I recently found myself in the position where I had to repossess photographic equipment from a photographer. I fronted up to his studio to explain to him that he either had to pay a substantial amount on what was owed or forfeit the equipment.
Now my opinion of this guy was that he was a sleazy little bastard and I wouldn't let him near any of my female relatives to take photos. He's the sort of man who'd have illegal infrared lenses so he could take 'nude' photos of people fully dressed. I expected him to kick up a big stink about the money owed, resist paying anything at all, object strenuously to having any equipment repossessed, and generally making a thorough pain of himself before finding enough money to stave off the repossession.
He gave me the evil eye while I explained the facts of financial life and he surprised me at the end of it by shrugging.
"Fuck it," he said in a most heartfelt manner. "Take it. Take the lot. I don't give a shit. I'm two months overdue on the rent and I'm being evicted tomorrow and when I get evicted the landlord will seize all the equipment for back rent. I'm just as happy for you to take it. Happier. Your guys have given me some leeway and haven't been the complete asshole my landlord has. Just give me a receipt for everything here and you can pack it and go."
OK, if that's what he wanted I was only too happy to oblige. We did a quick inventory and all the equipment I was supposed to collect was there. I ticked it off and signed a receipt saying I'd collected it.
As soon as the receipt was in his pocket the guy shrugged and said, "That's it. I'm out of here. Here're the keys to the joint. Lock up when you leave or not, as you please."
"Ah, this is down as your home address," I pointed out. "If I need to reach you at all have you got a forwarding address?"
"Nope. I'll be interstate somewhere. I've already packed my clothes and things in my van and I'm leaving straight away before they come to repossess the van. Anyone who wants me is going to have to really search for me and I don't think they'll bother."
"I'm surprised that you haven't packed the photographic gear in the van as well."
"If you hadn't turned up I probably would have, rather than let the landlord get it. You timed it just right. See ya."
With that he turned and walked out the door. I was just about to start packing up the equipment when he stuck his head back in the door.
"Listen, mate, don't be in too much of a hurry to pack the stuff away. The big camera over there is already focused on the divan in front of the green screen. Just point and click. I have a real live customer due in about ten minutes. You might like to take a few shots for her, seeing she paid a deposit. Details are in the diary on the desk."
Then he was gone again. I assumed that the old table to the side was the desk he referred to. Checking it I found a diary. No computer for storing his photos, I noticed, although the marks on the desk indicated that there had been one sitting there. The computer was undoubtedly in his van with everything else he managed to salvage.
A glance at the diary showed very few entries. No wonder the guy had trouble making payments. No customers. The entry for today was due in a few minutes like he'd said. Interesting notes he had on his customer.
'Miranda - Ditzy blonde. Hot stuff. Deposit paid. Wants nudies for BF. Talk her into porn shots. Should have a ready market for this chick nude.'
Like I thought, a real sleaze.
It seemed simple to me. Miranda would turn up and I'd explain that her photographer had done a runner and she was out of luck. (In luck, actually, seeing what he intended.)
I started packing up some of the equipment and it was sheer chance that I happened to leave the main camera and lights set up the way they were. It seemed to me that I'd barely started the packing up when the door opened and a young lady walked in. I assumed that this was Miranda.
Hot stuff didn't start to describe her. Why she needed nude photos was a mystery to me. She light a fire in any man she met just standing there fully dressed. Not that what she was wearing could be described as being fully dressed. It was a warm day and Miranda had dressed accordingly. Short shorts, very tight short shorts, at that, and a tank top.
"You're Miranda, I presume," I said. "Here for some artistic photography."
"Um, I guess. I just wanted a few nude photos for my boyfriend. Where's Simon?"
"Unexpectedly out of town," I told her. "A permanent shift, I believe."
"But I've paid a deposit," she protested. "Who's going to take my pictures?"
"I can do that," I volunteered. "As soon as your chaperon arrives we can get to work."
"What do you mean, chaperon?"
"Didn't Simon suggest you bring one? I mean, you're going to be alone and naked with a strange man. Always wise to have someone covering your back."
"It wouldn't have mattered with Simon," she said, irritated. "He was gay."
"Uh-huh. And as soon as you were alone with him he'd have found the cure. I assume that this means no chaperon. Want to go and get one?"
"No. I can look after myself. I just want these photos done."
"OK. Put your clothes on that chair over there and take a seat on the divan. Why do you want nudies, anyway? Just look in a mirror."
"My boyfriend wants them, not me. He even offered to take them for me, but I preferred a professional."
"Why not your boyfriend?"
"Because then I would have needed a chaperon. We haven't reached that far in our relationship yet."
"Uh-huh. And what sort of nudes do you want. High-end, where you're nude but you don't exactly show any of your more private parts. Judicious placement of hands, arms, legs, etcetera, means that everything is by innuendo. Low-end is effectively the girl pointing at her genitals and saying 'look, I've got a pussy'. Trashy stuff but some people like it."
"I'm not doing porn," she said, sounding very definite about it. "The higher end will suit me fine."
By this time she'd finished undressing and I could see why the boyfriend wanted pictures of her like that. She was a marvel to behold. She wasn't particularly shy, either, just confidently trotting over to the divan and sitting down, not giving a damn what I saw. It was obvious to me that she did some nude sunbathing, getting a nice all-over tan.
She sat down on the divan, trying to look demure, and I took a couple of shots. As photographs, they were excellent. As photographs of a naked young lady, they were terrible. The camera did not like her. I have no doubts that a good professional would overcome these problems with sheer artistry, but that good professional was not me.
"These are terrible," I told her. "You look more plastic than a shop-window mannequin, but with less warmth. Can you smile a little? Project a little emotion?"
