The Most Beautiful Version of Me
To get publicity shots for her upcoming season in 1987, Lillo Way sprang for one of the best-known dance photographers in New York, a man I'll call Jake. His reputation as the top photographer for the major ballet companies came in part from his generalized star power as a fashion photographer with photo spreads in major international magazines, and also from his ability to capture in print the most beautiful version of every dancer. Like the rest of the dancers in Lillo's company, I was a bit star-struck.
Petite, pretty, fiery Fay Simpson, my dearest friend and my perfectly matched dance partner, also danced with Lillo. On the day of the photo shoot, we trekked across town together to meet the others at Jake's posh Upper East Side studio. We knew what Lillo wanted and what she would be paying to get it, so we wasted no time slipping into costumes, one after another, letting ourselves be placed and posed, holding awkward shots a little longer than comfortable, facial expressions on command--even trying the same jumps over and over in an attempt to capture some mid-air unison.
Jake moved efficiently and expertly around his crowded space, adjusting lighting, positioning multiple cameras, clicking non-stop. He also slid swiftly between us, adjusting our positions, lifting a chin or a foot into a more flattering angle, shifting someone slightly to the side or an inch back. He commanded the set with authority and a suprising grace for a middle-aged man.
Through it all, our small company filled the studio with playful, flirtatious banter. Fay and I, especially, got into teasing each other with ever more salacious cracks, sometimes pulling a motherly scowl out of Lillo, which only made us laugh. I began including “handsome Jake” in the banter, slipping innuendo-laden glances toward him. I also probably spent longer than necessary hanging around the studio in nothing but my dance belt between shots--not covering up, although I could have--enjoying being seen by him as an object of youthful beauty. He would have been surprised to find out how close to his age I actually was (already 37). I found it energizing in this setting to bate Jake with the well-practiced edge of sexiness and intimacy Fay and I loved to play with.
A week later, Lillo gathered us in our slightly dingy downtown rehearsal studio to look through the proofs. We were stunned by how gorgeous we all looked--as if we were not only dancers but also runway models. I was amazed, if a bit disconcerted, by how, in the photographs, I looked like the dancer I wanted to be, not the dancer I was most days. I especially loved how Jake had captured the well-cultivated precision of my hands and feet.
It was a complete surprise when I got a call from Jake a few weeks later. He explained he had a brand-new camera he needed to experiment with before taking it with him on some fashion shoot overseas. Might I be willing to be a model for him to practice with this new camera? In exchange, I could have a few prints of my choosing from what he shot. And, might I bring costumes from my own dances, ones that I might like photographed?
What an opportunity. I could never have afforded to hire a photographer of his stature. I was also well aware of the uses of hidden agendas, and could tell that my saying yes to him would probably include saying yes to some sexual favors--a price I figured I could afford, and just might enjoy. I set the date with him, and pulled together a few of the costumes from my current repertory.
The result of my photo session with Jake is a crisp portrait of a long legged dancer, one knee raised, the other foot pressing the floor away with strong toes, the whole body off-balance, leaning forward as if sprinting. The twist between shoulders and hips stretches out the torso and gives narrowness to the waist. The skin-tight unitard, mottled in shades of sea-green fading upward into pale flesh, gives the appearance, at first glance that the dancer is naked, covered only by a clinging residue of multi-hued algae--a startlingly masculine and slightly devilish sea-nymph shooting up out of the waves. Carefully shaded light catches each body contour--the effort under the skin revealed, the ease and triumph in the face explained.
I love that photograph. It is now blown up and framed, positioned in a place of honor in my office, a representation of achievement. I know it is only one side of me, but certainly the most glamorous side of my dancing career. There, I can say to the voices in my head that doubt. That is how beautiful I looked, how good I got.
