Everything.
This meant that beyond the endless analysis of all my personal and professional relationships, I was the kind of person who looked up menus online before going to new restaurants so I’d already have my order figured out, who spent two whole months researching flea medications before finally choosing one for Munchkin, and who showed up at least an hour early to every single photo shoot I got booked for.
For me, it was practical. I had to get a feel for the set. Scope everything out from top to bottom. Prepare a shot list in advance. I knew some photographers liked to be more “organic” and shoot on the fly, and of course I budgeted some time for that, but if I walked onto set exactly on time and tried to figure things out as I went? Disaster.
Still, I always enjoyed winding down toward the end of the shoot, when I was finished with all the photos I’d planned out and everyone could let their hair down and be more creative. The models could play in the space, I could experiment with lighting and composition. In fact, some of the strongest images in my portfolio were from these more informal sessions.
At the moment, though, I was concerned with staking out my set.
Or at least, that’s what I wastryingto do.
Problem was, ever since that day at the country club when Ford acted like we were already officially dating, I’d been kind of a mess. We hadn’t talked about it yet, and he’d probably assumed I was too busy with work to return his calls, but I wondered if he even realized that I hadn’tactuallygiven him an answer about whether or not I’d help him out.
Thankfully, I could throw myself into my work. It would give me something more pressing and important to exert my energy on than Ford Malone.
I checked in with security when I stepped off the elevator and then walked onto the set, my favorite camera strapped around my neck, my hair pulled up in a sensible ponytail, and my ubiquitous boots laced up on my feet. First one there. Ready to rock.
For the shoot, Danica Rose had booked out the entire top floor bar at a fancy historic hotel in the affluent Gold Coast neighborhood. Through the wall of windows, Chicago’s iconic skyline was on view in the distance. I’d play with the depth of field when I took the photos so the view wouldn’t draw the eye away from the models. And I’d definitely want to take advantage of all the natural light coming in. I nodded as I paced the perimeter of the space, tapping notes to myself on my iPad.
Once I had a tentative shot list put together, I laid out the rest of my equipment on a long table. I’d been a fan of Annie Leibovitz since forever and made it a point to work with a lot of the same cameras that she did. Including the one around my neck: the Nikon D810.
It was a gift I’d bought myself with the money from my first photography job that hadn’t been handed to me via KZ Modeling. I’d done some of my best work with it.
Not recently, though. Ever since the trafficking scandal at KZM had blown up, my bookings had gotten fewer and far between. For a while, I worried the entire industry had decided to permanently blackball me, but once the media had started reporting more of the facts—namely, that my brothers and I verifiably had nothing to do with our father’s crimes—the gigs had started trickling back in. Meanwhile, my brothers and I were still fighting to clean up the Zoric name.
But none of that would matter if the Bratva got ahold of us.
“Where do you want the fill light to go?” a member of the crew asked.
I looked over. “Hmmm…let’s try on the other side of the bar.”
By the time everything was set up and I had the lights positioned exactly where I wanted them, the first models were out of wardrobe and makeup and ready to get to work (not that I didn’t consider the glamifying to be work in and of itself—it was).
Today we’d be shooting images to support the visual component of the Danica Rose rebrand. Gone were the days of the stilted black-and-white glamor shots that my father used to favor, where the models wore too much makeup and not enough clothes and sat around pouting in front of stark white walls or lounging on black granite staircases. Now, the agency was all about color, fresh faces, movement, diversity, and relaxed, natural poses and expressions.
I’d done a bunch of these shoots over the last few months, each one fun and different, all taking place at uniquely Chicago-centric locations like the Fleetwood Roller Rink and the Crystal Gardens at Navy Pier. The purpose of these shoots was twofold: first, to showcase our models to their best advantage for potential clients while helping keep their portfolios up to date, and second, to prove to the world that things at our agency were different now.
I hoped our efforts were working.
I didn’t like to brag, but it had been me who stepped forward to suggest giving our agency a complete visual overhaul to go along with the new name.
It was a nice change, to be so involved. Treated like an equal. My father had been reluctant to allow me into the business in any way—getting hired as in-house photographer had been hard enough—and I hadn’t ever dreamed I’d be responsible for more than that.
“Who wants music?” I asked, pitching my voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
The resounding answer from the models and the crew was a yes, so I plugged my phone into a set of good quality wireless speakers and cued up the playlist I’d put together to help set the mood. I did this for each of my shoots, tailoring the songs to the vibe I hoped to capture. Since today was all about fun, the playlist was a mix of upbeat, recent pop and classic rock.
As we started shooting, music blasting, people smiling and sometimes singing along, I realized that this was exactly what I needed right now. This was the perfect distraction from what had been going on between me and Ford.
For the next few hours, I was completely in the zone. The models were glowing and at ease, loving the “story” of the shoot—a Sunday brunch with friends, complete with piles of breakfast foods they were actually supposed to eat, that had to keep getting refreshed by the on-call wait staff every hour or so—and the classic gangster-glam atmosphere of the bar.
The energy on set was fantastic. I was glad my brothers had approved my idea, and that they’d also given me the go-ahead to hire an extra assistant whose sole purpose was to make sure the food also looked perfect in each shot. You rarely saw food involved in fashion photography; it was usually clothes, makeup, jewelry, shoes, bags, whatever. I knew this would catch the eye.
We kept our food assistant busy all morning. When Katya took a huge forkful of Chantilly cream-piled French toast so I could snap a photo with her biting into it, we had to replace the dish with a fresh one every few shots. And then she got some whipped cream on her nose and Jennika couldn’t stop laughing, so I took a few photos of the giggle fest.
“You’ve all been amazing,” I announced, clapping my hands, “so why don’t we take a break? Fifteen or twenty, do what you need to do, then meet me back here.”
Everyone drifted away, and I took a deep breath. I was getting the shots I wanted; I could feel it. Thank God the days of shooting flawless statues instead of real women were over.
