femme fatale

I like to play with fire.

I met her almost five years ago, then didn't see her for a long time. One night, in a club in Chicago, I saw her across the crowded room. By then, I knew her real name, or part of it. She was surprisingly friendly. I encountered her repeatedly after that, sometimes late at night in that or other clubs, sometimes at gallery openings. Over time, I came to know her well; or at least as well as she lets anyone know her. In so may ways, she remains an enigma.

Like so many femme fatales, she's strong, cold, and vulnerable all at once. She likes to flirt, she's told me so, and she's good at it.

One summer evening we went to dinner. She dressed elegantly, and we sat in a Thai restaurant and talked of things that would have shocked our neighbors. On the way back to the car she let me photograph her, two images on the sidewalk in the fading light. She agreed in principle to be photographed more formally. Then, as often happens, I didn't hear from her for months.

That's been the game, for five years. Friendly flirtation, then absence. Prompt response to e-mails or phone calls, then for a while, none. Then an apology, and more flirting. With most women, even with stunningly beautiful models, I walk away if this happens once. For me, attractive women are commonplace. With her, I tolerate it, enjoy the challenge, and it's all a game. We each win battles in this very civilized war without an end.

At last, she did let me photograph her. We shot in her third floor apartment, first with window light and then with a pair of compact hot lights. The image above was taken toward the end of the evening, after I'd seen an impressive range of expression. Sometime before this she had told me of her past as a fashion model, in Germany I think. Indeed, she's no stranger to the camera, even if it has been a while.

The last time I saw her, about four months ago, she offered to get together and shoot some nudes. Then, of course, I didn't hear from her for several months. She reappeared, by e-mail, two weeks ago. Of course I'm 2,000 miles away, and uncertain when I'l be back in her neighborhood. When I am, there's a 50 percent chance she'll be ready to shoot. Or not. But eventually, she will. When she's ready.

One night, three years ago, I saw her without makeup, in jeans and a tee-shirt. I was on the sidewalk in front of a gallery, getting a little fresh air, getting away from the crowd. She came down from her apartment next door, just running across the street to buy cigarettes. I'll never forget the look on her face when she saw me. It hurt her so badly to be seen that way. Yet, it was just a few weeks later that we went to dinner and she looked so elegant.

She knows so many people, flirts with so many men. Now, she enjoys her power, revels in it's use. She knows, I think, that it won't last forever. She understands the fragility of power, its ephemeral nature. Already, even as she's surrounded by people, she's alone. She may always be alone, and at some level, afraid.