Intimations of Mortality - 8
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future - what's left of it - may hold.
The next stage of the dream. I would have to dream my way through this, to stop it becoming a nightmare. And I would have to work hard at being a dream - many dreams, in fact, as each pair of eyes would have his own.
I arrived at the Camera Club "studio", a former dance school/rehearsal room above an antique (junk) shop in what passed as my city's bohemian quarter, at about 1.15pm on Saturday. My morning shift in a nearby boutique had ended at 12.30pm. I hadn't far to walk. Time to stop for a cuppa and a fag. Days when only weirdos didn't smoke.
Down the narrow alleyway at the side of the shop. Across the broken concrete yard - how many dancers had twisted their precious ankles in the cratered surface? - and up the wrought iron staircase. Knock hard on the substantial wooden door.
I was admitted by the man I had spoken with. He took me into a small office, sat behind his battered desk, told me he was the Chairman of the club. Chairman, Treasurer, Membership Secretary, doorman and sweeper-upper, I would have recognised later. Then I still had some naivety left.
He produced a very official looking Model's Consent Form for me to complete. I had already told him my name, so that went down first. Then my agreed age of 18 years. A fictitious address. Pregnant? No. Infectious or communicable diseases? None. Criminal convictions? No - no convictions at all, that's why I am here.
Signed on the dotted line. Dated two weeks earlier, for the cooling off period before my first assignment.
While all this was going on, I heard more than saw the arrival of the club members as they shuffled with all their equipment down the corridor outside the office.
The Chairman placed my form in a file, wrote my (real) name on the cover and placed me carefully in a two-drawer metal filing cabinet. I am not sure quite why I was so relieved to see there were more than a few other files in the drawer with mine.
He confirmed the fee for the three-hour session, shook my hand and welcomed me to his club.
Next, he took me down to the end of the corridor. In front of me, a door marked Private - Studio! To my left, another door marked Models Changing Room. He showed me inside a sparsely furnished room - a dressing table with lighted mirror, an upright chair, a cheval glass, a hanging rail for clothes, over which a white sheet was draped. His instructions were brief, to the point.
"Right, Carole, just take off all your clothes, wrap yourself in that sheet and step through that door."
He pointed to another door, marked Stage.
"Don't be long. Your three hours begins on the other side."
The next stage of the dream. I would have to dream my way through this, to stop it becoming a nightmare. And I would have to work hard at being a dream - many dreams, in fact, as each pair of eyes would have his own.
I arrived at the Camera Club "studio", a former dance school/rehearsal room above an antique (junk) shop in what passed as my city's bohemian quarter, at about 1.15pm on Saturday. My morning shift in a nearby boutique had ended at 12.30pm. I hadn't far to walk. Time to stop for a cuppa and a fag. Days when only weirdos didn't smoke.
Down the narrow alleyway at the side of the shop. Across the broken concrete yard - how many dancers had twisted their precious ankles in the cratered surface? - and up the wrought iron staircase. Knock hard on the substantial wooden door.
I was admitted by the man I had spoken with. He took me into a small office, sat behind his battered desk, told me he was the Chairman of the club. Chairman, Treasurer, Membership Secretary, doorman and sweeper-upper, I would have recognised later. Then I still had some naivety left.
He produced a very official looking Model's Consent Form for me to complete. I had already told him my name, so that went down first. Then my agreed age of 18 years. A fictitious address. Pregnant? No. Infectious or communicable diseases? None. Criminal convictions? No - no convictions at all, that's why I am here.
Signed on the dotted line. Dated two weeks earlier, for the cooling off period before my first assignment.
While all this was going on, I heard more than saw the arrival of the club members as they shuffled with all their equipment down the corridor outside the office.
The Chairman placed my form in a file, wrote my (real) name on the cover and placed me carefully in a two-drawer metal filing cabinet. I am not sure quite why I was so relieved to see there were more than a few other files in the drawer with mine.
He confirmed the fee for the three-hour session, shook my hand and welcomed me to his club.
Next, he took me down to the end of the corridor. In front of me, a door marked Private - Studio! To my left, another door marked Models Changing Room. He showed me inside a sparsely furnished room - a dressing table with lighted mirror, an upright chair, a cheval glass, a hanging rail for clothes, over which a white sheet was draped. His instructions were brief, to the point.
"Right, Carole, just take off all your clothes, wrap yourself in that sheet and step through that door."
He pointed to another door, marked Stage.
"Don't be long. Your three hours begins on the other side."
61-69, F
