The Cover Girls
Cyrus Hathaway, the legendary Hollywood makeup man and owner of LaFemme Cosmetics, critically examined the photographs laid out on the desk in front of him.
"Who exactly are these girls, Malcolm?" the curious CEO asked. "I've never seen any of their faces before."
"Kyle Paine never uses agency models. He prefers working strictly with unknowns. But just look at them! Aren't these girls' faces extraordinary?" Malcolm asked eagerly. "The eyes especially; they're absolutely mesmerizing."
Malcolm Duncan, recently promoted to Vice President of Advertising for LaFemme, had seen Kyle's ads for Foxy Lady Jeans and wanted him to do the layout for LaFemme's new line of designer perfumes. First, however, he had to convince his boss, a man who wasn't easily swayed.
Hathaway took a closer look at the models' exotic faces. There was something disarming about their beauty.
"There's little doubt these young women are attractive enough," he grudgingly admitted, "but they look so distant, so unapproachable. I can't describe exactly how I feel when I look at these photographs. It's an odd combination of pity, sadness and eroticism."
"Kyle's work is different. It's new; it's fresh; it's exciting."
"Be careful. You'll run out of adjectives," Cyrus jokingly cautioned his vice president.
"His photographs attract attention. They appeal to today's woman who wants to be respected for her talents and her mind and not just for her dazzling smile."
"That's obvious. Not one of these models is even grinning. They look as though they might be on their way to a funeral."
"Mr. Hathaway," Malcolm continued, afraid he was fighting a hopeless battle. "Kyle Paine is a reasonable man. If it's smiles you want, I'm sure he'll oblige."
"Smiles? You mistake my comments, Duncan. I don't give a damn about smiles. After all, we're selling perfume, not toothpaste. My point is if the women in these photos intrigue an old goat like me, then most likely they'll have the same effect on potential customers."
The vice president's hopes rose. Was it possible that the CEO was giving him the green light? Hathaway's next words left no doubt in his employee's mind.
"You go ahead and hire this Kyle Paine for our new layout."
Malcolm Duncan quickly scooped up the sample photographs from Cyrus Hathaway's antique, mahogany desk before the "old goat" had the chance to change his mind.
* * *
Ariel Singer first met Kyle Paine when they both worked as photographers for the JCPenney Portrait Studio at the Northshore Mall located in Peabody, Massachusetts.
"I certainly don't want to spend the rest of my life capturing the images of crying babies and precocious toddlers for posterity," Ariel had said as the two recent high school grads shared a pizza in the mall's food court.
"Me either," Kyle agreed. "I've always dreamed of becoming a fashion photographer, of working in Paris, Rome or New York, photographing beautiful women in designer clothes."
"High fashion? You're really reaching for the moon, aren't you?"
"What do you want to do then?"
"I'd like to get a job in photojournalism. I don't delude myself into thinking I'll ever work at CNN, UPI or The New York Times, but I think I'd enjoy working for a daily newspaper or one of the smaller magazines."
"The only photographs I ever see in my local newspaper are of fires, town fairs and car accidents. That doesn't really seem much better than working for Penney's."
"At least it's a realistic expectation," Ariel said defensively. "I know I'll never be photographing the new president's inauguration or the pope's next visit to the United States—any more than you'll be taking pictures of Versace originals during London Fashion Week."
Kyle took no offence at his coworker's lack of faith in him. It would undoubtedly be a long, hard journey from the baby pictures at JCPenney to the runways of Paris, but the young photographer was up to the challenge.
With this ambitious goal in mind, Kyle devoted all his free time to perfecting his art. Everywhere he went he took his Nikon with him, strapped around his neck like a holy man might wear his crucifix. He photographed women sunbathing at the beach, dancing at nightclubs, working out in the gym, jogging in the park or strolling arm-in-arm with their boyfriends. On his days off, he would often drive to Boston and walk the city streets for hours, taking pictures of career women rushing to and from their offices or window-shopping at department stores during their lunch hours.
It was while he attending an annual autumn harvest festival that he photographed a group of young girls competing in a local beauty contest. The photos, in which the models were posed like scarecrows, appeared in the Sunday edition of his local newspaper, where Ernst Neidermier, the owner of a small but growing mail-order women's clothing business, spotted them. Neidermier liked what he saw and hired Kyle to shoot the pictures for his next catalog.
"I usually go through an agency that gives me a complete package," the women's clothier informed Kyle. "I don't have the time to see to all the important little details that are necessary to create a successful sales catalog. I'm only interested in the final product. If you agree to take this job, you'll have to do it all, from the early design stages and the page layout, through the mark-up and editing, right up to sending it off to the printer. Do you think you can handle all that, young man?"
"You just provide me with the clothes you want photographed, Mr. Neidermier, and I'll give you the finished product," Kyle claimed with confidence, even though he had no idea of the amount of work involved in putting out a catalog.
It was Ariel Singer who came to his rescue. In addition to photography, she was studying graphic design at the local community college and had a good working familiarity with desktop publishing and photo-editing software.
The day after the contract with Ernst Neidermier was signed, she and Kyle stood amidst a mountain of women's clothes in Kyle's basement studio, trying to come up with an original approach to photographing the fashions, a unique concept that would make people take notice.
"There's nothing spectacular about these outfits," Kyle grumbled, looking with distaste at the simple cotton dresses, sweatsuits, tee shirts and elastic waist stretch pants. "They're about as stylish as those sold at Kmart blue light specials. Why don't we just do a simple shoot? We can hire a bunch of models who look like drab, church-going young matrons and take them down to the playground and photograph them playing with small children, pushing strollers or sitting on the park benches talking with other drab, church-going mothers ...."
"And remind them how boring their lives are," Ariel continued sarcastically. "Bad idea, Kyle. You may be a genius behind the lens, but you obviously don't have the slightest idea how to sell women's clothes."
"Then why don't you and I become partners? You can design the catalog, and I'll stick to shooting the photographs. We'll split everything we earn fifty-fifty."
"Okay, partner, you've got a deal. I'll come up with the ideas, and you get them on film."
Ariel began weeding through the pile of clothes, hanging blouses from the door handles, laying blazers on the floor and draping dresses over the lights. Soon the curtain rods, tripods and cabinet doors were covered with women's clothes.
"What are you doing?" Kyle asked with a laugh. "This place is beginning to look like a flea market or a garage sale!"
"That's it!" Ariel cried with a sudden burst of inspiration. "Why use models? We can get some old furniture, appliances, books, toys—you know, the usual kinds of second-hand stuff most people are always trying to buy or sell at yard sales and flea markets."
"What are we going to do with them?"
"Use them for background. That way the catalog will have that shabby-chic feel."
"But if we don't use models, how will we display the clothes?"
"Put them on hangers, coat racks and dressmaker's forms. Maybe we can even find some old mannequins, ones that look like they've been left over from the day when R.H. Macy first hung out his red-star sign. The rest of the clothes we can display on the furniture: a skirt tossed over an old ironing board or a nightgown displayed on an old hope chest."
Kyle looked dubious.
"What's the matter? Don't you like my idea?" Ariel asked.
"I think it's great, but you know how businessmen are. They don't like to try anything new. Neidermier probably wants his catalog to look like a Walmart circular."
"It's up to you. It's your career, not mine. I still have my job at JCPenney to fall back on."
After giving the matter some thought, Kyle took the chance, and it paid off. Ariel's imagination, combined with his photographic skills, produced a catalog that resulted in record sales for the mail-order clothing company.
One job followed another, and soon the workload was so great that Ariel had to leave JCPenney and work with Kyle on a full-time basis. As their number of clients increased, she took on more and more administrative and design responsibilities. Ironically, while she was still working at Penney's, Ariel and Kyle had been close friends on the threshold of a more serious relationship. Once they became partners, however, they had little time to spend together. Running a successful business had a way of keeping them apart. Although they shared office space, days would pass when their only contact was by telephone calls and text messages.
Although for all intents and purposes, his partner ran the business, two important tasks were left exclusively to Kyle: he took the pictures and he selected the models. The latter was somewhat of a sore spot where Ariel was concerned. What woman wouldn't be jealous knowing the man of her dreams spent his days working with beautiful young women?
There was also something about the women themselves that bothered Ariel. When Kyle first showed his partner the photographs he had taken of them, she thought the pictures looked bizarre. In her opinion, the models' faces, although beautiful, seemed to be devoid of all emotion.
When Ariel only half-jokingly suggested to Kyle that he would do better if he stuck to photographing the clothes on hangers, he responded defensively, "The girls are just inexperienced. That's all. They're nervous. Give them a little time."
Kyle was right. With each session, the models looked more beautiful, more exotic and more seductive, but they still remained somber, unsmiling and mysterious.
* * *
On Valentine's Day, Kyle surprised his partner when he unexpectedly dropped by the office with flowers and candy.
"I thought you were still in New York," Ariel said with surprise.
"No. I worked late last night and finished the shoot."
"No wonder you look so beat."
He did look tired. In fact, he looked ill. He had lost more than ten pounds, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. Kyle turned his head, not wanting to meet Ariel's gaze.
"What's wrong?" she asked with concern.
"I'm just exhausted. I'm afraid all the hours I work are taking their toll."
"You look thinner and paler each time I see you. Why don't you take some time off, go to the beach and soak up the sun?"
"Maybe I'll take a few days off after I finish the LaFemme campaign. I promised Malcolm Duncan I'd start shooting next week."
"You can't keep working at this pace. Why don't I do a few of the shoots for you? I'm a photographer, too, or had you forgotten that?"
Kyle's already pale pallor became whiter still at her suggestion.
"It's out of the question," he stammered. "You don't know the models. They can be difficult to work with sometimes."
"If they're so difficult, then why don't you get rid of them? There are other girls you can use."
"Are you insane?" he lashed out at her. "Those models are perfect for my work. Without them, I'd be just another guy with a camera taking pictures of snot-nosed kids down at JCPenney."
Ariel was also overworked and was under the strain of the many demands that accompanied managing a growing business. The last thing she needed was to be cast in the role of Kyle's whipping boy.
"While you're handing out credit for your success," she shouted, "you might want to remember who it is that does all the grunt work around here while you're off shooting those anorexic zombies you call models. And by the way, just for the record, you were a much nicer person when you worked at Penney's."
The storm of anger passed quickly, and the air cleared. The partners looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"Why don't we go get something to eat?" he suggested. "It's been a long time since the two of us spent any quality time together."
Kyle and Ariel had a quiet, relaxing dinner in a small, intimate restaurant, far from the more popular nightspots frequented by most couples. During the meal, the two of them spoke nostalgically of the past, confidently of the present and optimistically of the future. They made a good many plans that evening, both of a professional and personal nature.
Later that night, they lay down on the plush rug in front of the fire in Ariel's living room. Contented, she dozed off, but Kyle was too troubled to sleep. Ariel's eyes briefly fluttered open, and her arms pulled Kyle closer.
"Try to get some sleep," she whispered softly in his ear.
"Do you remember when we went to that New Age fair last summer?" he asked.
"How could I forget it?" she answered sleepily, wondering why on earth he brought that particular subject up.
"While we were there, I had a conversation with a woman who claimed she was a witch who practiced white magic. I asked her if I could take her picture."
"Why? Were you planning on giving the prints out to trick-or-treaters on Halloween?" Ariel asked with a laugh, but Kyle wasn't paying any attention to her attempts at humor.
"She told me she didn't mind, but that many of the other people at the fair would refuse to have their photographs taken. Apparently, there's an old superstition that a camera could capture a person's soul. Do you think that's possible?"
"No," Ariel laughed softly. "Honey, you have to admit some of those people were a little on the strange side. They believed in all sorts of weird things: the mystical powers of the pyramids, tarot cards, out-of-body experiences, communing with the dead—you name it."
"So, you think that even though a camera can capture a people's facial expressions, a glimmer of light in their eyes or a moment in their lives, it can't touch their souls?"
"I think it's a ridiculous old superstition, like blessing someone when they sneeze, wishing on a four leaf clover or crossing your fingers when you tell a lie. What's this all about anyway? Are you concerned that your Nikon is stealing the souls of those models you photograph? Is that why they look as creepy as they do?"
Kyle's feelings were hurt. Ariel immediately realized she shouldn't have teased him. He was being deadly serious, after all. Quietly, he got up and got dressed.
"I'm sorry," she said earnestly, but it was too late for words; the damage was already done. "It was a stupid joke, and I apologize. You know I love your work. Stay here, please."
But Kyle smiled sadly and left.
What is it about those damned models that gets him so upset all the time? she wondered jealously. Then she thought painfully, He must be in love with one of them.
She didn't hear from Kyle for weeks. He didn't phone in, didn't answer her calls and ignored all her attempts to page him. When she went by his apartment, no one answered the door.
Then one day a messenger delivered the LaFemme proofs to Ariel's office. It was her job to select the best shots and forward them to Malcolm Duncan for final approval.
Ariel smiled as she looked through the prints. They were remarkable, the best work Kyle had done to date. Even the models looked better. In these photographs, they looked less distant. For the first time, Ariel could see life in their eyes, a hint of a smile around their mouths, in some way reminiscent of the Mona Lisa.
I wonder which of these girls is the one Kyle's in love with, Ariel thought sadly as she sent the entire package over to LaFemme's Vice President of Advertising.
* * *
Late one night the following week Ariel was awakened by the persistent ringing of the telephone beside her bed.
"Hello," she answered, looking at the time on her bedside clock.
It was only 4:00 a.m.
"Hello," she repeated louder when no one replied. "Who is this?"
Heaven help the person on the other end of the line if this turns out to be a crank call! she thought angrily. Prince Albert won't be the only one in a can, and my refrigerator won't be the only thing that is running!
The voice on the other end of the line was so faint Ariel could barely hear it.
"Whoever this is, I can't hear you."
"Ariel ...."
It wasn't a crank caller. It was Kyle.
"Kyle? You sound terrible. Are you all right?"
"They ... were ... right."
"Who was right? Kyle? Kyle!"
There was no response. The line was still open, but Kyle didn't answer.
Ariel threw a pair of jeans and an old flannel shirt on over her pajamas and, still barefoot, grabbed her car keys off her dresser. As she drove to her partner's apartment, she wondered if she should call 911. Kyle might be sick or hurt, but then again he might just be drunk.
When she pulled into the parking lot of his condo complex, she noticed that the lights were on in the first-floor studio. Why was he still working at this hour? Kyle didn't answer the door, so Ariel reached for the spare key he kept hidden above the awning and let herself in.
The young woman's brain couldn't take in the entire scene at once. Rather, fragments of the horror registered one at a time in her mind, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Kyle's Nikon lay on the floor, smashed in several pieces. The models were standing motionless, posed about the studio, still wearing the clothes from the LaFemme photographs. Ariel saw the staring, unseeing eyes and the immobile lips painted on the models' plaster faces. Finally, she saw Kyle on the ground with the phone receiver still clenched in his hand.
"Oh, God," she cried. "Why didn't I listen to you that night? If I had, maybe something could have been done to prevent this."
Ariel continued to weep tears of guilt and sorrow for the man she loved, for herself and for all the plans they'd made that would never come true. As she cried, she kissed Kyle's acrylic hair and his cold unresponsive lips. Had the camera taken his soul, she wondered, or had he voluntarily given it piece by piece to the hollow, lifeless mannequins he had used as models, thereby making them appear more human in photographs. In either case, the result was the same: Kyle Paine had lost his soul, and all that remained was a plaster replica of the man he had once been.
Salem once spent a day as a mannequin at the local pet shop. I doubt he persuaded anyone to buy a cat though.
