because i am brian roy

photography, world conquest, etc.

fashion shoot day III | off to nyc

photo-shoot | day III
I was sent to Cavi’s headquarters to shoot more denim.
I arrive at the train station on time. Yes, even in Brian Roy Time. And yet it’s too late. The guy won’t let me board. What the heck? I demand results from the man behind the counter. I know it’s not his fault, so I pull back my tone after it seems lighting a little fire under his butt isn’t going to produce any better results. Though, if I did this literally, and he farted, it’d make a flame thrower. If I’m ever found to be insane (which I guess will happen soon after someone finds my blog and then also actually reads it), I will blame conductors for my madness.
A new rule I’ve come across. For trains, arrive early, because arriving on time is too late.
The trip, once I finally get on a train 1 hour later, is pleasant, and goes very fast. I can’t even remember much about it. Oh yes, I got some work done, made some phone calls, about upcoming shoots the next weekend, cancled my physical therapy that night, some other stuff. I forget, it’s all marked off on my to do list.
Penn Station is incredibly convenient. Pops you right out where you were headed. Well, almost. But it’s a short walk. While I wait at the front desk, I chat with the receptionist, an older woman. Cuban maybe? I’m unsure. I learn she was a 9-11 survivor, and her story is amazing. A wall of people, everyone grey and bloody, rushing away from the site. Bodies falling, the clean up of the limbs and the rats and the suicides afterward. It wasn’t so much the story as the emotion she put into it. I realize this is the first real conversation I’d had in weeks. You know, the kind that doesn’t have an itinerary and goes where-ever and doesn’t really end and contains two people not forcing involvement.
Eh. Maybe she just talks alot and I was sleep-deprived.
Eventually, Garth greets me, shows me the denim, and I set up my mobile studio and get to shooting.
Yes, I arrived an hour late, but I finished 3 hours ahead of schedule. Obvi.
With my extra time, I bought an amazing film-noir style trench coat at H&M. Then I grabbed lunch at Harrington’s. Wait. Not lunch. Dinner. Whatever. The bartender just kind-of grimmaced when I said hello. Charming, I thought to myself. It wouldn’t hurt her to at least smile. Then I realized she was Russian, and she was smiling. Hmm. In Mother Russia, lips smile you! Famished, because I forgot to eat, I asked for a menu and asked what she recommended, meaning the food. Despite this, she muttered something about being pregnant recommended a Stoli on the rocks. Not my cup of tea, though. Not a cup of tea by any measure.
As I’m enjoying a Sam Adams and a Harrington, which is shrimp, mozerella and tomatoes on sourdough (wonderful!), relaxing after the past three days, a whirlwind named River Accorsi burst into the pub, carrying one hundred pounds of luggage and a ton of questions.
He looks at me and says, “Hey man, what’s up, man? Mind if I sit here? No, wait, I’ll sit here. Does your girlfriend mind?” They are all indirect questions he seemed to find the answer to without my help. I’m feeling certain he had been involved with cocaine in his past. To be precise, ten minutes ago. He looks me square on, “What do you do, man?”
I say I’m a photographer. He’s rather direct and inquisitive, to say the least. But this is immediately releaving. Conversations are much easier when I don’t have to lead them.
“Oh, I’m a music producer.”
Which, in my experience, means he isn’t actually, though he’d like to be. He follows up with a confirmation:
“I’m on the run man. Runnin’. Yeah.”
Oh cool. You’re on the run. Faster to drive.
“Yeah man, I left my wife earlier. So, I dunno. I’m on the run.”
Ah man, I’m sorry! Does she know?
“Yeah, she’s the one that dropped me off at the train station. We made it 9 months. She was cool about it, you know, considering. I married too young. I just
couldn’t take it, you know?”
I nod soberly as though I did.
“Do you have a wife?” No. “I kinda thought you might, or you were with your girlfriend. No offense.”
I realize he’s talking about my enormous H&M bag on the chair next to me. I quickly justify the need to buy trendy, inexpensive professionalwear. I’m also starting to think they need to start paying me endorsement fees.
This segues into the Cinemoxie shpeel. I learn he’s interested in getting into films, he has some  screenplays, he’d like to produce music for films. Very cool. However he’s wandering through Manhattan, with no place to stay that night. An industry standard, really. Although he does have a clear laser-sharp direction in mind: LA or NYC or screenplays or music production for films or just music. So, not a laser. Focused like a flashlight.
But still, gotta start somewhere. And I appreciate the conversation. I think I’m most social when I travel. It’s easier to feel at home with strangers. First impressions, beginner’s luck, mysterious traveler, I got these things down. Developing past that point… that’s the hard part. Coming up with new content. It’s hard to do back ‘home’, where emotions are stagnant, my focus seems soggy, and finishing projects can feel like rowing a boat upstream, if the stream is actually mud and the boat is actually an anvil.
He sends me an email later. Maybe he’ll end up somewhere, be a valuable connection. Maybe I’m that connection. Who’s to say?
I leave Harrington’s, and wait for the 6:30 train to arrive. I take a seat. Shannon calls. We talk, and end things, on a positive, amicable note. It’s an important step, better for both of us, but I feel the fear of loneliness creeping, just two rows back. Now one row. Loneliness also sounds like impatient, noisy children kicking my *#&%# ing seat. Hmm. No, those are two different feelings, a hatred of other people’s spoiled children and post-break up loneliness. They’re similar, it turns out. I’d never have known otherwise.
I shake it off, blame it on the insomnia. I decide to get some work done. I put in my headphones, and listen to streaming radio. To get to my bag, I reach down, my head resting on the cold window. I think about condensation, feeling the clop-clop clop-clop of the tracks, listening to the muttering from illegible conversations across the entire train as they mingle with the repetitive radio, listening until I don’t know what I’m hearing and it almost sounds like music and the music sounds like rain. I have every intention of working.
When I wake up, I realize I was asleep for two hours. I guess I was exhausted.
I attempt to use my ancient, flickering Dell to upload and get a headstart on the pictures. Instead, it squeals loudly for a solid minute and offers the blue screen of death. Lovely. Charming as the Russian bartender, but unable to produce tasty things. It’s karma, I realize, for severely disliking the fussy children at the back of the car.

the train continues on.
i’m reading.
i love the rain that rains at the lonely stations along the way. reminds me of bookstores, revolving doors, sugar cubes.
justifies buying that wicked sweet raincoat.

Here’s a few of the pictures I took.

One Response to “fashion shoot day III | off to nyc”

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