Walking backwards while she’s skating forwards. Refocusing again and again as she’s closing the distance between us. Having a conversation. Trying not to be blinded by the sun behind her. Stepping carefully, so as not to trip. Missing my cameras that are currently in a small repair shop in Santa Monica (where they are being returned to their former glory), because I am seeing the shots I could take with them, and rue those shots that shall never exist. Radiating awareness of any movement behind me, hoping I can fake radar sense well enough to not get hit by a car coming around the corner. Watching for any patches of sun on her face, at which point I’ll stop taking shots long enough for the light to move again.
Neither of us are completely comfortable in the streets, it’s a gated neighborhood but I’ve never been there before and she’s rarely made such a spectacle of herself in and around her home. It creates a vague unease that makes of us co-conspirators. Makes things more fun for being awkward. Scared of freaking out the norms.
Enjoying freaking out the norms.
Which is to say, there’s enough going on. There’s no sense of treading old ground, no feeling that I’m taking the same shots of Jenny I’ve taken before. We’ve sidestepped that danger by both of us stepping just far enough away from our comfort zones. I get too settled in a shoot, I get lazy. But here there’s enough balls being juggled, keeps me focused, keeps me engaged, keeps me having a damn fine time.