Prologue
Agreat photograph makes you think you know the subject, even if you’ve never met. A great photo reaches out and pulls you inside the moment, so you can feel, smell, and taste it. And this, by all accounts, is a great photo.
I stare at it, and just like that, I’m seventeen.
I hear them across the bay. It’s the end of summer, and those three voices are as familiar to me as the weight of the camera between my hands. The older boy is calling out to the other two—his brother and the girl, who lie on the floating raft in their bathing suits, sunny-side up.
I’ve been at the cottage since the end of June, watching them swim and flirt and fly around the lake in their yellow speedboat. Each of them is beautiful. So sun-kissed and free.
They climb into the boat. The oldest drives. His brother and the girl sit in the front. I stand on the edge of the dock, adjusting the aperture.
It happens in the shortest blink of time.
I hear the boat. Their laughter over the engine. I look up to see them heading toward me. I bury myself behind the lens. They enter the frame.
Click.
1
Friday, June 13
They are five of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen. It has nothing to do with the lighting or how much time they’ve spent in hair and makeup. It’s the genuine smiles on their faces. The fan is blowing, the music is loud, and the photo editoroohs as she watches the images load onto my laptop screen. I don’t need a glimpse to know they’re spectacular. I can feel it with every press of the shutter.
I’ll crash later, alone in my empty condo, but right now I’m in my element. When I’m behind a lens, I can draw out a sly grin or a slight tilt of the chin. I’m in command. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been working so much lately. Ineedthis feeling. The buzz of a perfectly humming set is my high.
The youngest woman is in her twenties, the eldest in her seventies, and none of them are professional models. It took time to earn their trust when they arrived at my studio. If anyone understands how nerve-racking it can feel to have your photo taken, it’s me. Now, the women dance and pose in bathing suits without a shred of self-consciousness. Their stretch marks, wrinkles, andcellulite are on display, emblems of their lives given due reverence in each frame.
“It’s going to be impossible to make selects,” Willa, the photo editor, says once we wrap. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through the images on my computer. The best will run inSwish, a weekly style magazine that debuted this spring. “There are so many great shots, Alice.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I say, beaming. I’ve never worked with Willa before, and I want to wow her.Swishis distributed in the country’s largest paper, and it’s all my industry friends can talk about. This is my first gig for the magazine, and I want to nail it. Magazine work doesn’t pay very well, but it’s far more creative than what I get to do with my commercial clients—it’s also increasingly rare.
I pause on a shot of Monica, a new mom who was the most nervous of the group. Her head is thrown back and her arms are flung out. It’s a moment of pure joy.
“We have two weeks for you to file,” Willa says.
“No problem.” This will be a low-touch edit. The assignment brief described it as a “refreshingly real” swimwear shoot with “regular people” showcasing the looks. It’s another reason I was excited about the job: no aggressive photoshopping. “I’ll just fix the flyaways and blemishes. It’ll be fast.”
“Well, you might have to do a little more than that.” Willa lowers her voice. “I want to keep it authentic, but let’s say the lumps and bumps are more like asuggestionof cellulite. I’m sure you can work your magic.”
My smile vanishes. I’ve collected enough euphemisms for digitally altering the female body to fill a thesaurus. I’ve been told to make women look more flattering, appealing, engaging, enticing, attractive, and flat-out more fuckable. But I’ve never been asked tosuggestcellulite.
“I thought you wanted this to berefreshinglyreal,” I say calmly, like I’m not ready to throw my camera at the wall.
“I mean, yes,absolutely.” Willa goes on. “It’s great having different body types represented, but let’s just clean it all up.”
I don’t bat an eye behind my tortoiseshell glasses. On the surface, I’m the picture of polished professionalism. I’ve quieted my auburn curls into a sleek ponytail. My makeup is minimal but effective. There isn’t a single chip in my ruby red nail polish. But underneath, I’m crumbling.
It’s not the first time I’ve been asked to do something I disagree with. Being a freelance photographer means I sometimes need to bend, compromise, and push my beliefs or vision to the side to please clients. It just happens more often than I’d like at this stage in my career.
“It’s your call,” I tell Willa, heart sinking. “It’s your magazine.”
I’m not a combative person, but even if I were, I’m too worn down to argue. It takes a lot of energy to beonall day, and I’ve been on for so long, I suspect my off button is broken.
And it’s not just me who’s noticed. I met Elyse, my brilliant instructor turned mentor and now friend, for coffee last week, and she told me I looked like a ghost. I’d had the dream the night before—the one where I’m being chased—and I was even more drained than usual.
“You excel at capturing inner light,” she’d said. “But I worry you’ve lost your own. Get it back, Alice. I want to see you shine.” Elyse told me to slow down.
For the first time ever, I ignored her advice. Work is what’s kept me together these past six months. Or at least I thought so. But as soon Willa leaves, exhaustion slams in. I sit on the floor of my studio, rubbing my fingertips against my temples. I’ve taken on so many assignments to keep busy, but I took this one for me. And it backfired.
