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Many moons ago (7.5 years to be exact) I used to work in downtown SF. The empire of PG&E supported me through graduate school, and I learned about Unix, and mostly I befriended engineers while frequenting Stacey’s bookstore, Specialty’s deli/bakery, and Henry’s
Hunan . Highlights of my tenure there also included protesting at the Indonesian embassy and watching PacBell park under construction.
I am back at Stacey’s bookstore after lunch and I think I just got hit on by like possibly the most un-smooth young man I have ever met. He was visibly nervous, but kind of sweet and the utter lack of suave was a bit endearing as it was so damned funny.
First of all, he came up and said “excuse me ma’am…I’m a photography student…”
For starters, I don’t think anyone should refer to a potential interest as “ma’am”
He asks me, in a rapid mumble, if I would consider modeling for him since he is a photographer “just starting out” and also adds that I have a great look, the right body type, the right skin tone. He reiterates 2 or 3 times that he is trying to obtain a “mature look”. I think he is trying to imply that this is not amateurish/cheesecake, but perhaps he is implying he into old(er) women or that I look very mature?! Geez, I think it’s funny but many a woman would storm off in a huff at such an implication.
I wonder if I should be alarmed or irritated that he is talking about my ‘body type’ at all. But this isn’t the first time a random photog has approached me, and at least this one was not giving me a single one of those “ewwww” vibes as had all the others. No inappropriate surruptitous glances or inappropriate affect. (this is starting to sound like a mental status exam.) But do people not realize there is something inherently hella creepy about approaching a strange woman and asking to take photos of her!? Or perhaps I am merely old-fashioned, and in this age of reality TV other people grab any limelight they can get.
I observe that this boy has almost perfect skin, enviable really, and I sort of go into my own reverie about skin care issues. Actually he also has very nice black eyeglass frames. I have very nice black patent leather boots that keep me taller than he is.
He also offers to pay me for my time. He babbles a bit in a way that assumes I have modeled before. But when I ask what is his project he has nothing specific, no concept nor assignment. Now, any photographer or agent doof worth their salt knows I am far too vertically challenged to professionally model. And those who know my history know that I retired from pageantry and that whole
L.A. scene more than 10 years ago.
My mind also wanders off to the fact that actually, I have been wishing I could find a skilled portrait photographer. A friend of mine in
Taipei took a series of what in the
U.S. is termed “boudouir portraiture”. I used to think it was something cute and cheesy that women did to produce pin-up calendars of themselves for their spouses.
But I am reaching an age where it occurs to me that I’ll want to preserve for posterity the yoga/running firmness I have currently attained, as well as to preserve bodily integrity (nothing lost yet to cancer, and my current surgery scars well-hidden). For me, 32 was a hundred times better than 22. But I know that 42 and 52 will not necessarily be so… but I’d certainly prefer a seasoned female photographer for a project like that!
Part of me wonders if the boy is doing therapy “homework”. You know, like when we make our socially anxious clients promise to talk to 2 strangers during the week and then report back to therapy and we will process the experiences.
That therapist in me automatically seeks to reduce his anxiety, since that is what I do. I say some randomly encouraging things and point out I know many photographer friends so I know about needing to assemble portfolios blahblah.
Look, e-mail me your ideas or maybe I can link you to some other photographers, I say.
He starts to inquire about whether I need someone to do my manicures or make up for me. I raise an eyebrow. I think: Seriously, do I look that high maintenance?! We both look at my long, but naked fingernails. I advise him to keep things simple, as I do. And again tell him he needs to chat with other photogs.
He looks at my card-“You’re a psychologist!”
And then asks to be my client.
Seriously.
Asks if I take his HMO and what my fees are.
Good lord, this conversation is getting weirder by the minute.
OK, so maybe he isn’t doing therapy homework right now if he’s not currently in treatment.
At any rate, I need to get back to Anne Lamott & Anne Patchett (if you’ve not yet read Bel Canto yet, READ IT. Or I’ve ploughed through 100 pages of Truth & Beauty just on the BART ride home). He thanks me for talking with him, and disappears back into the book stacks again. Go figure.
Back to the bookstore. I was browsing in the Writer’s reference section as my current self-project is to revive the soul of that writer within.
Poor dear fell into a coma during the institutional trauma of my graduate school years.
In retrospect I wasn’t quite ladylike, squatting in tight jeans and reading away…vaguely debating between plopping down on the carpet to read some more or to stand up and buy the book.
I bought 2 books, mentally listed about 10 more, renewed my long expired Stacey’s “Literary License”, and basked in this rare SF sunshine walking all the way back to my office. And fantasized about moving somewhere I could wear a bikini every single day.
In my company, the “Jesus Loves you” placard holding guy, alongside the man yelling obscenities at an imaginary friend, the heavily made up transvestite with alarmingly prominent nipples and make up, the Oracle world attendees, the Harujuku looking kids, and then the beauties of my day:
A baby with a poof of hair, she sat in a stroller amongst other babies and strollers. I noticed her because of her beautiful features. She was one of those children so lovely that occasionally brings out the rare baby-snatching urge in me. Mom is Asian, and baby is also partly African or African American-and she was smiling and waving fervently. I had to look and see whom she was waving to, it was another little girl, a
Latina girl being led away by the hand, but the two had locked gazes and smiles.
I smiled to myself, and turned to see an old woman in a knit hat caressing and smelling a white bloom by the side of the bank. One among many, blooming between the wrought iron and the concrete wall, but a beauty within the cacophony. That made me smile too, and pause to admire the endurance of any plant that survives downtown SF. A Grateful Dead lyric comes to mind, “you’re as mighty as the flower, that will grow the stones away.”
I need to do more writing, about anything and everything
and less reading/fermenting/obsessing.
Hence, this snippet of my minutes on
Market Street-call it an exercise in literary free association.
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