Sour
Hoping for a third consecutive week of mutually appreciative futon portraiture, my rather upbeat hopes were obliterated by a tough trio of girls that, after an hour of jovial chatter, turned vehemently sour. In all fairness, I did not introduce my proposition in a particularly polite or enticing fashion. Perhaps my viewing of the opening scenes of Eyes Wide Shut primed me into some suave, Cruise-ian swagger mindset that I certainly don’t possess nor project.
In related news, a loud and arguably crowded party-laden apartment is not the most appropriate venue for discussing the finer details of photographic endeavors. They screamed Shallow, I countered with Aesthetic (actually agreeing with them on that, but trying to hint at a larger, possibly unconsidered picture). And on and on, with no firm resolution.
The allure of undeniable beauty, the repulsiveness of (my complete failure to assuage and otherwise dismiss their objections to that which I was attempting to photograph) level-headed and intelligent women making a calculated stand for their values.
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