the Photographer’s preamble :

a proper introduction

I wanted to be a model far longer than I ever wanted to be a photographer.

I could have easily left you in the dark. I could have easily failed to acknowledge and to appreciate the beautiful, messy, and in periods — futile process.

Why hang on to it any longer? It happened, give it peace. Look at it, but not for too long so that it does not grab a hold of you and sink its very well-manicured teeth into your fiery loins.

Let it go, doll. Just let it go. The hell with pertinence. ‘Catch and release.’ Let’s not let it go like a fart in the wind this time. ‘Catch and release.’ In a way, I do concur with this concept — the ‘saying your part and going about your business’ spiel, but I want to inspect the teeth first.

We don’t need to floss this time around; that’s laborious. We get so tired so easily, especially at both ends of the 24-hour clock. The bones for me will always be with the 12th hour, but time is always relative isn’t it? Let’s swish and swirl this anecdote about; and be an open mouth to all.

Selective memory has performed its job very well on numerous levels and in numerous occasions — a grade ‘A’ taskmaster it has been.

Leaving this anecdote out of the Peter Pan & Hookers saga would be leaving out a major part of my story in regards to what I enjoy doing everyday for a living and why I do it. The circuitous, albeit, blessed journey is responsible for shaping the woman you see today. Leaving this tale unaccounted for would ultimately be a disservice to you — the viewer.

The ‘why’ and the ‘how’ would remain loosely suspended in the nostalgic dust of the unspoken-for mind, leaving you with a sunny 75 — an easy-to-read & decipher cliff note, but not the whole fable.

For you, I leave no stone unturned.

I wanted to be a model far longer than I ever wanted to be a photographer.

January 2009 — it was the start of my second year in college.

I just switched my major from marketing to journalism. My classes were picked and I had just received the cash into my bank account to purchase my books for the forthcoming semester from my dad.

The crest had truly lived up to its shiny promise! And so did my dad — that was part of the agreement.

What’s wrong with this (mental) picture?

Two days prior to the official beginning of the semester — I dropped out of college, for the second time.

(I dipped my toe in a local watering hole in Florida; but we both had irreconcilable differences. After taking a brief, monthly-long hiatus in New York City shortly thereafter, I wanted to try my luck again. My roommate in New York lit that atomic flare under my ass. So, I gave college another shot, fair and square — this time in Nevada.)

Though I had the money in my bank account to purchase the books I needed for my classes, the funds to pay for my room & board and out-of-state tuition fees were not available. (My junior/senior year shenanigans ensured that my 4.2 GPA would partially pay my way through in terms of grants, which I was more than grateful for; however, I was an out-of-state student — that fact doesn’t come cheap.

My dad was amazing at organizing these kinds of monetary arrangements, especially when it had to do with his daughter’s education; yet, this time… nothing was moving, only the cockamamy shrinking of time. I was two days away from being homeless on the streets of Las Vegas, but at least my books were more than paid for. That actually gave me some grace and a taste of levity in the grand scheme of things. I just didn’t think my roommate, Jewel, would let me crash under her bed for a whole semester.

(That’s actually.. mildly creepy when you think about it.)

I purchased a one-way ticket to London with the controversial book money; it was a hell of a lot cheaper than going to Sydney, Australia.

A potential ‘love’ interest was the case, a love interest that faded very quickly from the scene within a few months — a much older English expat who I happen to base last semester’s English term paper on, a paper that even my grad student professor was shockingly impressed with.

“Essays based on love never fair very well.” I smile when I think about that almost A-.

REWIND!

Although, college was inevitably on my radar – being a model was always my real dream; a dream that no one outside of my immediate family — my sister and my mom — even knew about. .. for obvious reasons. My grandmother, my father’s mother, already called me a ‘loser’ the first time I dropped out of college. (Let’s add more fuel to the fire, why don’t we?) College was just a back-up; the side gig for insurance. Facing the possibility of homelessness, I took advantage of this opportunity. This was a sign from the universe telling me to go after my dream. I’m 20 years old, I have no responsibilities, and the world is my crunchy oyster. It was now or never again.

I was obsessed with London’s fashion scene — past and present. I wanted to be part of their future. I knew that London would be the destination where my modeling career would take off.

I adored the Swinging 60’s. TWIGGY was my idol. The Kinks and The Rolling Stones were always keeping me awake during my 5 A.M shifts at McDonald’s when I was saving up for my marriage visa. I adored photographers like David Bailey and Brian Duffy — the English ‘avant – garde.’ Their work, their vision, and how they photographed their subjects always spoke to me on such a deep level. I wanted to be those models. I wanted to be fashion’s muse. I’ve always had a fond respect for the British. I wanted to be in the epicenter of a new revolution.

America’s Next Top Model was my tele-communicative Bible. Prior to relocating to Nevada, my family and I drove to Miami so that I could attend one of the casting calls for the forthcoming season.

Miami is a fresnel in the sky — so much wealth, so much glass, and paper maché palm trees with plastic tears cutting into the skyscrapers’ eyes with their leather and silver-studded engines.

Nothing was real outside of the casting house. I remember keeping my eyes pealed for my family and for the nearest restroom. I really thought Tyra would show up. Would she be the one to discover me? I really hope she didn’t read my casting application.

Fast forward!

TPA – LHR

(Pre-Launch)

I found myself on the corner of Waters Avenue dressed inside of a chicken suit on one blissful summer’s day in north Tampa.

While salt was never a predominant ingredient in my regimented meals, it surely was now.

A new Miami-based Cuban restaurant chain was planting it’s flag firmly into the Tampa Bay area. Craigslist heard my multitude of pleads & cries and immediately answered. I was two months away from my departure. I needed to have a comfortable nest egg for my trip, and I needed it yesteryear. I re-discovered Madonna’s first album in that suit. And yes — I was burning up. The running man also had its unique, moreover, short revival — admittedly, a half-assed one; I often frequent the next door neighbors’ to borrow copious amounts of rhythm.

I shockingly heard very few obscenities from the passing cars; I received more air-based kisses and honks for ‘good luck’ than the said former. Did I mention the free chicken entrées that I received during my shifts?

The shifts were fast. The shifts were easy. The money was lucrative. This time, I could keep my clothes on.

I will never forget my high school principal, Ms. Parker, recanting the tale of a parent watching me slide down from a very greasy pole to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” at a certain West Kennedy Boulevard exotic dancing establishment.

Mr. S never let me hear the end of it either.

That was hard. I have nothing but respect for those who enter that line of work.

TPA – LHR (Take 1)

London Heathrow – Terminal 5. My cozy, plush central London flat that I had saved up for – never came to pass; the roommate never came; nor ever existed.

Craigslist helped me this far, but unfortunately, let me down when I really needed it the most. Henri, a South African expat and former soldier, the imminent light at the end of the big smokey tunnel — a friend from the List; who lived in nearby Staines (now Staines-upon-Thames) came to my rescue. Everything really would be Ali G in the end, innit?

The other half of the money that I saved up from my chicken gigs was thankfully never sent; I had some time. Henri never asked for anything in return during my stay. Salami, Red Leicester, and mayonnaise on white — toasted to light golden-brown perfection served with that great American smile along with the equally exemplary customer service sufficed as temporary currency. .. or so I thought. That, and I had to ‘infiltrate’ an anti-white South African community seminar in Balham.

Henri sent me out the door one day and pointed me to the nearest rail station after I told him of my London plans. A long “queue” upon the suns-up on the tracks, the sucking of the teeth to my very flat American — I never really appreciated the very flat phonetic undertones of my south Jersey dialect; how would I? This was the first time that I had left American shores. We don’t have accents. Moreover, life has finally blessed me with this golden opportunity to sync with it and to stretch with it. And have mercy — was I ready to impress! The flat phonetics belted out, “I WOULD LIKE TO GO TO LONDON!” in a train conductor’s matter-of-fact retort. The station worker’s English sounded far too English for me to comprehend. The long “queue” and the sucking of their teeth didn’t exactly expedite the process, yet access to the city was eventually granted .. along with a somewhat passive smile mixed with an almost subtle long lost-dog pity. The smell of stale puke at the 09:59 call outside of Waterloo Station served as my Hollywood sign. My journey began. I was in love.

Henri parlayed his role as temporary ‘protector’ into managerial role overnight after hearing about my aspirations for the Big Smoke. After waking up one morning, I saw Henri trace one of his index fingers along the edges of The Sun newspaper — in the direction of Page 3, a section dedicated to glamour models getting their kits off for the men at work. They were doing it for Queen and country — it was their God-given duty, alright. Why shouldn’t I do the same? He took my pictures — and maybe that really was the end of it. An equestrian he was not, but he thanked me in Kays — post-codes were still new to me. A diamond geezer, he was not; although, he had unerringly sorted me out in either occasion. Stock-still on the living room floor, I had the memento to prove it — a taste of the Motherland.

A man with a camera from south London — a seasoned industry pro — also took my pictures. .. more than Henri did — maybe that really was the end of that. I really wanted my portfolio, but the salty air-conditioned bubbles was not really worth the top-tier trophy at the end of the day. The collegiate pink digital face stared me down until I was blue in the face .. or the purple to my coffee. The competition gave me the right away alright — straight into the rusty flat bins.

My sister called me after my second week in England.

Apparently, my gynecologist has been trying to reach me for weeks. It was imperative that I take the next flight home, because of the results that came back from a cervical cancer sweep that was performed shortly before my departure; in addition to being prescribed a year’s worth of birth control pills for the excursion.

The results weren’t looking so hot. I wanted out and I wanted home. .. IMMEDIATELY.

LHR – TPA

Heathrow Terminal 5 was where my journey started and where it would untimely end.

I spent the entire multi-legged flight home digging up my first and last recollections of the past two weeks, in particular — the food.

The cheese was so mature… so FULL.. and so ZESTY. Parlez vous français? I can taste the fungus — bleu had me at ‘hello.’ Have mercy, that chutney was slipping me that fine marmalade whenever ‘pudding’ was served. The bread was the most real, authentic tasting (version) that I ever had since frequenting the Amish markets as a child with my mother in Medford. I ate the bread by the loaves, I mean, baguettes. Back home, you couldn’t pay me to eat a sandwich, let alone a piece of bread — I could always taste the chemicals. I could do hoagies — or ‘subs,’ to those who are not from the tri-state area. Hoagies disguised the chem-trails.

The ‘fizzy brown’ was infused with 0 corn by-products as such; the milk was actual milk — the milk that our parents drank when they were kids — the kind where the cream firmly settled at the very top. Equally so, this new milk didn’t produce hair on your chest either, if you were a chick. Thankfully, I was never a victim. The MOOO was not constantly being re-called or bio-engineered either. The vegetables actually had flavor and so much of it… naturally. Non-flammable flavor — that’s what I wanted.

I place so much emphasis on the food, because of the annoying food ‘allergies’ that I had inherited as a child, particularly to apples.

In the UK — I could eat as many apples as I wished — far usurping my heart’s naturally generous and ever expanding share; it would be the same during my residency in the Netherlands.

I also succinctly remember commenting on how at peace my taste buds were after having eaten chocolate in a new land. Unfortunately, I’ve always experienced a distinctive aftertaste after feasting on a certain domestic chocolate brand back home.

TPA – LHR (Take 2)

The screening results were inaccurate.

My London plans, my London energy, my London dreams, were they all for naught?

I couldn’t go back to Vegas now; I couldn’t give up.

Sure, the military tempted me. My dad would be proud at last, but London and modeling had my heart.

It was time to go back.

While failing to find suitable accommodation for my second round; I managed to make an online friend through Gumtree — the British, less ‘controversial’ version of Craigslist. Most people on Gumtree sold pets, furniture, and let flats. The search for platonic friendships was somewhat of a second thought.

“Hi, I’m Dan. I’m 26. And I work in I.T.” That’s all he said. I trusted Daniel’s voice, and I trusted his words. I trusted his laugh through our long-distance phone calls, and even through the reoccurring misspellings of ‘BABTY’ ‘BABTY’ ‘BABTY’ on Skype.. or was that on my behalf?

He could’ve easily been a serial killer.. so unsuspecting.. I’m still here, aren’t I?

I trusted Daniel with my dreams and aspirations.

I barely had a dixie cup to comfortably piss in. Being half homeless in London was far better than being totally homeless in Las Vegas.

I was half-homeless, because I was not allowed to stay in Danny’s shared flat while he was at work during the day — his flatmates’ decision. I had to make myself scarce.

On the weekends, Danny’s parents in Wales took me in — I ate like a champ, slept in a warm bed, and brushed up on my all-time favorite Brady Bunch euphemisms.

From the few and far between sun-filled days where I would sit in Acton Green and pass the hours away by reading my favorite Vivienne Westwood biography, studying all of the supermodels from A-Z, learning about 18th century British maritime, or compiling lists of modeling agencies — McDonald’s was my headquarters and first class accommodation. I even had the coupons to prove my loyal and lofty residence. I walked 6-9 miles a day to and from Danny’s Chiswick flat to every modeling agency in central London. My signature Sambas and my iPod mini were worth more than their weight in gold. And yes — I was still burning up.

I often envied the people I saw making their way down to the Underground stations. To me, this was a luxury that only a Russian oligarch or an Arab sheikh could afford. I had to substitute Thursday’s meal for a single ride on the bus. Sometimes, I cried for an hour and then had a dry spell for a whole month. That month then turned into two. I still held my head up high; I was just wearing a neck brace at this point — flesh toned. Some agencies fought hard, but the final word was never declared.

I promised myself I would never become jaded. The small parts looked to history as the ‘just in case,’ because the hoodies were getting moldy, and my underwear was feeling stale. The staple ‘wife beater’ and grey trilby were saving graces to the true blue skinnies and the signature Sambas. I gave up and stopped caring about all the essential perms and touchups that I had missed out on. I got tired of being thirsty. I got tired of being hungry. The chicken suit for the soul was finally running out. The 10 pounds a week sustained my addiction to the ‘real’ bread and chocolate that I often craved. Starch for starch, it did my body good.

I had a way of making the tens work for me. It’s funny, when the tens refused to cooperate — I was fed by a couple of Russian hands while napping on one of the green benches of Hyde Park’s main runways. No commission was ever warranted in return — only good, ‘stimulating’ conversation, followed by two adequately portioned Greek starters and the shared symbiotic lamb for the main. Our fleeting relationship was established early on — no confusion; and must I reiterate, no commission was ever warranted. This must have been one of my Guardian Angels. I’ve never met anyone from Russia before, I dug the Henry Miller specs.

I hated asking my mother for help due to my limited visa status, which hopefully would indefinitely change as soon as I was signed. I hated asking my mother for help in general, because I knew that she was struggling to pay her rent. I did not want her to answer that phone anymore! She never had any of it; she knew that it was my dream; she knew about the future. It’s what she wanted to do. I did not want her to answer that damn phone!

Mom made sure that my birthday and Christmas came all at once and in advance — when I had least expected it.

As ‘little’ as I had, each day was brand spankin’ new to me. I never knew what would happen when I woke up and left Danny outside of Stamford Brook Station. I never knew if that 10 pounds my Mom sent me via Western Union would arrive in time so that I could happily exchange my golden ticket for some golden digits.

Sometimes it was a blizzard. On the occasion, it was sunny with a flash of lightning. Other times, it was sooty grey with every chance of hail. I was never afraid. I was tired, but I was excited about the thrill. Pop-punk got me through the trenches of rush-hour walkers!

I knew that I was going to be okay, especially at the end of the day when I returned to Daniel.

The thing about Daniel is that he is a man that is quiet in nature; but thunderous in his actions. He made the evenings worthwhile. Dinner was always made. Wednesday’s baths were always drawn. Chiswick Main Road was our playground on payday. If and when he had it, then I always I had it. We made it until my visa ran out. We played catch, and then we decided to tie the knot.

AN ENTRY OF MARRIAGE

(I SWORE THAT I WOULD NEVER WORK AT MCDONALD’S!)

Two breakfast burritos, one hash-brown, and one biscuit served as my shift-meal everyday. I never got tired of it.

I’ll never forget how the picture in my marriage visa looked. Let’s just say.. that I looked like how one would look if they consumed said-diet everyday for 5 months straight.

There is definitely something to be said about those golden arches. I was once a stuck-up little brat who swore that I would never be caught dead working at McDonald’s, but where did I seek shelter across the pond? Who granted those golden tickets that I cashed in on a daily basis? Yes! The golden arches once again came to my rescue! 5 A.M – 1:30 P.M paid for the one-way ticket and covered the marriage visa fee.

That was the most rewarding job I ever had, and honestly; that was THE job where I had the most fun. Drive-thru was the hardest first day; the counter was the friendliest adventure — that’s where I set up shop.

My boss was amazing; by far, the best one I ever had. It’s a shame, I don’t remember his name now; still, I could describe him to the T. He had killer boots and a killer bike. He knew that I wasn’t the fastest, but I always carried a smile, and gave my all.

I took pride in everything I did during my time there. Boy, did I ever have fun dunking those fries.. or adding the extra toy in one or several happy meal boxes. I had so much respect for what I did, and the same for my colleagues.

I stripped back the ‘hard’ that I gave to people and to their circumstances. I was too hard on the snap-on, snap-off shell. I appreciated every single one of my co-workers: their situations, their backgrounds, their dreams, their aspirations, their well-being, their …human-ness.

Some faces were hard, some were soft, and some were made hard.

I was apathetic when I started.

The golden arches off of Gulf-to-Bay.. I wonder where everyone is now.

LHR – AMS

(The Honeymoon Years)

A New Birth

I huffed. I puffed.. and I blew — with all my might, and with all my will!

I’ve really only begun to appreciate the long-winded, anfractuous route. I’m at that point in my life where I am finally basking in the light at the end of the tunnel. I was stuck in traffic for most of it — northern Virginia got nothin’ on this.

Although, the vault was never successfully penetrated, a door had opened up for me when I had least expected it. After permanently moving to London after Daniel and I got married in 2010, I realized that I had to get my life in order. I had new responsibilities; it wasn’t just about me anymore. I had to grow the fuck up — for all of us. Modeling was never going to leave the forefront; I was just open to finding another route into that world.

Utilizing my past studies in journalism and in marketing — I accepted internships with various renowned men’s magazines which spun the course of two years. During this time, that’s when photography hit me like a bat out of hell. I oversaw many photographers, many shoots, and many campaigns. I got to witness the full dissection. It was also the first time that I had ever used the term ‘liase’ and ‘client’ in a sentence. Who was the big girl now?

I didn’t just want to witness the full dissection; I wanted to learn the mechanics of it all. Photography sent electricity through my body like nothing else did and I felt it instantaneously .. more-so than I had with the idea of modeling. I fell head-over-heels in love. I never looked back. I couldn’t even see anything else; I was deaf to the world.. the old world.

I wanted to learn and I wanted to learn on film. By this time, my internships had ended and I immediately hit the streets and started working in a slew of pubs, night clubs, and wine bars. I upheld every position there was to hold. Who knows? Maybe I’ll open up a bar of my own one day.

I bought an el cheapo LOMO LUBITEL-166B camera off of eBay, purchased some film, and began the millions of trials and the billions of errors that proceeded. Cost did not matter to me, because I knew having those skills to produce images the ‘traditional’ way and to process AND develop my own film would forever be invaluable… like sewing, learning how to churn butter, making fire from ice, or changing a tire.

I’ve sourced my own models, make-up artists, and stylists from across Europe to help my photography evolve and to grow; in addition to constructing original written storyboards and mood-boards during my combined residences in London and in the Netherlands. The continent became my very own merry-go-round. How can you not take advantage of such a vast super stage? Photography is a never ending learning curve; and I believe the most exciting one. Every shoot, every experience presents limitless possibilities to continue evolving and growing as an artist and visionary.

I fell madly in love in 2010 when I had least expected it. I have not put my camera down since.

The heart’s turned on, the mind’s tuned in. The blood’s now pumping and boiling at full-throttle and open to more possibilities than ever before. The art of creating is boundless, so is the imagination.

My feet are firmly planted on the ground, my shit-kicker boots are pounding at the heels, and two rolls are comfortably tucked and protected in each denim holster. Thine eyes are awake. Thine eyes patiently allow.

The Phoenix now fully and whole-heartedly resides behind the shutter.

Learning is infinite and I’m the class suck-up.