When I got my fourth modelling portfolio made, we arrived at the studio in a really weird way. Below is an excerpt from my personal journal entry recalling the day of the shoot. The locations and addresses have been changed to maintain confidentiality.
My mom dropped me off at 123 ABC Street, because that was the address for the studio, but in fact, they had relocated and the actual address was now 456-B XYZ Avenue or something like that (which I found out much later in the day). So while Mom parked our red giant SUV, I ventured off into the old brick building at 123 ABC Street, hoping to find the studio at which I’d be shooting my fourth portfolio.
I fumbled up the concrete stairs with my hands (and shoulders and mouth and neck) full. I had numerous dress changes, ironed and hung on hangers, all enclosed within 2 grouped dress bags. I had a rolling suitcase filled with clothes like jeans, tights and other miscellaneous frilly tops and a few jewellery boxes with bracelets, earrings and necklaces that could be mix’n’matched with my outfits. On one shoulder, I carried a duffel bag full of my shoes: black peep-toe pumps, nude pumps, black modest heels, red pointy-toed shoes and a pair of black flats for the in-between-outfits stages. My other shoulder carried my favourite mustard coloured handbag with my tank tops and pantyhose. In my hand, I held by two existing giant portfolio books to show the photographer what kinds of shots I had already done.
A man in a construction vest approached me in the lobby of the old and cold building.
“What you look for?” he asked in a thick European accent. The confused look on my face and insane fumbling ability probably prompted his question.
“Studio Z?” I said, unsurely. There was but a flicker of recognition on his face, so I tried again. “Photographer… photos,” I said instead.
“Oh photos? Zvsjlfkghjsg? I know him! Come, I tell you.”
“I have to wait for someone,” I hesitated.
“Okay, my time to go work. You go back of building, down, then right, then you see yellow box. In that door, then down, you see him,” he told me before he left, his morning coffee in hand.
What? Inside the yellow box, down the door then behind the stairs?
I called my agency. They open at 10 AM. I looked at my watch. 8:53 AM. Shit.
I began to climb up the stairs, attempting to recall what the man had told me. But my mom still wasn’t there yet, and I had a whole bunch of stuff I just couldn’t manage on my own. So I just stood around. Only a few seconds had passed when the man in the construction jacket appeared again.
“Still not find it?” he asked, surprised.
I didn’t bother looking, I thought to myself.
“Come, I take you.”