Model in State

The telephoto lens beautifies the already dolled-up model, as she twists, turns, and arches her back, hands fluttering tensely, like anxious butterflies. But she is not alone in the posing. The camera-people pose with her, filming her with lithe, catlike strides. The photographers look like hunchbacks, and spin left and right to catch the barest bit of a sensual eyelash. Even those who don’t dance do a jig of their own, hastening to fix a flashbulb, or change out a film, simultaneously hopping in neat little circles, like one-legged rabbits.

But soon, the statuesque model tires of the glare, the aches in her spine, and the dancing, prancing idiots around her, asking her to spread her legs more, smile wider, and tousle her hair. With sudden finality, she stands up, sweeping the lens with her, snapping away. In a few graceful bounds, she smashes an escape through glass, and floats off into a concrete sunrise.

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