Fountain of Sonic Youth

Was she getting under my skin, or was it simply my vanity? A newly minted Columbia College grad stood in front of me steaming a glittery, hot pink t-shirt that changes colors when it’s exposed to heat. No, she wasn’t my assistant, just some young fool working for cheap and I couldn’t wait to see her fail. It takes years of torture to be a killa photo stylist, such as I. Pity the fool who shows up in some over accessorized Forever 21 outfit and thinks they can own it. Pifff!

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched. She sang along to music and even performed a few air drum solos. SO FIRED, I thought.

Then I was humbled by this oddity. She was good. Real good for a newbie and I knew I had to up my game. How was this happening? This was like watching someone jump on a horse for the first time and win the Kentucky Derby! Rivaling Evil Knievel, the rider would soar through rings of fire, with arms raised, shooting off guns. A crowd of fans would embrace the rider with expectations of autographs and perhaps fortification.  I calmed myself down by remembering that strange things can happen. I mean, there are freaks of nature. She was one of them. One of those hermaphrodite types. Stink-eye to you, Ms. Columbia College!

We were together in the prep room She wanted to get to know me. Who wouldn’t? I am such a rock-star stylist. Now was when I would bring out the brag stories. I’d talk about location shoots (never mind the 20 hour day). I’d talk about working on exotic assignments for magazines (never mind editorial work pays dirt). She would want my autograph.

She was practicing her drum solo, listening to The Doors.

“You like them? The Doors?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“So, did you go to Woodstock?” she asked with a serious look.

Okay, WTF WOODSTOCK? Christ, I don’t even think I was born yet.Really. Do I look, OLDER THAN MY AGE?

[Death to a stylist. You are a granny. No more late night drink bingeing. Beauty rest, botox…MAKE AN APPOINTMENT! Get a walker…change the front stairs into a ramp, wear athletic pants and a matching hoodie. Steal jelly from the diner, complain about aches and pains, eat bland diet.]

“Ummm, no more like Lalapalooza, Woodstock was  like my parents generation, well except they were even too young,” I said (the latter part being a lie).

“Oh. Did you ever see The Doors in concert?” she pressed.

Annoyed, but keeping my calm I delivered, “Oh yes, I drove to the concert in my VW bus. I was of course tripping my brains out at the time. Really? Jim Morrison overdosed on smack in some shitty bathtub in Paris when I was like two years old. The closest I’ve gotten to The Doors is listening to them on the radio.”

The other stylists laughed. One said, “I just loved that movie with Val Kilmer and Meg Ryan.”

The new girl looked scared that I might steam her face off. She said,”Oh, I am not American you know. I am not sure about your holidays. You are cool. I feel sorry.”

I decided to turn the steamer off and whimpered  “It’s okay, but ‘Woodstock’ isn’t a holiday. It’s not Martin Luther King Day. And I am young! (I willed my audience) I’M NOT SOME HAG! LOOK AT ME, I’M WEARING A CUTE OUTFIT!” She broke me. I was not cool, but rather an insecure idiot wearing flowered jeans from Target. They set me back $11.

“So, do you like Sonic Youth?” she asked.

“Yes, and I have seen them in concert,” I said.

“Wow, so cool,” she said.

Finally a bridge to mend our gap! Right? Wrong. She thinks I’m an old toad. I think she should stop doing pretend drum solos and get off her phone. She should turn her music down and stop driving so fast. I’ve never seen her drive, but I’ll bet she has a million speeding tickets tucked in her wallet. And she’s probably on drugs like all the young kids. I’ll bet a sawbuck there are White Castle boxes all over the floor of her car.

She’s got nothing on me. Now excuse me, I have a lunch date with my mother to discuss Downton Abby.

Annie, get your gun

I don’t think that creative people need to suffer in order to produce art, but I do feel they need poetry in their soul. I just got back from a five-day location job where I learned something surprising about myself. I’ll do almost anything to be accepted and liked. Including ditch my poetic sensitivity and possibly join a cult. Well, maybe not a “cult” … but maybe an Elks Lodge if they would have me.

I’ve just returned from a job that had me in the wilds of northern Idaho. I was the only “lady” on this gig. The guys all knew how to handle a fishing rod and all sorts of guns. They had volumes of incredible near death experiences involving exotic travel and true macho man skill. Everyone swapped  stories about BIG fish they caught and as the exchange of conversation rallied,  I sat on the edge of my seat and wished that I could contribute. Frankly, I wanted to be one of the guys. Even the rugged model talked about cobia fishing and shooting ducks.

I’ve gone fishing with my husband and had a blast. But for me, it wasn’t so much about the size of the fish that I caught (a minnow) it was more about having fun. I had never shot a gun. I haven’t ever seen a purpose. In fact, I think the most violent thing that I’ve done was when I was I kid, I used to catch daddy long-legs and pull off their legs.

I started to feel like I wasn’t playing for the same team. Instead, I was an odd tourist wearing white gloves, eating tea sandwiches, and watching my reality show with opera glasses.

Day two, early in the morning, I was perched on a mountain and had to shimmy my way down a sharp incline that lead to a creek. This is where  I adjusted my models waders and fussed with a box of flies. Looking down at us, I noticed two spectators. One was a pretty girl. When I made my way up the hill, she introduced herself. Petite, blond, with clear blue eyes and beautiful despite no make-up. I could tell right away, she was the great sharpshooter, Annie Oakley. Even though she introduced herself as, “Ashley” I knew better.

I imagined her next target as me. I’d back up and stand alone in a dusty field with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. Annie would point her rifle at me and a second later, the cigarette would explode into a firework of  loose tobacco. Next, I’d back up a thousand more feet, toss-up a buffalo nickel and duck as the bullet sailed through the coin.

Later in the day, we spotted her. She was shooting chipmunks and plenty of ’em. Not once did she miss her mark. She was Little Sure Shot. This girl ranked and I wanted to be her new BFF. I’ve never wanted to kill something so bad. I was craving the rush of a fresh chipmunk slaughter. Screw shooting at some stupid can or a plastic bottle. Then I imagined myself graduating to bigger and better game.

I’d get off the airplane when I returned home and instead of giving my husband a t-shirt as a souvenir, I’d hand over a jagged edged mouse ear and tell him the rest of my kill was being shipped to the house. Danger is my middle name.

Not.

I screamed when I shot the gun. I didn’t hit shit (and let me tell you there was plenty of steaming piles). I’m just a girl who likes lip gloss and cute shoes. (Sorry) I did like getting dirty and actually I think this trip was more poetic then I would have thought. Allowing yourself to be curious about something you may not embrace can open a door to a whole new life perspective. Shootin’ guns is pretty fun, but I’d never aim for a living creature. I think my skill is more along the lines of dancing by the light of the moon.

...just another day at work.

The mean reds

Work is slow. Idle time can make me worry and think, “crap! am I washed up? Is this it? Am I a hack?”

The photo biz in Chicago is a bit stagnant. It’s all in far away places, or hidden from me. So, I’ve been watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s and feeling a lot like the main character, Holly Golightly.

I’m nothing fancy, but like Holly Golighty, I delight in the treasures life puts before me. It helps take the edge off my rotten anxiety. It’s not just a gem from Tiffany’s that I find attractive. Simple beauty in life moves me. I get excited by things like a feather, a glass marble, a wrinkle in someone’s skin. I love color, shapes, texture. I melt looking at beautiful photography.

Here is an excerpt from the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s:

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?
Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat and maybe it’s been raining too long, you’re just sad that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
Paul Varjak: Sure.
Holly Golightly: Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany’s. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that’d make me feel like Tiffany’s, then – then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name!

Finally the phone rang, and it was my BFF, Beyoncé*. She was all up in my face like, “Girl, you’re a survivor and don’t forget it. You know I wrote that song about you. Why don’t you make yourself useful and update your portfolio! Sure, I remember when you used to rock out wearing a side pony-tail, but that was a long time ago, and now you’ve got taste. Put some of that personal style in your book.”

The side pony tail comment made me wonder if there is a scrapbook circulating around the Industry with blackmail photos of me dorked out. Was there an inter-office envelope sent around to bookers who are now keeping me at arm’s-length?

It’s true, not everyone is born with taste. As much as I’d like to think that I bounced into the world with style in my DNA, that’s far from honest. I used to walk around wearing leg warmers and a headband that I made out of Swatch watches. I also used to wear a different color Chuck Taylor high top on each foot. Right was pink, left purple. Fake hair, cardigan sweaters worn backwards, combat boots, layered Izods with the collars up, tie-dye, Jam shorts, ripped cut offs with fish net stockings, stupid hats and tight bike riding shorts were in my style kit. I once went dancing at the Smart Bar wearing a night gown. I also had head gear. No shit. Let’s get real … truth be told, I was born poor and although I wish my first spoken word was something like “Gucci goo,” it was, “hot dog,”

Beyoncé was right. I need to show the world a few things. Eventually it’s time to stop the mean reds from taking over.

Over the course of the past couple of months, I’ve worked on adding fresh material to my portfolio.  I’ve been working on concepts, art directing, and styling. Involved from the bottom up, I put together a great crew for this photo shoot, my “Girl Power!” team: photographer Mandy Gray, hair and make-up by Michelle Balaz, and models Erika Milde and little Ella.

Take a peek at the shoot, which I’ve called “the Tiffany’s project.” I put enough shit on my credit card to move to Australia, but so what? It all went back without a hitch. It was a lot of fun and I felt that same quietness and pride  that Holly felt when she would step inside Tiffany’s. BTW, I’m taking calls, accepting job offers and yes, I clean windows!

 

* Irish people lie.

I wouldn’t eat that…

… before I take a picture of it! Cooking with family is one of my earliest and most fond memories. There is something about food, not just the taste, but even the preparation that I find comforting. When I was five years old, I would watch Julia Child and wish so much that I could be a guest at her decorated table. If invited, I would even bring the wine.

Soon curiosity lead me into the kitchen where my parents eagerly taught me basics. First, was learning to stir things like eggs, or ratatouille. Then making meatballs, and hamburgers. By the time I reached junior high, I mastered baked Alaskan, béchamel sauce, the perfect steak, and homemade French fries. While my roommates in college where living on Jimmy John’s sub sandwiches and pop tarts, I would sit down and with white-gloved hands, I’d  eat my signature dish, chicken piccata.

Now, my passion for food has developed into food styling … not easy! Rarely is food photo friendly. Just like a model, the stuff on your plate isn’t really a natural beauty.  Think about the heat from photo lights that can kill food on set. Also, consider your average bag of something like potato chips. Discovering a perfect chip in a bag is  sometimes harder than finding a snack that looks like the Virgin Mary. Not all food photography is honest. Good styling requires a skill to doctor up products to give them a real wow factor. Sometimes that means using glue, glycerin, searing meat for a brown color (but beware it is raw inside), substituting Crisco and mashed potato flakes to make ice cream,  or use a blowtorch to brown meats and casseroles that are barely roasted, etc.

With the advancements in digital photography, stylists now have an advantage of working with more natural food.  Photography is faster so food won’t die on set like it did in the past. Personally, I like to cook things as real as they are and work with the natural beauty and caramelization that occurs.

Knife skills, piping, and color balance are all essential. So is speed and the ability to squeeze into a small set.

In the constrained and humble surroundings of my modest dining room, my husband, photographer Greg Neise and I have started a photo project shooting food. We’ve been working with natural light, and two small strobes. It’s been a challenge to keep the backgrounds unique for each shot. Take a look at what we’ve done in our little studio.

I always liked how Julia Child cooked with lots of wine and seemed to be having fun on her show. We do the same thing and incorporate cocktails into shots. What’s better than celebrating life with a great meal and drink? I want my shots to convey a feeling of good times! This life after all, is my party.

Champagne and caviar tray.
Soft-boiled eggs with toast points, bacon-wrapped peaches and Bellinis.
Mini Manhattans
Mini bread bowl with spaghetti and sauce, topped with a meatball.
Mini reubens atop potato-leek soup shots.
3 mango tarts, by Maggie's Creations Pâtisserie.
Macarons by Maggie's Creations Pâtisserie.

 

 

 

…and bring a snake.

“You brought some crazy stuff, ” said Mac Hauser, referring to the wardrobe I brought for our photo shoot.

Crazy? Wow. I’d done it. Mac Hauser, the iconic portrait photographer who absolutely embraces the freaky, was calling my suitcase full of stuff, “crazy”!? This, coming from a man who four hours before our scheduled photo shoot, emailed to request that I bring a large, live snake.

I told him I was afraid that the snake might escape while I was driving and slither around my neck. Then I would freak out and get into a car accident. Or, I would arrive at the studio with the snake and it would wind up in the rafters of his studio and I would have to shoot it.

“Good crazy, or bad crazy? ” I asked.

“Good crazy. I like everything except that ugly suede vest thing with the sun on it, but I’ll shoot it. Clients, they’ll tell you they want crazy, so you give them crazy and they go nuts. They want boring … except once I was shooting for Diesel and they couldn’t get enough crazy. I had a model on set with a dog pissing on her, and the client loved it!”

I met Marc many years ago at a party. I was out with five of my guy friends and we stumbled into a very chi chi loft where all the ladies had manicured hands and cocktail dresses. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with an Eames chair on it,  a cardigan sweater that had giant dolman sleeves, and puma shoes. I wasn’t at all comfortable in this hoity-toity environment, so I immediately calmed my nerves with a perfectly prepared dirty martini. I could ice skate on that slushy drink.

After proper inebriation, I made my way to the fancy food table. There was an exotic spread of appetizers that looked like it had just been flown in from Paris. The buffet had all these natural wicker, Easter type baskets that contained the food. Giant candelabrum and votives were creating an alluring ambient light.

I reached over to pop some goodie in my mouth when suddenly, my sweater caught the flicker of a flame. I watched with wide eyes as the flame spread around the wide cuff of my sleeve and I thought to myself, “Wow, this looks like a hoop of fire that a little puppy could jump though“. I started to wave my hand, in an attempt to extinguish the now spreading fire. I’d lit a basket on fire, too. The pâté was smokin’ and Carr’s Water Crackers were burning.

The background noise of the party sounded very much like Charlie Browns teacher, “Wha, wha, wha, wha, whah!”

“Help,” I choked and watched all those trixie bitches at the party, who were ignoring me. THEY WANTED THE WHITE TRASH TO BURN. I was like the hired help and the only reason I hadn’t been kicked out was because I’d arrived with five very hot guys.

That’s when my friend Miko ran over to me, knocking me to the ground like Brian Urlacher. Together, we rolled around on the highly polished floor and suddenly the party stopped partying and looked at us. They thought we were rolling around like young crazy lovers.

The spectators where delighted and gave us a round of applause.

Marc Hauser sat in a chair, perched above me from my vantage point on the floor.

“Hey,” he said to me.

“Hay, is for horses,” I said.

We left shortly later, but not before I probably had ten more drinks and stuffed my face with food.  Then we were off like thieves in the night.

Miko: “Okay, so you met Marc Hauser and all you had to say is, ‘Hay is for horses?’ Really??”

Me: “Dude, I was on frickin’ FIRE.”

Whatever, the guys all still called me the following Friday to go out and get drunk. And years later, Marc is my friend. Here’s what we did yesterday:

Model: Victoria Larsen. Makeup: Aga Kaskiewicz. Hair: Frankie. Concept and styling: Erin Butler. Photographs by Marc Hauser.