Shooting for luck

Tick, tock, tick, tock

The metronomic sound of the neon sign outside of the window of this hell hole. The only reason that I'm here is that I don't have a choice. Who the hell am I kidding? No one who lives here does so out of choice.

Anyone with a choice would pack, if they had anything to pack, and get out of here fast. Having sat in the lobby for the best part of an afternoon I can say that most of the guests pack light.

Maybe a bottle in a brown paper bag and a carton of smokes, but not much else.

Tick, tock, tick, tock

That sign doesn't give up. I imagine that at one time the otherworldly glow produced the letters that screamed the name of this dump into the night sky. It used to say County but the o and the y have now fused so only an obscenity punctuates the night in this end of town, all the while keeping time nicely.

You'd think that the local authority would have the sign switched off but this end of the street has been overlooked for so long that no even the garbage gets collected by a municipal employee. Nope every now and then a truck belonging to one of the churches drives slowly along the street, taking care never to stop, while the local residents throw their trash on the back.

The truck drives only once along the street so there is no catching it if you happen to miss it.

From my eerie I can see the whole length of the street; it's life, it's people. Down there is where anything is possible and the impossible can some times be made possible if the price is right.

Those who take part in this nightly neon hell are the people for whom life has robbed of the chance of choice. Choice would mean that you have a job, some money and no record at the local precinct. Choice would mean not having to slip cash in envelopes to those who are charged with keeping you safe.

But when choice is gone, one drug is much like another; people can be bought and sold; those with choice can take advantage. Everyone knows the score.

Of course when another reality asserts itself into this realm, those caught in the mayhem will need plausible deniability; an excuse to avoid the worst excesses of the judicial system; but really they all know the score.

Checking into this place is like going to the dentist; you don't want to but you have to.

The Text Message

There are times when you do something that defies logic. Something that you know is a probably not the most sensible thing in the world to do.

I went to a Pink Floyd gig a few years back. I was particularly drunk that night on Smirnoff and Red Bull. I'd also been drinking all afternoon. Only beer but it was alcoholic none the less.

Anyhow you were there and though I was insensible I was more than aware of you. I was mesmeried by your backside nicely covered by a very sexy pair of jeans.

I had to touch it. I couldn't not touch it. No matter how drunk I was I knew what was going on there, so I did touch it.

You didn't really seem surprised.

That was one of those times when an action defied logic. You were with someone who was capable of pulverising me into a bloody mess. The kind of bloke who would hunt you down to harm you if he thought there was a reason to do that.

You could have said "your mate just touched my arse".

You didn't. I know why.

There was a meet up at the Kasbah and then something happened. It kept happening too.

I still think of the Kasbah and those summer nights.

Tonight I was at a Pink Floyd gig and I thought of you.

So I defied logic and sent you a text.

Surprisingly you replied.

Logic defied again.

The Model

I was taking your photograph you see? I didn't mean to look in that direction. You know, down below.

It just happened.

That's the problem with being a photographer. You have to look at the whole scene and sometimes it just happens. You see things that you don't look for. Today was one of those times when it just happened.

I didn't take a photo of that scene, or at least I didn't think that I did.

When I got back to the lab I had a look through the pictures that I took during the shoot and there it was, a glimpse of your pants.

You asked for a portrait. That's exactly what I was trying to get. A lovely picture of you, something that you'd be proud of. I nailed that one early on in the shoot and I guess I should have stopped there.

But I didn't. I thought "Oh we've got plenty of time, I could try a few different things out"

And there it is. The picture of you looking fabulous, looking just like the pictures of Mary that you see in coloured glass in church windows.

Just showing a glimpse of your pants.

I'm not sure why this is an issue at all? Under normal circumstances I'd just delete the picture. It's easy to do with a digital camera. Press a button and away the image goes forever.

It's not like there is a physical negative, part of a roll. Most of which contains the pictures that no-one is really interested in. Maybe on a film this single frame would get overlooked or quickly discarded as "no good".

In the brave new world of digital there is no excuse. Delete and be gone unworthy frame! Never to be rediscovered after we are both gone and printed as part of a retrospective show.

But I can't do that or do I mean that I won't?

I'm the photographer. I'm the responsible one, the person who you can trust absolutely. It's my job to see to it that you get what you asked for. One portrait, from the shoulders up. You trusted me.

"Make me look beautiful", you said.

Your eyes said that you wanted to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

A film star, just like you see in the old films and vintage copies of Vogue magazine.

You have your picture and it's bang on the money.

All the way.

Even Bailey or Duffy couldn't have interpreted the brief better, I'd like to think.

I'm not them. Couldn't hope to be really, but I do my best.

"Don't look at the camera"

"Turn towards the light please"

"Hold it there"

I know all the right things to say to get a good picture.

You join in, gladly, and do what you are asked so that the results can only be fabulous. If the pictures are below par, it won't be for the want of trying, will it?

You are a great model and I am a good photographer. You told me as much in the cafe. I've seen your portfolio and you've seen mine.

We were a mutual fan club for about half an hour, in spite of the sound of the coffee machine.

We agreed a time and a studio was booked.

We were both in accord.

Unsaid Terms and Conditions apply.

You wanted natural, wholesome, and pure. No sexual content please.

"That's not what I want. Don't make me look like a whore", you'd have said if you'd had the confidence.

Now the shoot is done and I have the pictures. I looked through the lot. Chucking out the crap was not at all difficult. Digital means that you tend to grab a lot of "if onlys" during a shoot, mainly because you can.

The camera holds 325 full sized, high resolution pictures you see, so why not? Shoot away with abandon.

And there it is. The shot that isn't destined for the void that is digital deletion. It's not landfill material, but it's not what you asked for either.

I like it. I probably shouldn't, I don't have your permission to do that. But I do.

I own the picture. I own the image. I own all images that I take.

I also take responsibility for the pictures that I capture in a grid of many colours in a computer disguised as a camera.

I delete the rubbish. The ones that you don't like.

But you never saw this one did you?

The clock ticks and the mug of tea steams while I keep coming back to that picture of you and that glimpse of white cotton.