Fifteen Seconds Of Fame

Sunday, February 10, 2019

I plan to empty, dust, shine, and rearrange the contents of my display cases regularly. An intent that drags at the bottoms of my to-do lists. It’s tedious, cleaning units too cluttered and very dusty. All because of my fetish–or desire, wish, hoarding instinct, who knows?–to keep objects that generate fondness, interest, appreciation, or some other need to acquire. Items go into display cases with doors, to keep dogs from chewing and cats from breaking. When every case has become too packed for another item, I look closely, heave a sigh, and search for my glass- and wood-cleaning supplies. These days, while it’s snowy outside, I’m cleaning display cases.

As usual, it’s been too long since their last going-over. I’m finding some pieces that I’ve totally forgotten. And other objects, only periodically forgotten, that I can recall vividly. Like the unopened computer game, “No One Lives Forever”, reminding me of a very fun evening.

It seemed too late for visitors when my neighbor, Reiko, knocking on my front door called out, “I need your help!” As I stood surprised, he said, “I must do a shoot right away and need a subject. Could you come with me?” I nodded, stunned to silence, and he added, “You have an overcoat? Okay bring it.” I pulled from the back of my closet a heavy overcoat, useless in LA, but perfect in a snowy February that I spent in England. The next thing I remember is Reiko and me in his vintage El Camino thundering toward his studio in Hollywood.

A professional photographer, Reiko was well-known in motorcycle circles for his skills in shooting Harley-Davidson Motorcycles. He was in demand by owners proud of their shiny, chromed, ultra-adorned machines. Many of Raiko’s photos were published in motorcycle journals showing just super-sport Harleys. Others representing “guy stuff” showed beefcake models, nude or partially-dressed, on or beside machines. No surprise, if he needed someone in an overcoat, that it might be me.

In Raido’s studio, I watched him expertly set up a cardboard wall, cut a doorway, and arrange lights to achieve certain effects. He picked up a child’s cap gun and used duct tape to extend its nozzle before handing me the finished product. He instructed me to wear the coat, with collar up, and step firmly into the doorway while holding my gun threateningly. After we practiced several times, he took photos and finally decided, “That’s all!” We hustled into the El Camino and headed to an all-night photo developer. “What did we just do?” I asked.

“I’m creating what’s called scrap art,” he said. “I’m doing this bit for another photographer who’s creating a cover for some new computer game.

“Will we see his finished cover?”

“I’ll get a copy for my files and will make one for you.”

After weeks passed, Reiko said that the photographer who created the cover didn’t give him a copy, and I can’t recall why. Anyway, after another couple of years, one day while shopping in Target, my eye caught a game cover. On it, a character wearing an overcoat and throwing a menacing shadow, stood in a lit doorway brandishing a threatening pistol. I brought home that game and Reiko copied it for his files. The package in its display case has traveled with me from California. Even today, while peering into that case, a sight of that game makes me laugh, remembering that evening.

About twenty years ago, we created that photo. Now, the memory feels especially important. In those old days, that shoot was just one of many adventures; but it’s since become my unique trophy from a stand-out and unrepeatable event. It’s also great fun to imagine Reiko’s files, where alongside gorgeous babes and expensive motorcycles, there’s a fuzzy photo of me!

Memory and imagination make a picture worth 1,000 words!

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day. Diana