He ditches his snide tenor. “So there have been some developments here. After the initial portraits in New York, they want you to follow three of the bands on tour for one month each—July, August, and September—and those images would run in sequential issues.”
“That’s... wow.”
“Yes. It is very wow.” I drop onto the bench at the end of my bed. When I don’t answer for a few seconds, he jumps in, “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
I am genuinely shocked by this offer—I’ve photographed plenty of musicians and live shows over the years, but I don’t have any experience as a tour photographer. Being embedded with performers that way is a whole thing—and it’s never paid my bills.
“What’s the compensation?” I ask.
“I’m going to be straight with you, the compensation is not up to our usual standard.”
When he tells me, I physically balk. “I’m worth more than that.” After decades of objective success in this field, I’ve come to adopt what Hayes refers to as the Average White Male Mindset: knowing your worth and asking for that or more, without agonizing or hand-wringing.
“I know you are, and believe me when I tell you I amworking on this. But you know I wouldn’t be encouraging it if I didn’t think it would open you up to an entirely new audience, and push you creatively. It’s the kind of work you actually want to be doing, if I can be so bold.”
Hayes is one of my staunchest supporters, but over the past few months, he has been subtly pushing me to expand beyond my artistic comfort zone—hence putting me forward for this gig without my knowledge, let alone my express permission. And he’s right: This job would solve the problem of my next long-term project, and it would allow me to access the type of photography I haven’t gotten to tackle, in earnest, for years.
“That aside.” My mind drifts to the Jeff Buckley selects I did this morning, the delight of seeing moments in the photos I didn’t even register in person. “Why do they wantmeto do this? Aren’t I too old to go on tour? Aren’t there thousands of wildly talented twenty-year-olds who should be doing this instead?”
“Well, if you don’t take it, then a twenty-year-oldwilltake your place. But they want you because you have style, you have experience, and you’ll lend an air of legitimacy to this publication. And we know they sorely need to reclaim that after their... TikTok-ification. Which is what you get when you hire a toddler to do a grown-up’s job.”
He’s referring to the newly minted twenty-eight-year-old editor-in-chief, who was until recently the magazine’s social media director. The brand had been languishing in respected near-obscurity for a decade—whatever is the equivalent of an elderly animal retiring to the woods to diein peace, as Hayes put it—until her social strategy revived the brand, introduced it to a new generation of readers, and returned it to profitability through a smart combination of influencer marketing and good old-fashioned targeted ads.
“Well, I do want to join the fight against the TikTok-ification of legacy publications,” I say. “But you know that’s not the most important factor here. I can’t leave Emme for three months.”
“Well, thank goodness this aligns with her summer break, give or take a couple weeks in September.”
“Yes, but I can’t have her gallivanting around the city unsupervised all summer long.”
“I’m sorry to share this news with you, sweetheart, but she does have another parent.”
“Who has a terrible track record with honoring his personal commitments.”
“Lili, you have never asked that man for anything. Just force him to take on some of the child-rearing responsibilities for once in his life.”
I have to admit that the risk-taking part of me, the part I’ve kept under lock and key for so long, is begging me to do this. And James and I—I wouldn’t call it a breakthrough, but he did just demonstratesomethingin communicating with our daughter.
The thought occurs to me that Reid would be a good person to talk to about this.
I blow out a breath and get up from the bench. We need to leave soon if we want to make it to the show.
“Give me a little more time to consider this,” I say.
“Of course. Until Tuesday at three,” Hayes says.
Then he hangs up, and I stand there with my phone in my hand. I flip back to my text conversation with Reid. Our exchange is short, but I scan over it again and again, and each reread gives me another delicious hit of possibility.
I type out a text, delete it, type it out again.
How was the Met?
I hit send.
Then I drop my phone on the bed like it’s a live bomb and escape into the shower.
When I come back into the bedroom after I’m dressed, I gingerly pick it up, afraid of what I might not find.
Gracie lasted about three minutes. Must be a record for least time spent at any single museum.
