Page 15 of Washed Up
Iris
Reid is quiet on the walk over to the fort Ric Liddell calls home. To our surprise, Wynter accompanies us. He hasn’t said anything else about me leaving since the initial outburst. It seems the matter is settled. The pair of them drop me at the door. They don’t even wait for the owner to answer before abandoning me in favour of studio time. I hope they don’t resume arguing once I’m no longer standing between them.
The man who opens the door is older. Mid to late thirties at a guess. His blond hair hits his waist, and tattooed biceps peep from beneath both sleeves of his band T-shirt for a metal group of old. He’s not what I expected, not that I had any definite expectations. Maybe a nondescript white guy in a turtleneck, or a deliberately quirky one, decked out in hippy motley. He’s neither. He’s hot. And clearly a metal fan. He’d make a good subject for one of his own photographic studies.
“Iris, I presume. Ric.” He shakes my hand and leads me inside. “Studio’s up top, so I hope you don’t mind a climb. Reid says you washed up on my shore the night before last. Most visitors use the causeway.”
“Sorry, yeah. I hope I’m not intruding.” I’m already conscious of disrupting Lucidity’s studio time, without adding wasting the time of my favourite role-model to my catalogue of disasters.
“You’re not. You’re saving me from paperwork. This afternoon was looking dire. Now I get to spend it doing what makes me happy instead.” I didn’t even realise that he had a camera in his hand until I’m the focus of his viewfinder. “Payment for the guided tour,” he says.
My entrance into his tower-like abode is accompanied by barking from within.
“Don’t worry, they’re fastened in the kitchen.”
A spiral staircase leads us up numerous levels to his attic studio. It occupies the entire top floor, and it is fashioned into different zones, including an obvious chill out zone and an editing suite, alongside a plethora of lights and stacked canvasses. There’s none of his work displayed, which is disappointing. The walls are all pale neutral shades, except for one corner that’s painted black. It’s a fabulous space, and I spend a good twenty minutes pottering about, taking it all in, and flicking through the canvasses that are stacked facing the walls. Turns out that’s how he stores them.
Most of his work is shot in black and white. All of it is breathtaking. Ric blends into the background, so I’m only vaguely aware of him shooting me from every angle, while I ask mostly inane questions. Every now and then, I unwittingly stare straight into the camera lens, and I hear a click and a whir of digital camera, and he’ll smile like he’s gained something.
People used to think that being photographed somehow trapped a piece of your soul. I wonder if that’s what prompts his smile. He’s just claimed a piece of mine.
“What have you produced so far?”
I use his computer to show him my online portfolio. He views without comment, leaving me to interpret the nuances of his expression for potential interest. At least he doesn’t tell me I’m rubbish and not to waste my time.
“I don’t suppose you need an assistant, do you?”
My time here is surely nearly up, so, yeah, I’m asking. It’d be a wasted opportunity otherwise, and I don’t want to live with that regret.
The blond vision before me laughs like I’ve said something utterly hilarious. “You offering?”
I nod. “I’d love—”
“Lady, you’d change your mind after five minutes. I’m what’s kindly referred to as a high maintenance hermit, or an antisocial arsehole, when people aren’t saying it to my face.”
He agreed to this meeting; he can’t be that much of either of those things.
“Worth the risk,” I suggest. I really would love to learn from him. “I’d be here to absorb your genius as well as make myself useful.”
“Flattery isn’t going to cut it. Although, I can’t say I don’t sometimes fancy a dogsbody. It’d mean you living here on the island…”
“Sounds great.” I need a new home.
He chuckles. “You say that, but… Maybe, I’ll consider it.” He does so for perhaps half a second before shaking his head. “Not worth the frustration for either of us.”
I’m not as ready to let the idea go. “I work hard, and I’m good at blending in.”
“I’m sure the first of those is true, the second…” He rocks his hand indicating the jury is out on that one. “What you are is a sweet young thing. What makes you so sure you can hack it? I know you’ve flicked through those.” He gives the canvasses a nod. “But are you actually even familiar with my work?”
“I went to your exhibit at the Tate seven times, and I—”
He cuts me off. “Once it’s printed on a canvas, people call it art, but while I’m making it, it’s messy, it’s crude. It’s rude. It’s one hundred per cent real, and hence, pornographic. People have sex in this studio while I photograph them.”
“Yes, I realise.”
“Do you? Ever watched two or more people get that intimate. Photographers—we’re the ultimate voyeurs. For most people, what I do is way out of their comfort zone.”
I recall last night’s film, and how it made me squirm. Maybe Ric has a point. With experience, I’d get over that though, wouldn’t I? It seems to me that the thing to do here is to be honest. “I won’t lie and claim I wouldn’t be embarrassed. I would, but I’d adapt, learn to distance myself. And art is sometimes discomforting. Don’t I need to feel that, if I want to portray it?”
