the box and turn to watch as he makes adjustments with the backdrops.
“I had a girl that looked great out on the street come in a couple of years ago. I spent a whole day adjusting lighting and angles, and I just couldn’t make the camera like her. It was strange. It either likes you or it doesn’t.” He steps around, looking at me from behind his tripod, through the lens. “Drop your foot. Relax your shoulders.” He steps from the camera and adjusts one of the light boxes, stepping around and clicking on another light from above and behind. He moves back behind the camera, and I move until I see the lenses of the camera shifting into focus. “We’ll start with some headshots,” he says, releasing a lock on the tripod and sliding the whole apparatus forward on wheels.
I nod, and try to find a smile that doesn’t feel wrong.
“Don’t smile. Don’t think about me taking pictures, just let your mind wander, think about something else.”
I laugh and the camera clicks, the lights pulse, and I try to let my mind wander, watching the small circle in the lens of the camera. Minutes pass, and I shift my spine, looking away and around the studio, drawing my hand up and through my hair, pushing it back, letting it fall. He removes the box and the cloth that had been draped over it and rolls the camera back, giving me directions on how to shift my shoulders or hips and where to put my hands. I follow his directions, and within a half hour, he has finished.
“Want to wait?” I shrug, and he points to a chair. I settle in while he pulls the film canister from the back of the camera and steps through a door into a back room. A red light turns on above the door, and I pick up a magazine and flip through it, paying attention to the advertisements in a way I never did before. I look at the way the women stand, the expressions on their faces, the faraway and often sad looks in their eyes.
Time passes and I wait. Going from one magazine to the next. John finally comes out from the back room with a long strip of film. He holds the strip up and to the light, smiling, motioning for me to join him at the front counter. “I think we’ve got something. He slices the film into strips of four images and slides them into cellophane sheets. We look at the images in reversed color, and he seems excited about them. I have a hard time imagining them in real color but assume that his experience gives him some authority. “Let’s print some proofs.” He leads me back to the room with the red light, and I follow him in, letting him close the door behind me. A red light glows in the room, and he moves toward an enlarger in the corner, placing the first of the plastic sheets holding the film into the tray in the top of the apparatus, clipping it in place. It works quickly. He exposes one sheet of paper by passing light through the tray holding the film in the enlarger and then another, dropping each exposed sheet of paper in a wash of chemicals. When I see the images beginning to appear, I step forward to look into the tray. The transfer of light through the plastic holding the strips of film creates a color correct copy of the film, and I can see now, what he saw earlier, through the lightbox. The series of images show a girl that I almost don’t recognize. Do I really look like that?
He joins me when he has finished the last exposure and transfers the sheets from one tray to the next. “These are good,” he says leaning over one sheet in the second tray.
“So the camera likes me?” I ask, smiling, feeling almost giddy.
“Oh, yes. The camera loves you.” He drops his arm around my shoulder. I don’t shrug away, but let him squeeze my shoulder. “So, you wanna do this?” His hand drops free, and he transfers the first of the sheets to a third bath, followed by the others.
“Sure, why not?” I laugh. “You think you could get me work? As a model?” My tone is mocking, but the question is serious.
“Oh, yeah. I’m working on a local ad for Dillard’s. I’d love to use you. Pays seventy-five bucks an hour. Yeah?”
“Yeah!” I reach out and put my arm through his. “That would be awesome.”
“I’ll show these to the agency and see what they think.” He uses a battered hair dryer to pull the last of the liquid and we make our way out of the dark room and to a counter, with better lighting. We stand looking down at the images, and he puts an X over the ones where my eyes are in a blink or where I look awkward. On most of them, though, he puts a circle around the images he likes, and in three off them, he puts a small heart in the corner. The heart is so bizarre for a man to make that I almost laugh.
“When will you know?” I ask, not wanting to be pushy, but too excited to contain myself.
“I’ll see him Monday. I’ll call you as soon as I have a yes.” I squeeze my eyes together, afraid that I may explode. I’ve been in California for only three days and have pretty much been promised a modeling job for Dillard’s, a store I haven’t ever been able to buy anything from.
“I don’t know what to say. This is awesome.”
“Let’s hope they like ya.” He winks, and we look down at the beautiful girl looking back from the proof sheets.
