Galina was a perfect example of that.
She had a regal face with incredible cheekbones and a full, wide mouth, perfectly balancing out her broad forehead, while thick, shining black hair fell down to her shoulders. Her skin was a dusky golden hue, and her eyes were a shade of blue that contrasted sharply with her dark features. On top of that, she had the kind of long, effortlessly lean body type that looked amazing in designer clothes. It was no wonder she had been so popular with both types of KZ Modeling clients. She was absolutely stunning.
“Here we go,” I said, smiling as I started to spread her images across the long table by the window. There were eight of them, which was a good number—most students turned in about five to seven per assignment, though I allowed them to bring up to ten of whichever photos they thought were the strongest in the series.
Usually, however, I’d see a bunch of slightly different versions of essentially the same photograph—they tended to have a specific vision in mind and wanted my help choosing the image that best illustrated what they were trying to convey. This was how they built up their portfolios over the course of their mentorship.
Galina, though? She always tackled her assignments differently. That’s why I enjoyed working with her so much. Her images always told a story, not with an individual image, but via a series of them. This was why, even though all of my students were passionate and talented, she struck me as the most inclined toward a career as a professional photographer. Maybe not even in fashion, but in photojournalism. She was that talented. With a little guidance and a broader education, she could be out there in the field, shooting some truly amazing images.
That’s what I wanted for her. I wanted her life to be better because of me. To counter how it had been worse because of my father.
Once I had laid out all eight images in a neat row, I took a step back to observe them all together. They were stunning.
“Galina,” I said. “These are incredible.”
She had been looking nervous, but immediately brightened at my praise.
“They are?” she asked.
“They are,” I said, before turning my full attention back to the work she’d brought.
The series of self-portraits began with her fully clothed in her brightly lit apartment. With each photograph, the light began to fade, as more of her body was exposed. The final image was taken with only moonlight for illumination, revealing enough of her bare skin that you could tell she was nude, though most of the light fell on Galina’s face. She had purposely worn the same expression for the whole series—a strong, unflinching stare, directly into the camera.
“Gorgeous,” I murmured.
Together, the images seemed to tell a very specific story. One about sex and sensuality. About Galina’s ownership of her body and her control over how she wanted it to be seen.
Not only had the series required a tremendous amount of thought, planning, and skill for it to work as well as it did, but it was beautifully shot and extremely powerful. I felt my eyes welling up just looking at the images again, and I cleared my throat, trying to compose myself.
“Is…is it okay?” Galina asked, noticing my reaction.
“It’s magnificent,” I told her, honestly. I was completely choked up. “This is the best work I’ve seen from you.”
Her face brightened. “It is?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.”
She blushed, but seemed thrilled with the praise.
“I love the story you’re telling,” I said. “It seems to be a statement about the power you have, over your own body and your sexuality.”
“Yes. I try to show myself in the pictures. But only what I want to show, not all of me.”
We’d never really spoken about the horrors she had endured working for my father, but it seemed like we were speaking about it now. And while I didn’t tend to address the elephant in the room very often with my students, the photos were almost like an invitation.
“Sex must be complicated now,” I said gently. “After everything you’ve been through.”
To my surprise, Galina shook her head. “Actually, no. It is not so difficult at all.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said, smiling. “When you choose it for yourself, it can be very fulfilling still.” She pointed to the pictures. “That is what I mean to say here. The lights, the way they go dim—for me, they are a symbol. Of creating the…the mystery that comes with not knowing how a new body responds to yours. And then the discoveries, of all the senses, that come with moving from the day to the night.”
“Wow. That’s…I don’t know what to say,” I murmured. “This is so good to hear.”
She reached for me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Please do not think I am unable to experience pleasure simply because I once put men’s needs and pleasure before mine. It is all about the choice, and…being able to choose. That is pleasure.”
I nodded, taking in her words.
