Behind His Lens Read Free

from my Upper West Side upbringing. But honestly, nothing tells someone they don’t matter to you quite like showing up late for a meeting or date.
    My body shuffles back and forth as I watch the numbers illuminate above the elevator doors. I’m silently praying to the speedy-elevator gods (they exist) when two girls come to stand next to me. I subtly slide my gaze toward them. From their wild pink and purple hair, I know right away they’re part of the hair crew. Why is it that people who do hair for a living always seem to have the wackiest styles themselves? Maybe they get bored with the same ol’ same ol’ everyday.
    “You’re Charley Whitlock, right?” The girl with pink hair asks shyly. When she speaks , I realize she’s probably close to my age, if not younger. She’s got bright pink eye shadow caked over her eyelids and solid black gages piercing her dainty ears. Total rocker chick. I wish I could pull off the look half as well.
    “Oh, um, yes.” I smile and take a sip of my coffee just as the elevator doors open and we step inside.
    I don’t get recognized very much, and honestly, it makes me more uncomfortable than anything else. That’s not why I became a model; it’s just a troubling side effect that comes along with it. I never had to worry about it in the past, but lately my jobs have picked up drastically. I’m doing more editorials and inserts than ever before. Obviously, my agent, Janet, is thrilled and keeps pushing me to do more and more, but soon I’ll have to tell her that I want to cut back. I model for the money and that’s it. Modeling isn’t my passion, not like painting is.
    I stumbled into modeling my senior year of college and everything happened in a flash. At the time, I’d been looking for a way to make ends meet, knowing I wanted to paint full time. Modeling honestly seemed like the perfect fit until I realized that my quiet life might soon be threatened.
    I shrug off the uneasy feeling and remind myself that the girl only recognize d me because she’s in the fashion industry, and she’s obviously working on the shoot. To most people I’m still a nobody.
    That reassuring thought settles the nerves that had bloomed in my stomach right as the elevator dings, alerting us that we’re on level three. The moment the doors slide open, the photo shoot unravels before me like a three-ring circus. Loud music pounds from a stereo system, pumping a heavy beat through the entire room. People are darting around in every direction. Stylists are picking accessories and shoes, while tossing away the rejects into a messy pile. Their assistants are steaming the wrinkles out of dozens of couture gowns that hang like pieces of art in need of worship. Photographers are already checking the lighting and marks for the planned shots.
    Even though the scene is a complete mess, it makes me smile. No one thinks about the manpower that goes into one single photograph in a magazine. You see the flawlessly airbrushed model and subconsciously want to buy whatever she’s wearing, but no one considers the assistant that had to hold the diffuser for three hours to block unwanted sh adows. I like seeing the behind-the-scenes of production; it makes the end result all the more amazing.
    “Where the hell is our model?” A deep voice suddenly snaps from behind the digital monitors set up for the director and head photographer. The gruff voice takes me by surprise and I have to swallow my nerves before answering.
    “I’m sorry I’m late! I lost track of time,” I chirp lamely. Deep Voice doesn’t even have the decency to raise his head above the monitors.
    “Charley, we need you in hair and makeup, please,” the art director, Mrs. Hart, chimes as she rounds the table away from the cranky photographer. Mrs. Hart is one of the best directors in the industry and I can’t believe I’m getting to work with her. Not to mention, at just shy of fifty, she still looks flawless. Everything about her oozes