I blog to you with The Spice Girls’ first album playing very very quietly in the background whilst wind howls amongst the townhouses on my street. The combination of sound is quite interesting. It sort of sounds like Ramstein are sampling ‘Denying’, which is odd. But great. Last night Soph and I had her photo shoot for her entry for the ‘Sydney Monster Hall’ concert competition.
Soph’s theme was… Hair monster. There’s no post-modern, sparkly, art metaphor I can use. She was a Hair monster, emerging from my wardrobe. A glam-rock hair monster. Soph spent the whole day dissecting and sewing 5 wigs onto a body stocking to create this creature. We wanted the shoot to show a digitally compiled Hair Monster attacking a virginal, pure Sophie who was praying to a disco bow (I stole from someone’s Xmas tree in Coogee – another story) on the bed. We blitzed through the snaps without a care in the world. We first took the ‘pure pics’ and then the Monster pics as Soph had to apply 4 metric tonnes of makeup to her face in order to transform into something definitely not human, shooting the other way round would have been wack yo. We whizzed through them, they looked great, we took some solo shots and wrapped up.
Don’t ever ever ever think that you can ever EVER rely on technology. Because unless you have the best products your gold bouillon can buy (…even then) the technofail will happen to you like it did to us, when you least suspect it. I remember where I was when it happened, like it was yesterday (it was yesterday). I was sitting on the bed reviewing and commenting on our immense skill and photographic prowess when ALL of the ‘pure’ and ‘Monster’ pics turned into blue and white question marks (of death) and then proceeded to disappear, into the ether, only to be vaguely remembered by the Haylen and myself, like some sort of wonderful Aunty who had died when we were young but who had impacted our lives in the most positive way imaginable.
There were tears.
There was yelling.
There was swearing of the most offensive variety.
I managed to recover ALL the solo shots from the end of the shoot and I have worked very hard on:
a) making them look as good as the other ones would have – not hard seeing as the model in question is off the heazy AND I spent 45minutes sorting my effing lighting out (Goose Neck Lamp – you know I’m talking about you, you bastard)
b) Not throwing my camera off my balcony whilst hysterically screaming (in tongues) and using passages from the Bible (King James version) to try and purify the space the evil one had poisoned with its techno-lies.
The other shots, the other 200-something shots, that were meant to be the finished product, are dead to me. They are my photography ‘one that got away’ story. I still can’t look at my camera. I’ve asked him to leave. It’s just not working out for me anymore. He can stay at his fucking Mother’s house until he sorts his bullshit out and desists in ruining my work…
So here they are. I think they look tits-off fantastic. We ended up naming the shoot ‘Alopecia #313814’. Yes, the numbers have a meaning. Yes, it pertains to the GaGa. No, I won’t tell you what it is.
I’ll post links for Soph’s entries soon but in the meantime (if you haven’t already) please click HERE HERE and HERE to vote for my 3 entries on the Take 40 (shudder) Facebook page. There are now only 1 and a 1/2 wks left before all the tickets are goneskies so please do me the greatest favour you ever could (…ew) and ‘Like’ me.
Off to rehearsal.
P.S. What do YOU think of the ‘winners’ already selected by Take 40 and TodayFM for the GaGa comp?
Yes, my sentiments exactly.
We’ll discourse over this later.