a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

-The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams

This morning, at the request of the fabulous Ms. Monir Zandghoreishi– renowned creator of Project Red Dress, fashion designer, and lead instructor at The International Academy of Design and Technology (IADT), I made a TV appearance on Channel 5′s morning show.  Donning last year’s second prize-winning gown by student designer Maria Canada of Seattle Central Community College, it was a privilege to once again represent this very important event, Project Red Dress; as well as the American Heart Association; and of course, my incredible agency, Seattle Models Guild.

This year, Nick Verreos of Nikolaki Design and television’s hit show– Project Runway– will be joined by Seattle couture designer, Luly Yang, as members of the judges panel.  Once again, all proceeds from this event to be held  Friday, June 4th at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel, will benefit the American Heart Association.  Festivities begin at 6:30 pm.  To purchase your tickets and for more information, please visit: www.projectreddress.com.

The decision to patina the fingernails was derived from our inability to paint within the lines.  Neither Marc nor I can apply polish with any skill, whatsoever.  The make-up was actually applied quite proficiently by Marc (as always) though it is not so apparent in this shot.

This image may become part of a triptych in which the evolution of “the smear” is evident.

We did record footage of this shoot– which must be edited and soon will be posted here, as well as here: http://marcvonborstel.blogspot.com

Planned to document my latest photo shoot, but it turns out that security was an issue– so taking random footage would’ve turned some heads and not being one to rock the boat (or plane) I left my camera at home.

According to this video, while developing the most affordable laptop on the planet, XO has succeeded in also becoming the greenest computer on the planet. What an inspiration!

The crowd outside is thick with folks hoping to catch a glimpse of a star.  Instead, they get me, frantically climbing into the driver’s side of my Jeep Cherokee with DH fighting desperately to get all of his body parts inside the vehicle sans ex-gf.  I take off and the door is still open.  She gets her footing and crams her body onto the floor in front of his seat.  She is begging in Italian at DH, with sudden caustic outbursts at me, “Do you love him?  DO.  YOU.  LOVE.  HIM???”  I feel horrible for this sad, pathetic, broken-hearted, crazy-ass bitch.

“Ummm– We just met a couple of months ago.  We’re friends–”

“Bull—-!  I’ve seen you!  I’ve followed you!  I’ve watched!”

And suddenly, clips of the film Single White Female, flicker through my mind like a wave of heat, so I pull over into some residential neighborhood to physically throw the psycho out of my car.  I get out and walk around to the passenger-side and just as I reach for the handle, she locks the doors.  Aw– hell.  The engine is running–  Brilliant!  I light a cigarette and watch the scene inside the vehicle.  Unbelievable.  As she clings and begs, he insults her.  She is convinced that he is in love with her.  He tells her she needs to be committed.  I want my damn keys!

DH climbs out of the car and ex-gf tumbles out behind him, the door slams.  I see this from down the street as I am fumbling with my mobile, frantically trying to get a hold of a mutual friend for help, but she is where I should be– still at the birthday party.  As I move to regain possession of my own vehicle, I hear the locks engage.  Perfect.  Automatic locks.  My car is still running.

Between drinks and celeb-scanning, I’m wandering my way through the crowded smoke-filled bar to the restrooms.  Hundreds of people packed like sardines in this often-overcrowded hot spot of a lounge, as I make my way to the Ladies’ when someone hooks my arm and out splashes my martini.

“Pardon me–?”  I stutter, avoiding the spray as the alcohol hits the floor.  I am sufficiently taken aback by the forwardness of this person who is holding in one hand, a cane?  Or was it a drink?  I turn to face this man, looking to be in his late 40s-50s, approximately 5’5″ tall, salt and pepper hair, attractive in a very plain kind of way.

“I’m Scott,” says he.

“Gail,” I respond, shaking his hand with my very wet one, “Gee, sorry about that,” I say to him sarcastically.  He hands me a napkin.

“Sorry about your drink.  Where’re you from?”  He asks.

“Seattle,” I say.  He rolls his eyes at me.  I lift an eyebrow.  “What?”

“No.  Originally,”  He says to me.

Ugh.  I realize it’s been years since I’ve escaped an entire week straight of having to answer that question.  Here in LA, I have yet to live one single day without being subjected to that boring inquiry.  So I explain to him that my existence is a political anomaly, given the fact that my folks are from two warring countries, blah blah boring. 

He looks at me with a cute little smile and says, “I understand exactly what you mean.  My family is from Sicily and the relationship between Sicilians and Italians is similar to the relationship between the citizens of your two countries.”

Well, well, well.  I begin thinking to myself.  He’s kinda cute– albeit a tad short.  Wire-rim glasses– appears sophisticated.  Seems down to earth– sounds intelligent.  Perhaps he is also a recent transplant– on his own dangerously exhilarating ride.

“You know,” he says to me, “When I was at Reagan‘s second inauguration, I think this band played at the ball.”

 Uh oh.

“Really..?  When I was at Clinton‘s second inauguration, we had the Count Basie Orchestra, Herbie Hancock, and Stevie Wonder at the Western States Ball,” I retort.

“You’re a Democrat?” He spits, obviously surprised for some odd reason.

“You’re a Republican,” I say, lowering my gaze, taking a drink from my glass, and slowly shaking my head in disbelief.  Just my luck.  I feel compelled to confirm.  “Really?  GOP, eh,” I ask.

As I lift my eyes to meet his gaze, I suddenly recognize that he is attempting to glare at me in a very condescending way.  It was nasty and chilling.  Is this the contemptuous attitude of a vertically-challenged and washed-up egomaniacal guy or– what the– ?

“You probably don’t even know what that means,” he snarls at me.  I pull away from him.

“Excuse me?  I don’t know what what means..?  GOP?”  Oh my goodness, I am feeling uncomfortably indignant.

“Yes,” he states.  Why is he doing this?

“You’re kidding, right–?”  I sputter.  I mean, if he’s just being playful or teasing me, okay.  No worries– I can take a joke.

“No, I’m not.  You don’t know, do you?  What does it mean?  You can’t tell me, can you?”  And with this classic playground tactic, he sets a new all-time record of rapidity for turning me off.  I set my empty glass on a passing tray, brush my hands together, and look at him.

“The letters G.O.P. stand for “Grand Ole Party”.

He looks genuinely shocked.  “Oh– you’re not as dumb as most Dems,” he says to me.  My bladder reminds me of something.  Oh yeah–  I was heading somewhere before this moron pulled me off track.

“Listen– I’m on my way to the restroom.  So I–”

“Wait, don’t go,” he interrupts.  Well that’s confusing.  I find this guy utterly repulsive and he… can’t tell?  Doesn’t care..?

“Well, I really need to get there, I was on my way when you grabbed me and–”

“I didn’t grab you!”  He exclaims.

“Charming,” I say.  “Perhaps we can finish this conversation later.  Tell you what, I’ll look for you when I return.”  Uh huh.

“I’ll walk you there–”

“NO– thank you,” I say, a bit too brusquely.  I hold out my hand, “It was… fun… chatting with you– er–”  Shit.  What’s this clown’s name again?  Funny when your brain projectile vomits a person’s identity out of your skull.  He looks at me in disbelief.

“You don’t remember my name?”  Should I have? 

“Sorry– what’s your name again?”  Aaarrgghh!  Got.  To.  Go.  Pee.  Or else I am going to pummel this guy.

“My name is Scott,” he takes my hand.  I grab his fingers and shake as firmly as possible, “I’m–”

“Gail,” he says to me.  Oops.  I’m not a fan of these moments.

“You got it.  Alrighty then, Scott– I’ll catch you on the flip side,” and I bolt.

I’m slowly waking up.  It is the following morning and while the residual effects of the alcohol begin to wear off, fractions of the night begin replaying before me.  An image– from my past– of my favorite television show.  Wow, I had such a huge childhood crush on–  Okay, let’s be honest here– childhood*slash*pre-teen crush on– GASP!!!

I watch as the image of that short obnoxious man in wire-rim glasses from the night before, slowly burns itself into my mind and the haze of what has transpired begins to lift.  I shoot up in bed as the realization hits,  “Holy crap, that was Scott B—!“

While granting me permission to post his links and the many fine tales I have about him, Marc emailed me to let me know that I am mistaken about his initial feelings toward digital photography!  Here is what Marc said about the Gary Manuel photo shoot we did together, as well as his feelings about film vs. digital:

Blog-o-mania!

Hi there. 

You have a nice blog going on there…  It’s funny, I always tell that story about you and your white hair, and how challenging it was, but came out very well.  And I always add that you deserved an award for being so well-mannered that shooting day.  Not complaining once…  Well it made it much smoother than if we had a whiner there.  Would have been fun to have seen you just once that day, blow up though(!)  Like a scene out of dynasty. 

Btw, I need to correct you on when you said I was a hold-out for leaving film for digital.  Man, I was all over that once I discovered it.  Are you kidding?  Seeing it right away, no waste, endless amounts, no fucking polaroid goop, and of course being able to start retouching right away.  I’m not one of those who thinks digital is not the real thing.  That is one element I’m so grateful for being in this era about. How did we ever do without it?


Thank you, Marc, for giving me permission to post your email and respond to it publicly.  I have no idea why I remember it incorrectly and I apologize for the misrepresentation.  Can you believe the nerve of this blog?  Fresh as a baby’s butt and already misrepresentin’!

I feel as though many of the corporate commercial studios [locally: Macy's (formerly The Bon Marche), Eddie Bauer, Nordstrom; here in Seattle] had switched to digital long before compact digital cameras were so affordable and accessible to the general public.  I know that when I traveled to Europe in 1997/1998, most of the magazines and many fashion photographers in Athens and Milan were using digital before it was so widespread here in the US.  In fact, I don’t recall shooting in digital at all, until I worked abroad during the late 90s.

It has definitely freed us up in many ways technically, lending more efficiency and opportunity to explore the creative realms of image production even further.

The profile photo was taken during this shoot, also.  Photography by Marc Von Borstel.  

Marc is a wonderful and disturbingly talented friend of mine.  Magical with make-up, hair, lighting– every aspect necessary and detailed to grueling degrees (often shoots with him would last between eight and fifteen/twenty hours), but always guaranteed to achieve unrivaled results.  Marc’s website is www.marcvonborstel.com.  

He was the mastermind behind the critically acclaimed Pacific Northwest Ballet’s book of principal dancers, Eleven.  Be prepared to gawk at some of these images…  They are the embodiment of editorial photography at its finest.  Each breathtaking image succeeds at evoking some kind of emotion from the viewer.  Whimsy, lightness, movement, freedom– all with an extraordinary eye for precision.  A link to Marc’s Portfolio6, some or all of these images were published in the book.  

http://www.marcvonborstel.com/Site/portfolio6.html 

An article about this magnificent body of work may be found here:  http://www.criticaldance.com/features/2003/pnb_eleven.html

Marc was the first– oh wait (OOOH- sorry Marc!  Don’t ask him about this story, please… he’s still a bit chapped about it) he was actually the second fashion photographer I ever worked with.  We became fast friends and soon, he and I were constantly shooting together to build our books.

One of these instances was when he had borrowed a wide-angle lens from a friend of his (remember- this is back in the days of FILM and Marc was quite the hold-out when it came to finally switching over to digital) and we took a few quick shots that we both wound up using in our books for quite some time.  I will post some photos from that fun little test when I yank them out of storage.

I love Marc Von Borstel.  He, my agency, and my family/bookers, KM and, PAB at SMG, I owe my entire career to them.  Thank you so very much for your teachings, honesty, and love.  I would not be me without you.