It's All Relative 26
It’s All Relative 26
Author: hawkbehere (hawkbehere2@yahoo.com)
Rated PG
Summary: The typical snore-fest, plus a couple of essays so bring your coffee or beverage of choice. Getting pleasantly closer to the end, as I’m sure anyone reading couldn’t help but cheer happily. There are references Serena makes to things she’s said earlier in this fic. Purely intentional. I didn’t fall down and smack my little head. Well, actually, I did recently but that’s another story.
A/N: My love to Rosemary for the once over and for the tremendous encouragement. All mistakes are mine. Love to my Z Mercurychkita and to my dearest Martha as well. Oh, and hi Jess-get back to work.
***
The end of any party was always a little weird, Andy thought, always a little stilted. It helped if the people involved were really friends and read the subtle cues you gave, “Go ahead and hit the road,” or “Please for God’s sake stay and help clean up.”
She gave Lily, Doug, Emily, Serena and Nigel the green light to go and they couldn’t have been more pleasant as they expressed their enjoyment of the evening. The Castillos were hostages to the clean-up, which they pitched into with a will. It was natural enough, because they seemed like family, not like friends. It made her wonder why. Doug and Lily were life-long friends but the Castillos were just different. As she watched Juan Carlo laughing with Sam as the awning fell down, yet again, on her brother she smiled. Life was good.
***
Wanda smiled as she helped Audrey fold the long tablecloth. “It was good-this party. I liked it so much.”
Audrey nodded and took a deep breath, saying nothing.
Wanda looked at her for a few seconds and said, “You do not like this with your daughter and Miranda-I see it.”
They moved closer together, bringing the corners of the cloth together. “I don’t know how to like it.”
“Si. I understand.” Wanda took the cloth from Audrey and did the last few folds herself. “I am a Catholic, you know?”
“Yes.”
“My church does not let me approve of this. The feelings yes and always. The actions no. But who am I, Audrey? Who are you? Look at the happy life they have. I pray God looks at them the way I see them. I only have one blessed son. Nothing could make me unhappy if he was safe and happy and good. You have the blessing of a good daughter with all this love, all these things, and still you are so unhappy?”
Audrey smiled through tears, “It’s easy enough when you say it that way.”
“No. Never easy. It is hard to find your way. I have found mine. I am happy to be here. Me, my husband, my son? You must see this. We are part of this family.”
Audrey’s mind, her eyes, her soul were so tired and she shook her head sadly, “So what are you saying? We’re lucky?”
“Luck is what we call things God gives us, Audrey. God gave me your daughter and Miranda and their children. I thank Him every day for that blessing. I will thank Him tonight for you and your husband and your son.”
***
Juan Carlo was helping the twins fold the chairs and he said, elaborately carefully, “I think perhaps that Ms. Andy’s mami is not so happy.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Shut up, Caroline. What she meant to say, if she was wearing her polite hat, Jace,” using one of their few nicknames for him, “was that, yeah, we know Andy’s mom’s not happy.”
Juan Carlo always felt more comfortable with Cassidy so he asked her, “Is it because…I mean…” he really had no words for it.
Caroline was happy to help him, “Because they’re lesbos? Yeah, that’s about it in a big fat homo nutshell, Jace.”
“Caroline? I swear to God. You’re asking for it. Stop it.”
“Why? She’s dissing our family, Cass!”
Juan Carlo felt tears stinging his eyes and he wiped them away immediately. “She is not doing that. I don’t think so. I think she’s afraid. People who are afraid of different people hurt you sometimes. My mami and papi have told me this. Because I am Mexican and we are poor and I am not like the people in our school. They told me people can be mean because they’re afraid. Even you have told me so. Because I am poor and different.”
Cassidy crossed to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not different. You’re the best boy I know.”
Caroline sneered at both of them but her eyes were oddly kind, “You know what? I love you both but I fucking hate the people who hurt us and Cassidy? Who’s Audrey to us? Nobody. Just another nobody like the nobodies with cameras outside our house creating a load of bullshit for us anytime they want to.”
Juan Carlo was astonished by Caroline’s profanity but said, “You may be right about the camera people but Ms. Audrey will be your family now and I tell you she is only afraid.”
“Fine. Boo hoo. She can be afraid and just grow the fuck up. I know I have to. Cass and I both do, Jace. Daily.”
At times like this Cassidy watched her twin and wondered how they could be genetically exactly the same and still so completely different.
***
Eventually, the Castillos left with smiles but Juan Carlo was so troubled he could barely smile. Cassidy leaned forward to him and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”
He smiled shyly at her and when they left Caroline asked Cassidy what she’d said.
“That you’re an asshole.”
“No you didn’t.”
Cassidy smiled and shoulder bumped her sister. “Of course I didn’t. Let’s go crash with a movie while the old people do whatever they do.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They said polite goodnights and headed up the stairs when Cassidy said, “Caroline?”
“What?”
Cassidy grabbed her hand, one stair below her sister and looked into her eyes-really looked at her.
Caroline glanced down at their joined hands. “Fine. Whatever. I’m sorry.”
“You’re my best friend, you know.”
Caroline smiled at her and her eyes clouded with sadness, “You know what? You’ll get better friends. You’re bound to. A husband or wife or what the fuck ever. And I’ll have friends but I’ll never have anyone but you.”
Cassidy hastened to say, “That’s not tr-“ But then she looked at her sister, really saw her. Eyes she knew like she knew her own, were exactly her own actually, but so very different for some reason she knew she couldn’t understand. “Well, lucky you’ve got me, huh?”
Caroline laughed, deliberately changing the mood, “True dat. Whatcha wanna watch?”
“300?”
“Fuck. Again? At least two of us seem hetero-so far.”
“I know, right? Eye candy. Nigel’s wildest dream.”
Caroline snickered, “300, baby. You got it.”
***
When the Sachs left, their reactions were as varied as their personalities. Sam was gleeful, Richard happy, Audrey thoughtful.
Andy hugged them all. Miranda kissed and hugged Sam, kissed Richard’s cheek and rather frostily hugged Audrey. But as they pulled out of the hug Miranda said, “She’s completely safe with me.”
Audrey swallowed hard and nodded. “I know. It’s just hard-to know.”
Miranda offered her hand, “We have the rest of our lives to figure it out, don’t we?”
Audrey smiled and shook Miranda’s hand warmly, “That we do. Christmas is coming.”
“Oh my God.”
“I like the look of fear on your face, Miranda.”
“Only the person who does my mammograms ever sees it.”
“So? We have something in common.”
“How could we doubt it?”
“Take care-and take care of her.”
“Are you kidding? She hates me. She’s nearly in Fort Knox with me.”
“Good enough.”
***
Miranda wondered as she walked into Runway whether there was any truly reasonably successful navigation of a space where your assistant and art director had beaten you at volleyball and had nearly laughed in your face about a photo shoot.
She squared her shoulders. The easy answer? She could be Miranda Priestly. Emily looked at her as if she’d never seen her in her life. Typically and completely business appropriate. She’d found a soft spot in her heart for Emily that Andy had always told her was there. Who knew? And when she called Serena into her office, it was as if nothing between them had ever happened or existed. Until Serena left her office and winked before she did so.
Miranda took a deep breath. Serena was slightly unhappy about the shoot but clearly all was on track. Or as on track as things were in her world.
That photo shoot. She took another deep breath and smiled. It would be magic.
***
Or not. Serena was more gorgeous than Miranda could have ever imagined and she would never have told Andy how often she’d imagined just…exactly this. Except something was wrong. Desperately wrong. Which made her angry and then Patrick made a suggestion and then it was easy. Soft. She knew it would be perfect and she completely hated it.
***
Miranda knew Andy might be just a bit perturbed by the book but she wasn’t perturbed exactly.
“What in the fucking fuck is this? You?! Is this seriously the fucking cover?”
“Andrea! Your language!”
Andy toned her voice down just a bit. “That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Miranda almost laughed. Andy wasn’t mad. She was just…truly…not angry.
“What the fuck were you two thinking?”
Miranda was not stupid and had noticed a plethora of fucks in the last few sentences but she had to answer.
“It was horrible-Demarchelier? He told me to do it so I did. It would have been a disaster otherwise.”
Andy stared at the picture that showed Miranda seated in a chair with Serena seated on the floor between her legs. She was wearing red vintage Balenciaga displaying her shoulders, arms and making the most of her modest décolletage. Miranda was in a black Prada suit with a white blouse. Serena had one arm firmly wrapped around one of Miranda’s legs and her red nail varnish not only matched her dress but seemed to point to Miranda’s red Blahniks.
Miranda had placed one hand on Serena’s bare shoulder and Serena had reached back to place her hand over it. Miranda stared into the lens and looked entirely inscrutable but Serena, with her pale hand on Miranda’s had turned toward the camera and given the most otherworldly smile Andy had ever seen outside of the Mona Lisa. It could have meant anything, nothing or everything. It was the single sexiest photo she’d ever seen.
“We are fucking framing this.”
“Do you know how many times you’ve said fuck in the last few minutes?”
“You think that’s a fluke? Do you know what we’re doing when our kids are in bed?”
“Is that right?”
“You got it, fiancée. You know what could only put the icing on this cake beside your being in bed with me?”
Miranda sighed happily, “You’ll tell me, I’m sure.”
“Emily is going to fucking die. I mean-think of the most delicious meal you’ve ever dreamed of eating-that’s what I’m thinking about right now. That’s what this will be for her. She’s going to DIE!”
Which was sort of true. Serena was divided in her mind about showing Emily the cover but of course she had to. The other pictures were superb but the cover-yes. Miranda made it and she knew, in her heart of hearts, she’d make it for Emily. It was a strange fact that she never minded this-that Emily was in love with her boss. It was a different love and Serena actually found it sweet and charming, the more so that Emily denied it.
Emily stared at the cover so long that Serena thought she might have hurt her feelings. But Emily surprised her when she only said very quietly and simply, “I like it. I think it’s very pretty.”
Essays from Reluctant Models
Miranda: Editor/Reluctant Model
This is a longer editor’s note than usual for a few reasons. If you care to and I suggest it, you can read more interesting and, frankly, more reasoned and substantive articles about the objective and subjective (our theme this month) elsewhere in this issue. I’ve read my share of philosophy and theory on this topic, which has sometimes engaged but more often bored me. I supposed, however, it was necessary to weigh in (and yes, that was a joke) because as you can see that for the first and only time, I’m on the cover of my own magazine with my employee Serena.
It was a matter of happenstance, of sorts, because neither of us can stomach having our pictures taken. Yet, there she was and there I was. And here we are. We both agreed to write about it. I go first because I’m the editor and it was entirely my fault and I’ll assume no one in the professional or tabloid press would be one bit surprised.
My job involves what many people consider objectification. I know it and I’ve never apologized for it. I’ve asked Serena to model for Runway multiple times over the years she’s worked here. Why? Because she is a beautiful thing upon whom it’s quite easy to imagine hanging other beautiful things, which is my profession. But not hers.
Fair enough. She’s never wanted to be a face of Runway or to be seen through the lens of our culture’s definition of beauty, something for which she holds me at least partially responsible. I’m quite aware of the countless misuses of objectification, some of which are correctly or equally incorrectly attributed to me and to my magazine. I should perhaps admit that I call people ‘beautiful things’ primarily because it irritates those who don’t know or care about beauty as I do-those who don’t have the slightest professional obligation to it.
My professional conception of beauty is one thing but it’s not the sum of what I find beautiful. What else is there? Beside what I put in this magazine?
Rainfall. Flowers struggling up through our city’s sidewalks. My children’s laughter. My partner’s rolling her eyes at me when she thinks I don’t see it. Balsamic vinegar on a freshly sliced tomato. Simply waking and breathing, knowing my family is healthy and happy in our home.
Long ago, I visited a friend in hospice and his trembling hand touching mine as he recognized and greeted me was a stark reminder, young as we both were, of the fragility of life. That was horrible and very beautiful. Although it’s a cliché, perhaps some never fully understand that a true appreciation of beauty can never exist removed from an appreciation of its ephemeral nature.
Keats comes to mind, always:
She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh…
I’ve always known that everything I revere and admire will always remain outside me and will leave me, if only in death. Which, when one thinks about it, is another beautiful thing. I’m the only subject in my life. And, if you know anything at all, you’re the only subject in your own.
I believe part of our duty as human beings is to see the objects around us and to admire and revere them for the independent subjects they are. They are all people or clothes or art or ideas with existences outside of our own. I don’t have the slightest clue what the dearest loves of my life truly think or feel or are. And not solely because I’m as obtuse or solipsistic as people paint me or as you, reading this, are as well. No one and nothing I see is me or mine and never will be. But I can hope that I know something about them or they me. When I look into my children’s or partner’s eyes and there’s the slightest hint that we’re truly sharing the same moment, it’s a glimpse of the transcendent.
I remember, as a girl, riding at night in my parents’ car. Seeing other children in the cars passing us by, realizing that I would never know what they were thinking or feeling as I watched street lights illuminating their faces and feeling our flashing mutual momentary attention to each other. They passed, all that they were, whole of themselves. Separate forever and I’d never know. Were they happy or sad? Were they hungry for dinner, like I was, or sulking over a bad grade at school or whatever I could imagine at that age? Snapshots of life outside me.
I remember wondering, even as my parents looked at me-or my teachers, my friends: what were they really seeing or thinking? Not what I was seeing or thinking, surely. Not even the converse of it. Nothing that I could ever touch or know. And this was somehow always sad but completely obvious and beautiful to me even as a child.
So I devoted myself to a career of showing people what I could and can see. A fool’s errand. But the world of art unites us and reminds us that a shared perception is possible, no matter how fleeting. One must only connect.
Much about life can seem relative. But what is beautiful, important and relevant? It’s adamantine-hard, sharp and true. If you can’t see that, I can.
Serena: Art Director/Reluctant Model
Miranda was kind enough to let me read what she wrote before asking my side of this. She gave me carte blanche to say what I wanted. What to say? The pictures are better than I expected, although I should not be surprised. I’m an art director at Runway, after all. What Miranda wrote might be surprising to some but is very like her, I think.
What else? I love fashion and art but choose to care almost nothing about beauty. My own, I suppose I should add. I am what is considered beautiful and know it. I can’t help but know it as I have been told so all my life. There are many kinds of beauty but the kind I am speaking of is physical, not that of the soul or intellect. The Runway standard of physical beauty is genetic, a fluke one is born into. I happened to be born that way but did not choose it as a career. Or perhaps so but I work behind the camera, not in front of it.
I have been approached by many people many, many times to trade my physical appearance for gain, both in professional and more personal ways. I have always declined. So why did I do this? Simply said, I tired of Miranda’s asking. I gave up and agreed. Only this once.
As far as objectification is concerned? I have experienced it too many times to remember. Miranda’s is overt and professional. I know I am a visual object to her. Every time she sees me, she looks at me for the briefest moment as if I were a shoe or a dress irritating her because it refuses to be photographed. Then we move on-to me as a human, her employee, our work. I do not take it personally. Maybe that is the reason I don’t take offence-it is her job. I know it is not personal.
I suppose I should tell the story of my supposed objectification. My photo shoot was a disaster. The vast majority of humanity will never know that nothing feels so deeply like a disaster-like the fashion Titanic hitting an iceberg-as when Miranda Priestly is watching your photo shoot fail. After what seemed like hours and certainly enough time for Leonardo to pull Kate up to the end of the ship (prow/bow? I’m not nautical), Miranda jumped in.
She took a seat and the photographer said I should sit on the floor between her legs. Not easy. I was in vintage Balenciaga. I lowered myself onto the floor, she pulled me back into her Prada suit and, after a few awkward shots, I relaxed and put my arm around her leg. Finally, she put her hand on my shoulder as she whispered into my ear, “What on Earth is your problem? It’s only a %&*#$ camera, Serena.” This made me very happy and it was hard not to laugh. The photo shoot was art for her but at that point I knew she was suffering what she considered the tortures of the damned for it. Me too. Welcome to my world, Miranda. It was brilliant and made the pictures perfect.
So I am now on the cover of Runway, the last place I would ever want to be. Anyone who knows me, including my family, will be greatly amused.
I have also now been professionally beautiful for someone I truly admire. It is nothing I want to do again but I managed to put Miranda on the cover even as she put me there. I promise you she likes it even less than I do and this, again, makes me very happy. Not, as people say, a bad day’s work.
One last thing? Yes, Miranda beggars description of your worst belief about her at work. The Ice Queen’s hand on my shoulder, however, was soft and warm. This did not surprise me. She is so much more than she appears. As am I. Or everyone I have ever met, for that matter. Aren’t you?
For this cover? For her and only her? This object does not object at all.
NEXT CHAPTER
Author: hawkbehere (hawkbehere2@yahoo.com)
Rated PG
Summary: The typical snore-fest, plus a couple of essays so bring your coffee or beverage of choice. Getting pleasantly closer to the end, as I’m sure anyone reading couldn’t help but cheer happily. There are references Serena makes to things she’s said earlier in this fic. Purely intentional. I didn’t fall down and smack my little head. Well, actually, I did recently but that’s another story.
A/N: My love to Rosemary for the once over and for the tremendous encouragement. All mistakes are mine. Love to my Z Mercurychkita and to my dearest Martha as well. Oh, and hi Jess-get back to work.
***
The end of any party was always a little weird, Andy thought, always a little stilted. It helped if the people involved were really friends and read the subtle cues you gave, “Go ahead and hit the road,” or “Please for God’s sake stay and help clean up.”
She gave Lily, Doug, Emily, Serena and Nigel the green light to go and they couldn’t have been more pleasant as they expressed their enjoyment of the evening. The Castillos were hostages to the clean-up, which they pitched into with a will. It was natural enough, because they seemed like family, not like friends. It made her wonder why. Doug and Lily were life-long friends but the Castillos were just different. As she watched Juan Carlo laughing with Sam as the awning fell down, yet again, on her brother she smiled. Life was good.
***
Wanda smiled as she helped Audrey fold the long tablecloth. “It was good-this party. I liked it so much.”
Audrey nodded and took a deep breath, saying nothing.
Wanda looked at her for a few seconds and said, “You do not like this with your daughter and Miranda-I see it.”
They moved closer together, bringing the corners of the cloth together. “I don’t know how to like it.”
“Si. I understand.” Wanda took the cloth from Audrey and did the last few folds herself. “I am a Catholic, you know?”
“Yes.”
“My church does not let me approve of this. The feelings yes and always. The actions no. But who am I, Audrey? Who are you? Look at the happy life they have. I pray God looks at them the way I see them. I only have one blessed son. Nothing could make me unhappy if he was safe and happy and good. You have the blessing of a good daughter with all this love, all these things, and still you are so unhappy?”
Audrey smiled through tears, “It’s easy enough when you say it that way.”
“No. Never easy. It is hard to find your way. I have found mine. I am happy to be here. Me, my husband, my son? You must see this. We are part of this family.”
Audrey’s mind, her eyes, her soul were so tired and she shook her head sadly, “So what are you saying? We’re lucky?”
“Luck is what we call things God gives us, Audrey. God gave me your daughter and Miranda and their children. I thank Him every day for that blessing. I will thank Him tonight for you and your husband and your son.”
***
Juan Carlo was helping the twins fold the chairs and he said, elaborately carefully, “I think perhaps that Ms. Andy’s mami is not so happy.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Shut up, Caroline. What she meant to say, if she was wearing her polite hat, Jace,” using one of their few nicknames for him, “was that, yeah, we know Andy’s mom’s not happy.”
Juan Carlo always felt more comfortable with Cassidy so he asked her, “Is it because…I mean…” he really had no words for it.
Caroline was happy to help him, “Because they’re lesbos? Yeah, that’s about it in a big fat homo nutshell, Jace.”
“Caroline? I swear to God. You’re asking for it. Stop it.”
“Why? She’s dissing our family, Cass!”
Juan Carlo felt tears stinging his eyes and he wiped them away immediately. “She is not doing that. I don’t think so. I think she’s afraid. People who are afraid of different people hurt you sometimes. My mami and papi have told me this. Because I am Mexican and we are poor and I am not like the people in our school. They told me people can be mean because they’re afraid. Even you have told me so. Because I am poor and different.”
Cassidy crossed to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not different. You’re the best boy I know.”
Caroline sneered at both of them but her eyes were oddly kind, “You know what? I love you both but I fucking hate the people who hurt us and Cassidy? Who’s Audrey to us? Nobody. Just another nobody like the nobodies with cameras outside our house creating a load of bullshit for us anytime they want to.”
Juan Carlo was astonished by Caroline’s profanity but said, “You may be right about the camera people but Ms. Audrey will be your family now and I tell you she is only afraid.”
“Fine. Boo hoo. She can be afraid and just grow the fuck up. I know I have to. Cass and I both do, Jace. Daily.”
At times like this Cassidy watched her twin and wondered how they could be genetically exactly the same and still so completely different.
***
Eventually, the Castillos left with smiles but Juan Carlo was so troubled he could barely smile. Cassidy leaned forward to him and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”
He smiled shyly at her and when they left Caroline asked Cassidy what she’d said.
“That you’re an asshole.”
“No you didn’t.”
Cassidy smiled and shoulder bumped her sister. “Of course I didn’t. Let’s go crash with a movie while the old people do whatever they do.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They said polite goodnights and headed up the stairs when Cassidy said, “Caroline?”
“What?”
Cassidy grabbed her hand, one stair below her sister and looked into her eyes-really looked at her.
Caroline glanced down at their joined hands. “Fine. Whatever. I’m sorry.”
“You’re my best friend, you know.”
Caroline smiled at her and her eyes clouded with sadness, “You know what? You’ll get better friends. You’re bound to. A husband or wife or what the fuck ever. And I’ll have friends but I’ll never have anyone but you.”
Cassidy hastened to say, “That’s not tr-“ But then she looked at her sister, really saw her. Eyes she knew like she knew her own, were exactly her own actually, but so very different for some reason she knew she couldn’t understand. “Well, lucky you’ve got me, huh?”
Caroline laughed, deliberately changing the mood, “True dat. Whatcha wanna watch?”
“300?”
“Fuck. Again? At least two of us seem hetero-so far.”
“I know, right? Eye candy. Nigel’s wildest dream.”
Caroline snickered, “300, baby. You got it.”
***
When the Sachs left, their reactions were as varied as their personalities. Sam was gleeful, Richard happy, Audrey thoughtful.
Andy hugged them all. Miranda kissed and hugged Sam, kissed Richard’s cheek and rather frostily hugged Audrey. But as they pulled out of the hug Miranda said, “She’s completely safe with me.”
Audrey swallowed hard and nodded. “I know. It’s just hard-to know.”
Miranda offered her hand, “We have the rest of our lives to figure it out, don’t we?”
Audrey smiled and shook Miranda’s hand warmly, “That we do. Christmas is coming.”
“Oh my God.”
“I like the look of fear on your face, Miranda.”
“Only the person who does my mammograms ever sees it.”
“So? We have something in common.”
“How could we doubt it?”
“Take care-and take care of her.”
“Are you kidding? She hates me. She’s nearly in Fort Knox with me.”
“Good enough.”
***
Miranda wondered as she walked into Runway whether there was any truly reasonably successful navigation of a space where your assistant and art director had beaten you at volleyball and had nearly laughed in your face about a photo shoot.
She squared her shoulders. The easy answer? She could be Miranda Priestly. Emily looked at her as if she’d never seen her in her life. Typically and completely business appropriate. She’d found a soft spot in her heart for Emily that Andy had always told her was there. Who knew? And when she called Serena into her office, it was as if nothing between them had ever happened or existed. Until Serena left her office and winked before she did so.
Miranda took a deep breath. Serena was slightly unhappy about the shoot but clearly all was on track. Or as on track as things were in her world.
That photo shoot. She took another deep breath and smiled. It would be magic.
***
Or not. Serena was more gorgeous than Miranda could have ever imagined and she would never have told Andy how often she’d imagined just…exactly this. Except something was wrong. Desperately wrong. Which made her angry and then Patrick made a suggestion and then it was easy. Soft. She knew it would be perfect and she completely hated it.
***
Miranda knew Andy might be just a bit perturbed by the book but she wasn’t perturbed exactly.
“What in the fucking fuck is this? You?! Is this seriously the fucking cover?”
“Andrea! Your language!”
Andy toned her voice down just a bit. “That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Miranda almost laughed. Andy wasn’t mad. She was just…truly…not angry.
“What the fuck were you two thinking?”
Miranda was not stupid and had noticed a plethora of fucks in the last few sentences but she had to answer.
“It was horrible-Demarchelier? He told me to do it so I did. It would have been a disaster otherwise.”
Andy stared at the picture that showed Miranda seated in a chair with Serena seated on the floor between her legs. She was wearing red vintage Balenciaga displaying her shoulders, arms and making the most of her modest décolletage. Miranda was in a black Prada suit with a white blouse. Serena had one arm firmly wrapped around one of Miranda’s legs and her red nail varnish not only matched her dress but seemed to point to Miranda’s red Blahniks.
Miranda had placed one hand on Serena’s bare shoulder and Serena had reached back to place her hand over it. Miranda stared into the lens and looked entirely inscrutable but Serena, with her pale hand on Miranda’s had turned toward the camera and given the most otherworldly smile Andy had ever seen outside of the Mona Lisa. It could have meant anything, nothing or everything. It was the single sexiest photo she’d ever seen.
“We are fucking framing this.”
“Do you know how many times you’ve said fuck in the last few minutes?”
“You think that’s a fluke? Do you know what we’re doing when our kids are in bed?”
“Is that right?”
“You got it, fiancée. You know what could only put the icing on this cake beside your being in bed with me?”
Miranda sighed happily, “You’ll tell me, I’m sure.”
“Emily is going to fucking die. I mean-think of the most delicious meal you’ve ever dreamed of eating-that’s what I’m thinking about right now. That’s what this will be for her. She’s going to DIE!”
Which was sort of true. Serena was divided in her mind about showing Emily the cover but of course she had to. The other pictures were superb but the cover-yes. Miranda made it and she knew, in her heart of hearts, she’d make it for Emily. It was a strange fact that she never minded this-that Emily was in love with her boss. It was a different love and Serena actually found it sweet and charming, the more so that Emily denied it.
Emily stared at the cover so long that Serena thought she might have hurt her feelings. But Emily surprised her when she only said very quietly and simply, “I like it. I think it’s very pretty.”
Essays from Reluctant Models
Miranda: Editor/Reluctant Model
This is a longer editor’s note than usual for a few reasons. If you care to and I suggest it, you can read more interesting and, frankly, more reasoned and substantive articles about the objective and subjective (our theme this month) elsewhere in this issue. I’ve read my share of philosophy and theory on this topic, which has sometimes engaged but more often bored me. I supposed, however, it was necessary to weigh in (and yes, that was a joke) because as you can see that for the first and only time, I’m on the cover of my own magazine with my employee Serena.
It was a matter of happenstance, of sorts, because neither of us can stomach having our pictures taken. Yet, there she was and there I was. And here we are. We both agreed to write about it. I go first because I’m the editor and it was entirely my fault and I’ll assume no one in the professional or tabloid press would be one bit surprised.
My job involves what many people consider objectification. I know it and I’ve never apologized for it. I’ve asked Serena to model for Runway multiple times over the years she’s worked here. Why? Because she is a beautiful thing upon whom it’s quite easy to imagine hanging other beautiful things, which is my profession. But not hers.
Fair enough. She’s never wanted to be a face of Runway or to be seen through the lens of our culture’s definition of beauty, something for which she holds me at least partially responsible. I’m quite aware of the countless misuses of objectification, some of which are correctly or equally incorrectly attributed to me and to my magazine. I should perhaps admit that I call people ‘beautiful things’ primarily because it irritates those who don’t know or care about beauty as I do-those who don’t have the slightest professional obligation to it.
My professional conception of beauty is one thing but it’s not the sum of what I find beautiful. What else is there? Beside what I put in this magazine?
Rainfall. Flowers struggling up through our city’s sidewalks. My children’s laughter. My partner’s rolling her eyes at me when she thinks I don’t see it. Balsamic vinegar on a freshly sliced tomato. Simply waking and breathing, knowing my family is healthy and happy in our home.
Long ago, I visited a friend in hospice and his trembling hand touching mine as he recognized and greeted me was a stark reminder, young as we both were, of the fragility of life. That was horrible and very beautiful. Although it’s a cliché, perhaps some never fully understand that a true appreciation of beauty can never exist removed from an appreciation of its ephemeral nature.
Keats comes to mind, always:
She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh…
I’ve always known that everything I revere and admire will always remain outside me and will leave me, if only in death. Which, when one thinks about it, is another beautiful thing. I’m the only subject in my life. And, if you know anything at all, you’re the only subject in your own.
I believe part of our duty as human beings is to see the objects around us and to admire and revere them for the independent subjects they are. They are all people or clothes or art or ideas with existences outside of our own. I don’t have the slightest clue what the dearest loves of my life truly think or feel or are. And not solely because I’m as obtuse or solipsistic as people paint me or as you, reading this, are as well. No one and nothing I see is me or mine and never will be. But I can hope that I know something about them or they me. When I look into my children’s or partner’s eyes and there’s the slightest hint that we’re truly sharing the same moment, it’s a glimpse of the transcendent.
I remember, as a girl, riding at night in my parents’ car. Seeing other children in the cars passing us by, realizing that I would never know what they were thinking or feeling as I watched street lights illuminating their faces and feeling our flashing mutual momentary attention to each other. They passed, all that they were, whole of themselves. Separate forever and I’d never know. Were they happy or sad? Were they hungry for dinner, like I was, or sulking over a bad grade at school or whatever I could imagine at that age? Snapshots of life outside me.
I remember wondering, even as my parents looked at me-or my teachers, my friends: what were they really seeing or thinking? Not what I was seeing or thinking, surely. Not even the converse of it. Nothing that I could ever touch or know. And this was somehow always sad but completely obvious and beautiful to me even as a child.
So I devoted myself to a career of showing people what I could and can see. A fool’s errand. But the world of art unites us and reminds us that a shared perception is possible, no matter how fleeting. One must only connect.
Much about life can seem relative. But what is beautiful, important and relevant? It’s adamantine-hard, sharp and true. If you can’t see that, I can.
Serena: Art Director/Reluctant Model
Miranda was kind enough to let me read what she wrote before asking my side of this. She gave me carte blanche to say what I wanted. What to say? The pictures are better than I expected, although I should not be surprised. I’m an art director at Runway, after all. What Miranda wrote might be surprising to some but is very like her, I think.
What else? I love fashion and art but choose to care almost nothing about beauty. My own, I suppose I should add. I am what is considered beautiful and know it. I can’t help but know it as I have been told so all my life. There are many kinds of beauty but the kind I am speaking of is physical, not that of the soul or intellect. The Runway standard of physical beauty is genetic, a fluke one is born into. I happened to be born that way but did not choose it as a career. Or perhaps so but I work behind the camera, not in front of it.
I have been approached by many people many, many times to trade my physical appearance for gain, both in professional and more personal ways. I have always declined. So why did I do this? Simply said, I tired of Miranda’s asking. I gave up and agreed. Only this once.
As far as objectification is concerned? I have experienced it too many times to remember. Miranda’s is overt and professional. I know I am a visual object to her. Every time she sees me, she looks at me for the briefest moment as if I were a shoe or a dress irritating her because it refuses to be photographed. Then we move on-to me as a human, her employee, our work. I do not take it personally. Maybe that is the reason I don’t take offence-it is her job. I know it is not personal.
I suppose I should tell the story of my supposed objectification. My photo shoot was a disaster. The vast majority of humanity will never know that nothing feels so deeply like a disaster-like the fashion Titanic hitting an iceberg-as when Miranda Priestly is watching your photo shoot fail. After what seemed like hours and certainly enough time for Leonardo to pull Kate up to the end of the ship (prow/bow? I’m not nautical), Miranda jumped in.
She took a seat and the photographer said I should sit on the floor between her legs. Not easy. I was in vintage Balenciaga. I lowered myself onto the floor, she pulled me back into her Prada suit and, after a few awkward shots, I relaxed and put my arm around her leg. Finally, she put her hand on my shoulder as she whispered into my ear, “What on Earth is your problem? It’s only a %&*#$ camera, Serena.” This made me very happy and it was hard not to laugh. The photo shoot was art for her but at that point I knew she was suffering what she considered the tortures of the damned for it. Me too. Welcome to my world, Miranda. It was brilliant and made the pictures perfect.
So I am now on the cover of Runway, the last place I would ever want to be. Anyone who knows me, including my family, will be greatly amused.
I have also now been professionally beautiful for someone I truly admire. It is nothing I want to do again but I managed to put Miranda on the cover even as she put me there. I promise you she likes it even less than I do and this, again, makes me very happy. Not, as people say, a bad day’s work.
One last thing? Yes, Miranda beggars description of your worst belief about her at work. The Ice Queen’s hand on my shoulder, however, was soft and warm. This did not surprise me. She is so much more than she appears. As am I. Or everyone I have ever met, for that matter. Aren’t you?
For this cover? For her and only her? This object does not object at all.
NEXT CHAPTER