Photo Explorations: the Shoot

The first rule of photography; you don't touch the models. Followed very closely by the second rule of photography. You DON'T. TOUCH. The MODELS! It can be a bit frustrating at times but you quickly learn how to describe the most bizarre contortions of the body when faced with someone who's ten times more flexible than you can ever imagine being. Only slightly less confounding is why the fashion and artistic communities think it's preferable to tie their models up in knots.

The rule, however, is perfectly understandable. For the most part, models are very young, attractive, and frequently insecure. More to the point, they're inundated by imagery and tales of unscrupulous photographers who seek to take advantage of them. To hear the stories, we seek to push them to find the very edge of their comfort limits. Once there, we coerce and guilt until they've gone three or four steps beyond.

Furthermore, a good many photographers view the business (or hobby for that matter) as a means to obtain their own personal collection of porn in the guise of art. At best, they can live vicariously through their collective lenses as a steady stream of beautiful, nubile, young women expose everything for them. At worst, they similarly charm, guilt, or coerce them into carnal activities as if it's simply part of the model's job.

As a middle-aged man, slightly balding and admittedly overweight, I go to great pains to make certain that the models I shoot don't see me this way.

I admit that I live vicariously through my lens, but more as general socialization than anything erotic. I go to my dull job, filled with equally dull co-workers, come home to a meager flat and dream dull dreams. If I'd ever had any hopes of a relationship, they were dashed when the one woman who'd ever shown any interest in me, my now-ex-wife, left me for one of my models.

Photography is more than a hobby to me. It's my creative release as well as my feeble attempt to maintain something that resembles a social life. After a week of high-stress memos and office politics, and occasionally at night after work, I get to drive out to whatever site I've set up with my model and indulge in the beauty of nature as expressed through the human form and the world around us.

Although legally every picture is my property, I tend to view the process as a collaborative effort. Sure, when I approach a new model I bring everything to the table; theme, wardrobe, poses, location. Once we've formed a more comfortable relationship, however, I prefer to work

with

the model in an effort to discover the creative thoughts flowing through their minds. Unlike so many in the industry, I don't simply view them as a posable doll to bend to my will.

Tonight's shoot was Vanessa. She was one of my newer collaborators. I'd only worked with her a couple of times but she had a couple of years worth of amateur experience when I'd met her online. I was a little surprised when, after only two shoots, she'd come out and made a request for a shoot. Usually it took a few more sessions before most of the models felt confident enough to admit that they had ideas as well.

Vanessa hadn't discussed the theme with me so I had no idea what the plan was. All I knew was that she'd chosen a relatively swanky hotel in town as the location so I knew I needed to bring my soft box and a couple of different lighting rigs. She assured me that she had everything else under control, which inspired me to believe that her concept was firm.

An hour before, while I carefully packed the gear into my car, I'd gotten a call from her. She'd given me the number of the room she'd gotten and I'd offered, once again, to pay but she'd have none of it. It was her idea, she'd said, and she'd pick up the cost this time.

The hotel was as glorious as its reputation suggested. Although nearly a hundred years old, it had been remodeled and refurbished numerous times to maintain not only its air of culture but also the most modern of conveniences. Some places, the waterfall in the middle of the lobby would have seemed a bit ostentatious but here it simply felt soothing.

I passed by the concierge and headed straight for the elevators. The equipment I lugged along on one of their carts (surreptitiously taken out from under the noses Nazi valets who insisted someone had to bring luggage to the room for you) didn't even raise an eyebrow. Undoubtedly, the people who could afford to stay at a place like this carried all sorts of stuff with them on vacation or business.

The room wasn't on the top floor, nor was it in a corner, so it wasn't one of the suites. That didn't surprise me. At a place like this, you didn't need one of the suites to be swanky. If anything, those would probably be a little too ostentatious. Not to mention incredibly pricey.

I knocked on the door and it opened almost immediately. Vanessa wasn't there as I rolled the cart in but the bathroom door was firmly closed. Last minute preparations were common, even with amateur models. Likely she had whoever she brought along as a makeup artist in there as well.

"I'm going to unload my gear by the door, then I'll be right back." I called out. "I have to return the cart before they notice it's gone."

"Not a problem." Her sweet mezzo-soprano voice drifted back from the other side of the bathroom door. "There's a keycard on the dresser so you can let yourself back in when you get back."

"I will do!" I called back. I quickly arranged my cases along the wall by the door, for speedy access, grabbed the card she'd mentioned and headed back for the lobby. I received a few reproachful stares when I got there but nothing openly hostile. After all, at a place like this the staff couldn't afford to announce displeasure too harshly. They never knew who might be the rich, the powerful, or both. I might be neither, and they could very well know it, but even then they couldn't afford a scene for something minor when someone who

was

might come down at any moment.

Back at the room, I noted that the bathroom was empty the moment I clicked the door open. That was a pleasant surprise. While I didn't generally have to worry about the adage 'time is money', it can be frustrating to schedule a shoot and then wait half an hour or more because the model wasn't ready. The same could be said by models of photographers, so I always made certain to arrive a little early in order to afford myself time to set up whatever equipment I needed. Of course, this time, we were both early.

By this point, I had a fair idea of what the theme would be. She undoubtedly wanted to do a sensual bedroom scene. That still didn't tell me what equipment I'd need, however. If she wanted a romantic candle-lit dinner then less-is-more would be the rule and what lights I did use would need to be softened with amber filters, for example.

I froze the moment I stepped into the main room. My mouth hung open, slightly, still prepared to begin our discussion of plans for the shoot. Unfortunately, my brain fought to catch up and words failed me. The first thing I noticed was the complete lack of makeup artist. The lights were off in the bathroom, so she hadn't hidden someone in there.

The thing is, there's a couple of reasons why models travel with at least a little bit of an entourage. The first is, obviously, expedience. Even the most experienced model would take longer to fix her own hair and makeup than to have someone do it for her. In circumstances where time

is

money, a photographer appreciates the extra hands on set.

The less obvious reason rolls right back to the first rule of photography. Models need to feel comfortable in order to work. It's not a question of desire, it's simple logic. If they're tense, they can't perform to the best of their ability. If they have to wonder and worry if this might be the one-in-a-million who turns out to be a kidnapper, or worse, they're not going to be sufficiently relaxed.

Even if their companion is no more than their physical equals, the numbers make it much less likely that they'll be assaulted. Only a true lunatic wouldn't realize that if he tried anything, the other would have the time to get away and call the cops. It's not a question of missing persons reports but a witness actively reporting a crime.

Even those I've built up a rapport with continue to bring them, if for no other reason than to speed everything up. Occasionally, they're even willing to assist in the photos themselves, when the collaborative process realizes a second subject would only aid the composition. Admittedly, I've had a few shoots without a tagalong but those usually have been spur of the moment things with close friends.

I was surprised that Vanessa trusted me enough to go it alone on only our third shoot together.

Vanessa herself wasn't the typical waifish model. Tyra Banks would call her "fiercely real", what would previously been called a "plus-sized model". While I agree with Rubens that this by no means diminishes her natural beauty (if anything it enhances it due to a much healthier image) I have noticed that they tend to be even more skeptical of a photographer's motives. Particularly in a private, intimate, setting such as this.

I'm dense. I admit it. That alone should have been the only clue I needed. I simply couldn't make the blatantly obvious logical progression. After all, it's the models who need to watch out for advances from the photographers, not the other way around.

When I finally managed to focus on Vanessa, which felt like eons but probably wasn't more than a second or two, my lagging brain gave up any attempt to slip into gear. The eighteen year old model sat on her heels on the king-sized bed, her hands loosely resting on her lap. Although covered by a robe, enough of her baby-doll peeked through to offer tantalizing suggestions of how much would eventually be revealed.

My pants became uncomfortable. It's a rather familiar experience for me, actually. When dealing with female models, I learned very quickly to wear boxers and loose pants. I'm fairly certain I lost the first couple of models I tried to work with because they could clearly see the effect they had on me beneath the boxer-briefs and jeans. At least, my assumption is based on the disgusted looks they shot at my crotch as the sessions ended.

My growing erection was, thankfully, concealed by the loose folds of the cargo pants. Unfortunately, I knew it did not help to mask the way my eyes were riveted well below her face. Like any healthy heterosexual male (though to the best of my knowledge this particular bit of genetic programming isn't excluded from gay men) I very much enjoy the outer packaging. Generally, however, I try to keep my glances discreet and brief. A quick snap-shot for my mind is enough.

Eventually, which probably was more like the ages it felt than a handful of seconds, I managed to regain some control over my own body. True, my dick continued to pulse harder and harder, and vocal capabilities continued to elude me, but at least I finally directed my eyes to rise high enough to meet hers. The wide, innocent, orbs I encountered there didn't help the other symptoms in the slightest.

I'll be honest, it wasn't like I hadn't had the occasional fantasy about her. They'd never fully formed, and I hadn't actually masturbated to thoughts of her or anything, but just as I stole glimpses of women, thoughts about what it might be like to see even more popped uninvited into me head. As it was, she'd already reached just about the limits of my idle pondering.

It was the way she looked at me which finally helped to break through the hormonal haze which gripped me. I'd seen the nervous, concerned, look before. It was the look of someone who had convinced herself, logically, that she had to do something but wasn't certain if it was the right thing.

Her bio said she was willing to do nudes, but that didn't mean she was truly ready for them. More likely, she saw the number of other models that listed them and felt the pier pressure to offer the same. Besides, many women were confident enough with a bathing suit or lingerie and those generally fell into the same category. Many photographers would pass on an underwear shoot if they didn't see the box marked.

"Don't worry, there's no need to push beyond any comfort zones. We'll do what you want, but the moment you feel the slightest uncertain, let me know. I might ask for specifics about what you don't like, but that's only so I know where to avoid and what might work instead."

It was more mumbled than my usual confident, sincere, speech. It wasn't that I was bothered by her nerves. My own lack of mental balance must have made me more susceptible to my primal urges. Not enough to keep my sense of professionalism (even though I'm only an amateur) alive but enough to cause me to falter.

The speech obviously bolstered Vanessa some. While the hesitation didn't vanish entirely, it faded into the background until it could no longer be seen in those twinkling eyes. Her shyness remained, as did the uncertainty, but they seemed founded in her inexperience rather than a lack of desire for the shoot.

"So," I delved into the planning, glad to finally have some measure of control over my voice once more, "what did you have in mind?"

Her head tilted slightly and she now had difficulty keeping eye contact. "I wanted to do something sexy."

I nodded, thinking I understood how the evening would play out. I already knew she was relatively new to modeling. While she had a fair grasp of poses and focus, she lacked the confidence to offer more than a handful of stock replies. There was enough range that she'd adapted to the various outfits I'd thrown her way but she'd probably practiced those before the mirror. Here, she knew what she wanted but hadn't the foggiest what it entailed.

"Well, that depends a little. Are you looking for sensual and suggestive? Do you want something dark and romantic? Maybe an imitation of spontaneity or voyeurism?"

Those innocent eyes widened with each suggestion. When he got to the last one, I could almost see her confusion cause her mind to skip. "Voyeurism?"

"Where the photo gives the impression that the subject, you, is unaware of the audience. Might actually be one of the easiest ways to slip into the concept since it works better if I keep something between you and myself. Almost like a primer for the shoot. Usually something like a shower scene or through the crack of a closet door or the like."

Her head shook vigorously in response to the idea. The tantalizing hints of flesh that peeked through her slightly open bathrobe amply demonstrated that her blush extended across her entire body. I suspected her embarrassment had more to do with an unexpected excitement over the concept than with disapproval. I vowed to remember to approach the subject sometime in the future, once she was more comfortable in general.

After a few moments more of silence, it became clear she wasn't even confident enough to suggest among the other possibilities. Given her nerves, it probably wouldn't be a good idea to suggest something like preparing food in the small kitchenette, that lined the near wall of the room, in her lingerie. Best to go with something more simple, even if it was a bit stale.

"Okay. How about something sensual, like basic poses on the bed?"

When she nodded, her blush grew deeper. Even that basic a concept caused her nerves to ratchet up a couple of notches. I could see the determination in her gaze, however, and knew enough not to suggest she didn't have to do any of it. This was her idea, her plan. She had something to prove to herself and if I convinced her to postpone, she probably wouldn't build up the courage again for quite some time.

I returned to the door and began collecting the materials I'd need. While still immersed in putting together my gear, she asked if I wanted the lights off or on. Without looking up, I asked her to leave on the small lamps on the wall on either side of the bed, but otherwise turn the others off. I barely noticed when the room darkened, as I set up the soft-box.

When I turned around, the bathrobe had been neatly folded on a chair well away from the bed that would be the setting for the shoot. As my eyes panned over to the bed they widened in surprise, slightly tinged with horror. Vanessa had her back to me and was in the process of pulling her baby-doll off!

"Wait!" I stammered. She turned, caution and shame in her eyes. "I thought you wanted to do something more sensual? Shouldn't we at least start with the lingerie?"

Meekly, Vanessa allowed the dress to drop back over her voluptuous frame. I smiled reassuringly and turned to quickly set up the camera and tripod. It wasn't that I had anything against her naked, I simply thought it would be better to allow her to work her way towards that state.

When I finally got the camera and lights positioned to my satisfaction, I looked up and smiled. She sat on the bed. Uncertainty radiated from her expression but her instinctive posture, half-sprawling and half-sitting, was a perfect place to begin her shoot. My fingers tightened on the shutter remote to capture the moment and she nearly jumped at the noise.

"Sorry. Just a quick candid. Whenever you're ready, we can start."

The smile that suddenly blossomed across her face would have been truly inspiring if it didn't seem so false. Likely, it was only my practiced eye that spotted the difference but I could tell only her determination kept her moving. It was all for show.

My heart nearly stopped in horror when she immediately shifted position. Her shoulders leaned back against the headboard. Her legs swung around, knees high in the air, until they practically framed the camera a few feet away. Her hand immediately slid down her crotch and a single finger plucked at the lacy fabric of her thong as if it would be pulled aside at any moment.

To me, this wasn't art. It wasn't a celebration of the female form. This wasn't even attractive. This was nothing more than base gratification for men who thought of women as nothing more than a warm place to put their cocks. I nearly cringed at the thought of where Vanessa might have come up with the idea that these poses could possibly be sexy, much less sensual.

Something of my thoughts must have shown in my expression. Either that or the blatant pause, when I should have probably been maniacally been snapping away with the camera, registered that something wasn't entirely right.

"What's wrong?" Her beautiful voice overflowed with near manic concern and no little self-consciousness. "You said basic poses, right? Or did you want me on my knees looking over my shoulder?"

The image of her in such a position, undoubtedly with her hand still prominently between her legs and a look of supposed orgasm plastered to her face, flashed into my brain. I'm more than a little ashamed to admit that the brief fantasy sent a pulse of longing straight to my groin. As much as I endeavor for artistic quality, those types of images still held some visceral appeal.

Somehow, I'd been under the impression that Vanessa had never done nudes before. That was clearly not the case. She was far from comfortable with them, true, but there was no question one of the less savory characters had already gotten to her. Frankly, I was impressed that she had even broached the subject given the obvious reluctance past experience (or maybe even experiences) had given her.

After a forced deep breath, I tried to explain how I felt to the poor young woman. "You want to do something sensual, right? Something that shows you're a beautiful woman in control of her sexuality?" She nodded so I continued. "While there's nothing really wrong with those kinds of poses, I've always associated them more with the more carnal aspects than artistic ones."