| Fan Fiction |
by etoile
~*~
The next few days, I spent in total solitude, only emerging from my studio to pay the pizza delivery guy or get into a cab in the wee hours of the morning. Thank goodness part of my job description entitled me to a free taxi if I left work late, otherwise I would have to shell out the cash by myself.
This particular Tuesday night, I was working late – again. The stress of finalizing the latest issue of Lipstick had long since died down, and the pace of work was finally beginning to get back to normal. Roz needed me to do a photo feature on still lifes for the next issue, so I figured there was no time like the present, and set to work.
It was a cosmetics shoot. Apparently this stuff in front of me in pots and tubes of all shapes and sizes was what the fashion industry intended to hawk to all of womankind next month. I picked up a bottle of rosy nail varnish and placed it on its side on my white canvas. After rummaging around in the back of the studio toolbox, I found a huge nail and a hammer. Placing the nail smack in the centre of the bottle of nail varnish, I tapped it gently with the hammer and, like a rose in full bloom, the bottle broke, spilling its contents in a tidy, calculated flow across the pristine white canvas.
Next, I picked up a tube of lipstick and grabbed a butter knife I had borrowed from the canteen. Idly, I began shaving off chunks of lipstick, until I came to the bottom of the tube, then arranging the chunks in a perfect curve alongside the slick of nail varnish issuing from its destroyed bottle.
This was what I loved about still life shoots, especially with cosmetics. It was a trick of the trade, being able to ruin all these things that would be marketed to women who would buy them to make them beautiful. I took great enjoyment in cutting up lipsticks, shaving shards off eyeshadow palettes, and breaking nail varnish bottles not least because the final result was visually striking, but also because it gave me a sadistic sense of satisfaction, like I had some form of control over what fashion was dictating.
As I took shot after shot, accompanied only by the sound of flashbulbs going off echoing through the now quiet studio, I could feel it deep in my bones. I had always known this day would come, but I had no idea that I would get jaded so soon.
I was tiring of the fashion industry. Everything about it irked me so much. I despised the shallow models I had to placate, and I had an emptiness in me that made me so discontent with my own existence. Suddenly losing all inspiration to work, I snapped the last few pictures that I needed to fill the portfolio, and got out my bin liner. After every shoot, I would chuck everything, except maybe any salvageable bits of lipstick, into one big bin liner and throw it out in the trash. Every bag of rubbish was a small victory for me – a sign of my resistance against the huge fashion machine in the sky.
Armed with my spoils of war, I stepped out into the chilly night air and made my way towards the huge dumpster at the back of the building. It was pitch-black outside, and I found myself stumbling around, led only by a mix of guesswork and memory. I reached the dumpster and slung my haul into its deep recesses before making my way back. Reaching my arm out into the darkness once again, I trudged forward, hoping for a wall or some form of support to steady me.
Imagine my surprise when someone emerged from the shadows and took my hand instead.
“Hi, Han Doori.”
There was no mistaking that familiar tone of voice. I looked up, and a shard of light illuminated the speaker’s face. He was smiling again, but this time, it seemed like his expression wanted to tell me something else that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Hi, Jung Yunho. What brings you here at this time of night?”
His face had slid into shadow again as he led me back towards the studio, so I couldn’t see his expression. All I could make out was his deep, soothing voice saying, “I told you that I’d be seeing you, didn’t I?”
I suppose he had a point there.