this? At least this pain is familiar. If I knew there was nothing but darkness, a definitive end on the other side, I would pull the trigger today, end it all. I know, I’m a selfish bastard and a coward at that, but it’s the truth. Nate, my only real friend, knows it. That’s why he checks on me daily. That’s why he’s trying so hard to find an outlet for me.
“Yeah, it does.”
“These are the colors of your soul, Bastian. What people don’t understand is that those colors are continuously changing in life. Through the ups and downs, they go from pinks and purples to deep shades of amber and crimson, to grays and almost unrecognizable blacks, and hopefully, back to greens and hues of orange, anything signifying life. They become your aura—like a kaleidoscope, ever changing. You’ve turned your wheel for the first time in years. Find the colors of your life again.” He grips my bicep with his hand, giving it a slight squeeze of encouragement and bit of a smile.
I give him a nod, acknowledging I heard him, but I’m unable to express any thoughts on the subject. I’m in unrecognizable blacks, but there’s color in the peripherals of my world for the first time in half a decade.
He walks out of the room, leaving me staring at my soul on the wall. I hear him talking to people in the living room, and one by one, they start to bring equipment into the kitchen: soft boxes, cameras, lenses, reflectors, and all kinds of other shit I can’t identify. I step back, giving them room to set up. It’s obvious they’ve worked with Ferry for years. They all dance around in choreographed movements. I note the intricate scarlet F adorning each black case. All his workers wear solid black, his signature monogrammed on their shoulder. It’s interesting to note F s waltzing as they work. The color creates trails in a sea of black. It’s oddly beautiful.
As they clear the room, Ferry comes in, picks up one of the several cameras, and then tips his head in my direction. I motion toward the door, indicating I’m going to leave the room, but he shakes his head. “Stay.”
I vaguely hear his staff in the other room, gasping at his allowance of my presence. “Ignore them. I normally work alone. This ,” he says motioning to the wall, “isn’t normal.”
I watch from the corner in awe. Most artists create alone. I think. It’s really the only way I’ve ever worked, even in college when I was in classes, it seemed each student managed to fabricate their own little nook to work in isolation and the other students left each other alone. I’ve never watched someone else’s creative process. Sylvie worked in studios—although they were sound—while I worked in mine. These were our careers. Some people go to offices; we went to studios.
He really is a genius behind the lens. I can’t see what he’s after until he moves and I occasionally catch a glimpse of what he sees through the window of the camera. At times, I hear rapid clicks capturing his vision, and at others, it seems like ten or fifteen minutes go by without any noise. Once or twice he moves the light, but mostly, he uses his body to manipulate it instead.
When he finishes, he looks exhausted as though he hasn’t slept for days. He claps twice and his gang starts to file in, pulling out equipment, but none of them touch the cameras again, the red F s move uniformly as they collect things.
Walking over to me, he holds out the camera in his hand. “Wanna see?”
I straighten my posture and move away from the wall I had been leaning against. “Really? You don’t want to edit them first?” It surprises me he would allow anyone to see a raw photo.
He laughs and says, “I don’t edit. Either the photo’s right or it’s not. I don’t manipulate it to get the lighting I want or distort an image. The only editing I will do is ensure that there is nothing in the image other than your work, so I might crop out a piece of wall that snuck in.” His smile
“Yeah, it does.”
“These are the colors of your soul, Bastian. What people don’t understand is that those colors are continuously changing in life. Through the ups and downs, they go from pinks and purples to deep shades of amber and crimson, to grays and almost unrecognizable blacks, and hopefully, back to greens and hues of orange, anything signifying life. They become your aura—like a kaleidoscope, ever changing. You’ve turned your wheel for the first time in years. Find the colors of your life again.” He grips my bicep with his hand, giving it a slight squeeze of encouragement and bit of a smile.
I give him a nod, acknowledging I heard him, but I’m unable to express any thoughts on the subject. I’m in unrecognizable blacks, but there’s color in the peripherals of my world for the first time in half a decade.
He walks out of the room, leaving me staring at my soul on the wall. I hear him talking to people in the living room, and one by one, they start to bring equipment into the kitchen: soft boxes, cameras, lenses, reflectors, and all kinds of other shit I can’t identify. I step back, giving them room to set up. It’s obvious they’ve worked with Ferry for years. They all dance around in choreographed movements. I note the intricate scarlet F adorning each black case. All his workers wear solid black, his signature monogrammed on their shoulder. It’s interesting to note F s waltzing as they work. The color creates trails in a sea of black. It’s oddly beautiful.
As they clear the room, Ferry comes in, picks up one of the several cameras, and then tips his head in my direction. I motion toward the door, indicating I’m going to leave the room, but he shakes his head. “Stay.”
I vaguely hear his staff in the other room, gasping at his allowance of my presence. “Ignore them. I normally work alone. This ,” he says motioning to the wall, “isn’t normal.”
I watch from the corner in awe. Most artists create alone. I think. It’s really the only way I’ve ever worked, even in college when I was in classes, it seemed each student managed to fabricate their own little nook to work in isolation and the other students left each other alone. I’ve never watched someone else’s creative process. Sylvie worked in studios—although they were sound—while I worked in mine. These were our careers. Some people go to offices; we went to studios.
He really is a genius behind the lens. I can’t see what he’s after until he moves and I occasionally catch a glimpse of what he sees through the window of the camera. At times, I hear rapid clicks capturing his vision, and at others, it seems like ten or fifteen minutes go by without any noise. Once or twice he moves the light, but mostly, he uses his body to manipulate it instead.
When he finishes, he looks exhausted as though he hasn’t slept for days. He claps twice and his gang starts to file in, pulling out equipment, but none of them touch the cameras again, the red F s move uniformly as they collect things.
Walking over to me, he holds out the camera in his hand. “Wanna see?”
I straighten my posture and move away from the wall I had been leaning against. “Really? You don’t want to edit them first?” It surprises me he would allow anyone to see a raw photo.
He laughs and says, “I don’t edit. Either the photo’s right or it’s not. I don’t manipulate it to get the lighting I want or distort an image. The only editing I will do is ensure that there is nothing in the image other than your work, so I might crop out a piece of wall that snuck in.” His smile
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