Episode 38: "It's a Look"

The fashion photographer -- looking rather fashionable herself -- was sitting in the reception room at Hillyer, Jones waiting for a meeting with the troubled art director. She had a sheaf of contact sheets of black and white and color shots of Meg Townsend she wanted to show him for the upcoming campaign.

Agnes, at the reception desk, picked up the beeping phone, nodded silently, and turned to answer Karen.

"That was him. He's going to another hour or so -- he overslept. It's chronic with him these days. Sorry, Karen," said Agnes. "Anything I can do?"

"Actually," said Karen, rising to her feet and holding the envelope of photographs in her two hands, "I'd love your opinion on these shots, Agnes. Meg Townsend showed up at my studio looking like death warmed over, and we shot her with no makeup -- and I think the shots are kind of ... well, they're weird, but kind of ... interesting."

It had gotten to the point where people valued Agnes's opinion on literally everything that went on at the agency. Not only was she a rock of common sense, she had good taste, a visual sense ... and she could even write. So what the hell was she doing behind the reception desk? Ask Agnes, and her response is, "Don't get me started."

"Let me put the plane on autopilot, and we'll have a look," Agnes said, flattered, as always, to be asked her "professional" opinion. She hit the switch on the receptionist's console that routed calls automatically to voicemail boxes, and motioned for Karen to follow her over to the window.

At a round marble disk coffee table with a drop-dead view of the East Side of Manhattan, they sat at bright orange upholstered swivel chairs. Karen dumped the 8 1/2" x 11" contact sheets -- strips of photos, one after the other, from which art directors choose shots for developing -- onto the surface of the table. The two women looked more like they were setting up a board game than choosing high fashion photos of a supermodel.

Agnes took the expensive photographer's magnifying loop that Karen unzipped from a tiny leather case and hunched over the coffee table looking at one strange shot of Meg after another.

Actually, the model looked awful. In successive shots, she came across as angry, sullen, depressed, and cranky, as she stared at the camera, almost daring it to capture her. The bags under Meg's eyes were pronounced in the color shots -- more so than in the black and whites -- and there was a bruised, victimized quality to the shots.

"I didn't go in any 'direction,' Agnes," Karen laughed. "Meg just showed up at my studio looking like this, said she was in no mood to pose or put makeup on, and I had this brainstorm to shoot her anyway, looking comme ça."

"Well, it is ... different." Agnes concurred, non-committally.

Agnes knew exactly what Karen was saying, but was worried that -- as with many artists, photographers, writers, illustrators, and other creative people who worked for the agency -- Karen had lost touch with the commercial point of what they were doing.

"But Karen," Agnes warned, "this isn't an art piece for 'Aperture' magazine," referring to the photography journal that graced the coffee-table in front of them.

"Oh, I know. But ... well, you know the kind of stuff Bruce Weber and Herb Ritts are doing these days, and I just kind of thought --"

Jill Campbell strolled up at just that moment, interrupted Karen. The two had worked on projects together, and Jill greeted her warmly.

"Hey girlfriend," the copywriter said. "What's up?"

Before Karen could answer, Jill Campbell looked down at the dozens of semi-shocking photos on the coffee table.

"Whoa!" she said, kneeling down on the carpet and taking one of the contact sheets in her hand. "Meg Townsend from Hell! I love it! Whose idea?"

And it did! Or rather, it sprayed all over Edward, Sydney's Yorkshire terrier, before Sydney could maneuver the hollow-stemmed Champagne flute under the overflowing bottle. Edward barked happily, the bubbly foam dripping off his nose and onto his lapping tongue.

Anyone watching the tiny dog's reaction to Sydney's good news would have sworn that he knew exactly what Sydney was saying, and that he was as happy as she was.

It was true. The high-powered literary agent had read Sydney's manuscript of "475 Madison Avenue" and -- these were his words -- "gone crazy over it. Crazy!"

"I knew it was good, Edward. I knew it!" Sydney took a sip from the glass, and, out of the corner of her eye, noticed that her answering machine light was blinking.

"Oops," she said to Edward. "That's probably Mom. Forgot to check it."

Sydney padded in her bare feet over to the machine, hit "Play," and listened.

Sydney? It's Ken. Hey, this is my fourth message -- I know you're blowing me off. If not, call me. I've got Smashing Pumpkins tickets for Webster Hall Friday nite. Take a break Sydney. You work too hard.

"He's right, Edward," Sydney said, to the dog who seemed to understand, and agree with, what Sydney's would-be boyfriend was saying. "I do work too hard. And it looks like it's paying off!"

With that, Sydney began to dial Ken's number, which -- though she'd never called it in her life -- she had committed to memory.