My photographer shot me Dead

He clicked my sensuality. And froze my emotions into a moment, for eternity.

My photographer- my mirror, my dynamic reflection, a still from my imagination, a run-through of my wish-list and a human body to my soulful search.

It was the most beautiful dawn of the season, an evening of a photographic experimentation between two naïve artists that cannot be forgotten. He gave me utter comfort to be myself. I quite liked him for this. He was totally into me and I loved that. I realized that “beauty” is such an incomplete expression without “appreciation”. And I was “incomplete” untill he appreciated me in his own way through his instrument of communication/expression, His Camera, his view.

Of course his intimacy for his camera was a hindrance to ours and an inhibitor to the flow of connection building between us.  But I could still sense him as an extension of my visual fantasy; my hidden emotion and his ambush attention created great chemistry to keep us going for the photo session. I had no escape and he had left me free. 

Everything around us was so ticklish. Even the tinkle of the wind-chime was running from my ears through each cell of my body causing goose bumps, leaving an irresistibly naughty smile on my face.  I knew that he not only can see me but also can see through me. I was vulnerable and scared. He was protective and provocative. I was alert and playful. He was observant and witty. I was a kid and he was a gentleman.

He was sincere and involved in his work; standing up, sitting down, reaching corners to capture the picture perfect; when I observed an innocent imperfection in his attire. His white vintage waist belt; old, used, broken and a cherished one; wore on his denims. There was something about that white belt which made me have an instant connection with him. At that moment he was a sweet charmer, an ignorant one.

By that time I had no clue as to how and when was he clicking me. The beauty of that moment was the very comfortable silence around us. The silence that was getting magnified with the sound of his camera clicks. I surrendered. To him? To the universe? or To my own self ? Don’t know to whom, it’s still a mystery to me. May be everything else around me did surrender to the serene depth of my soul.

But had it not been him and his faith in me we wouldn’t have created a team to be lured and appreciated.  The pictures were a hit.  He was famous; it added another feather to his hat. I rushed into him, to congratulate him, to tell him how wonderful he is, to tell him what he means to me, to give him a "Gift" I bought only for him. And in my effort to surprise him I was shocked and taken aback.

He was so detached when I met him this time, as if he had been different person altogether. He showed me the pictures he liked the most, he was in awe of his work and the story coming out of each picture. He didn’t even attempt to acknowledge my presence in those pictures as if he clicked my clone. He thanked me and left. Left! Left me incomplete, again!

I understood he was an artist, all he wanted was those pictures, those pieces of art from the surreal senses behind it. He was the creator of those moments and I was living a dream, a moribund dream where he ignited me to capture the light I was illuminating and at the end I was left to ashes.  He had taken away a part of me, for his fame and may be for my name.

He pulled me up to a level, captured my shades (my body and my soul, my eyes and my sight, my smile and my story) and when I had grown fond of him he left me alone. He made me fall in love with myself and I ended up falling for this act of his.

My photographer gathered me and then scattered me.

I am still alive and incomplete like beauty, waiting to be appreciated again. So what if he shot me dead in those moments, I am an artist too, creator of many more living moments!