July 27 — For the portfolio

I stiffen in front of the camera. The debilitating power of its gaze amazes me. Put that lens up and suddenly every move I make feels forced, every pose stilted. It’s hot in the unfinished museum, and my reflective construction vest keeps the heat pent up, so I’m sweating.

“This is your Switchfoot moment,” Brad tells me. I raise my arms in ecstasy as if I was at a concert, but it’s faked ecstasy. I must look ridiculous, I think. And if I think I look ridiculous, then I probably do look ridiculous.

“Fold your arms… No, put your left on top of your right.”

“Like this? What? I don’t understand.” I’m blushing. I wipe my forehead.

Liz walks up and moves my hands, “Put this here.”

“Oh, so just your standard arms-crossed pose.”

Lips together. Where do I look? At the camera? To the right? Anyone who thinks modeling isn’t a real job is wrong.

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