This all started because I have a thing for fashion. I blame my grandmother and all those bedazzled jean jackets and tiny fur coats she used to outfit me in. My penchant for playing dress up is only fueled by my fashionable boss’ philosophy of exaggerating one aspect of her personality each time she goes out (i.e. the African Witch with bone jewelry and studded gloves or Raggedy Ann with her mini-Disney tee and overalls). So when my upstairs neighbor confessed that she had nothing to wear for an upcoming photoshoot, I gave her an armful of garments, including my grandmother’s pleather pants, and she gave the photographer my card.
I spent Thursday building shelves and organizing our studio’s cavernous new sculpture space in the Clinton Hill Navy Yards. By the end of the day, sawdust evenly coated my body, stuck fast to a thick layer of sweat. But one of the joys of this city is the opportunity it presents to dip quickly in and out of social spheres. Dimensions, tied together by community, culture or profession, lie right on top of each other. I’ve found that, as an artist, it’s important to develop your ability to move between them fluidly. Chameleons can learn from each, are forced to stay openminded and are constantly creatively adapting.
All this to say that I pulled a telephone-booth-style makeover in the bathroom and booked it to Manhattan.
I was told to meet the photographer, Hassan, for the art and culture magazine Karin and Raoul above a gallery in the Lower East Side. He had hosted a casting that afternoon and wanted to talk with me about my artwork. When I got to the appointed cross streets, I gave him a call. A head of cascading blonde hair and a naked torso appeared from a graffitied doorway. “You’re supposed to be up here,” he called.
Not one to argue with Viking oracles, I followed him up.
At the top of the stairs, a bright white space opened up around me. The walls were crawling with artwork that included mounted horse heads with bionic parts, or perhaps their harnesses had become part of their flesh. Dark surrealism was the prominent vibe; paintings hosted haunted figures and enigmatic lights. In one particularly striking piece, a mammal (we argued over its species) was caught in the headlights; its motion arrested mid-collision.
Brett, my blonde guide, resumed his position against a spotlit central wall. Hassan directed him to hold a skateboard above his head and began snapping photos. There were two stations for painting and two antique iron beds with white linens lining the walls. At the near end of the room, a man handed out Whole Foods containers and a small group gathered around a dining room table to relish their quinoa, kale and brisket. In the bathroom, a model was dipping her hair into the sink. Another was pulling on 5-inch heeled sneakers with studs that would rival the most robust of porcupines.
“I’ve changed this room around about 50 times,” said the Whole Foods emissary. His name was Justin and he was the director of the NY Studio Gallery one floor below.
Brett finished the shoot and dug into the brown-boxed feast. I learned that not only had he never modeled before, he had barely seen a skyscraper that wasn’t snow-topped and scalable. He and Justin had met while building houses in Peru. But he harkened from Northern Alaska where he worked construction for a family company. He’d arrived in New York for the first time two months ago with just a backpack and $100 to his name.
“You must be in culture shock,” I said.
He nodded vigorously. “I’ve been living like a rockstar.”
The evening unfolded as a series of beautiful vignettes, as Hassan photographed each of the models in waiting. The light was draining quickly from the sky as he finished up his last shoot on the roof with a woman so stunning it was hard to fathom her using her guitar as anything but a photo prop. But she was a singer/songwriter and former professional gymnast. Hassan had her hold a position where she raised her seated body up with her hands. She worried aloud that it was stretching her shiny new tattoo of a cameo-esque young girl.
Hassan had been photographing since two in the afternoon and powered on undaunted until the sky had nothing left to offer and his flash refused to light another step.
When the last subject cleared out, Justin, Brett, Hassan and I gathered around the rooftop picnic table and hashed out methods of cleansing body and mind. Hassan reviewed the talented people he’d met that day, generously heralding us as a new generation of creative talent and professing his happiness at having a hand in making us visible. He revealed his strategy of pushing the boundaries of the people he photographs in order to bypass the facade of what they think he wants to see. When they start making excuses, although he tries not to show it, he’s happy because he knows they are gaining ground. For instance, when the musician was holding that strenuous gymnastic pose from her past, there was no excess energy to maintain a mask.
Back inside, Hassan turned on disco lights and some jams to start the photo editing process.
The boys revealed their battle strategies for Burning Man. They took me to their Lady Bugz mobile (designed by Yarrow Mazzetti). It was a psychedelically pimped out transport, lit up like a mushroom from Alice’s wonderland and punctuated with plasma headlights. Their uniforms included bug-eyed goggles and an elaborate assortment of bandanas. These were contained within their many-pocketed, sparkly camo vests that they fastened over bare chests and ornamented with beads.
“Did you use glitter spray?” I asked.
“Pure stone pigments,” Justin responded, his voice muffled by the fabric. Then he ran upstairs to get Hassan to photograph their desert gear.
