A BARELY ACCEPTABLE PORTRAIT

By Francine


Ellen Morrison sat thoughtfully, as was her custom, as the vicar concluded his sermon. Beside her was her husband of thirty three years, Alistair.  They stood for the singing of the concluding hymn, as Ellen smoothed her dress and smiled at the younger woman standing beside her.

After the benediction had been pronounced, she spoke to her neighbour in a friendly voice, inquiring, “Will we be  seeing you at the Guild meeting on Tuesday, Ann?” “Let us hope so,” the younger woman responded, “though I shall be working late that day.  I may not be able to be on time!”

Ellen turned to the other worshippers, greeting them as she moved to the door.  As Chair of the Women’s Guild, she felt an obligation to appear outgoing and welcoming, especially to the women who were less diligent in their participation.

She greeted the vicar warmly, and walked with her husband to their car.  “Are you going to make the Guild meeting, yourself?  I thought you were driving to Manchester Tuesday to visit the bookseller there?”

“So I am.  I’ll look in on the publisher, and check on the big store to see just what’s selling well, perhaps order a few items for the shop.  But, I should be back in time for the Guild meeting in the evening.  If I’m too late, you’ll find something to eat.  The house is well stocked.”

Alistair Morrison shook his head at his wife’s activities.  “Ellen, in a few years I hope to retire.  But you - you run a book shop, you manage the women’s guild, you’re always hauling your grandchildren somewhere, you volunteer for more projects than I can keep track of -  I don’t think you’ll ever retire!  You’ll need me to keep up with the projects you take on!”   It was a family joke.   Alistair, an architect in a small firm, spent his life designing houses for other people.  He looked forward to the day when he might create a retirement home for himself and Ellen.   But Ellen never seemed to have a minute to spare. Her time went to her bookshop, the church Guild, collecting and delivering her grandchildren and advising her two daughters on their upbringing -  efforts too often regarded as more meddlesome than useful.

Indeed, Ellen was  a woman of energy.  She was not, however, an efficient housekeeper. Housework had never appealed to her, and her home was only in order when she hosted a meeting of the guild officers or when the vicar came to visit.    At other times disorder prevailed, a condition Alistair had learned to accept as the price of having a wife who had become a respected community leader. At times he reflected that had he not been a passably good cook in his own right, he would have been compelled to learn by reason of his wife’s constant involvement in affairs that often meant she would not be home to eat, let alone cook.  

Their two married daughters lived not far away, close enough for Ellen to be conveniently called on when emergencies arose, yet distant enough to minimize her unwelcome intrusions to micro manage the affairs of her grown children and young grandchildren.

Alistair had a certain interest in his wife’s enterprise, a bookstore she managed and partly owned, but he left its operation to her.  Knowing her assertive characteristics, he rarely involved himself in the business or made suggestions about it.  Yet, he was rather proud of his wife, who kept her fingers in many pies, maintained her independence, and seemed to command the respect of their friends and the community.

“You’ll be leaving early Tuesday?” he asked her.  “The car has a full tank. You should be able to be home by dark, if you’re not delayed.”

“I’ll hope so.  If I’m late, I’ll go directly to the Guild meeting.  You can manage, can’t you?”

He was quite used to that.  In fact, it seemed sometimes that Ellen spent little time at home.  The picture of good taste and respectability when she was out or in her shop, home was the place where could relax.  Order and decorum, important to her at other places, did not carry over into her home life.  Ellen had better things to do than housework.  She was not a meticulous housekeeper, in fact she was somewhat untidy.  Some might say she was sloppy.  For guests she made it presentable..  When only she and Alistair were at home, there tended to be a fair amount of clutter about.  If he took note of it, he was apt to be reminded that he could clean it up if it troubled him.    

It really troubled him little. He accepted her the way she was, in fact he rather liked it.  He had been accustomed to the relaxed side of her, something outsiders never glimpsed; it drew them together in a way that was not particularly intimate, yet very personal.

Tuesday morning, Alistair noted his wife was up and gone before he was dressed.  He knew she would have a busy day, and he contemplated picking up from a take out on his way home.  He wondered if she would make it home with time to share it, or if she would only arrive home when the guild meeting had finished.

Ellen drove into the area of the city where there was a large bookseller. She at times visited there, where she knew the manager, to look at what was new and selling well, before ordering items for her shop.  Also, the store often had good exhibits, which she liked to view.

She greeted Fiona, the manager, and the two of them shared a brief social time over coffee and biscuits.  Fiona pointed out that a photographer was exhibiting in her store, as part of a promotion for some of his work.

“Photography books don’t sell well in my shop”, Ellen noted.  “They seem to be like art books - people buy them, if at all, as coffee table items, to dress up a parlour or a waiting room.  Few people in our area seem to go for such luxuries - the books seem to be too expensive for their tastes.”

“Have a look, anyway, Ellen.  He’s doing a book signing, today.  He does have some interesting ideas.  He’s even asked some of my customers to model for him!  Imagine - quite ordinary people, ones I would never think of as models!”

Ellen browsed around the shop, then found the exhibit in a side room.  A middle aged gentleman, perhaps forty five, greying but slender, sat at a table.  A customer had made a purchase, which he appeared to be autographing.

Curious, she went to the side room, where an exhibit of his photographs was placed on easels.  She noted the rather curious title, simply, “Contrasts”.  The pictures, some black and white, some in colour, seemed to arranged in pairs.  She looked at them, trying to understand the logic of the juxtaposed pairs.

As she stood there, the photographer cum author came over to her.

“Mrs. Morrison?” he asked, extending his hand.  “Fiona told me you were here. I am pleased to see you - always looking for a new outlet for the books I might be able to sign. Are you impressed?”

He gestured toward the mounted pictures surrounding them.

“Quite an arrangement, really. Now I am not much of a fan of books on art or photographic art, simply because they seem not to sell well in my store, but these are interesting.  I am trying to understand just what it is you are attempting to depict.”

“Allow me”, he said, moving to the first display.

“First of all, I must tell you that this is a display of what might be called a work in progress. It has not been assembled into a book, in fact it is far from finished.  I hope that it will soon be completed, but I am still working on it.  In fact, as I think Fiona may have told you, I have persuaded several local people to model for me.”

“You are using amateur models?  Tell me what your project is like.”

“It is called simply, ‘Contrasts’ .  In away, that tells it all, yet not really all.  I look for a model who is generally perceived in a particular way, and I attempt to capture that person on film as he or she is ordinarily seen or perceived, or perhaps wants to be perceived.  Then, I look for a completely different, unexpected, aspect of that same person, which I then attempt to capture, also.  The two are then joined in the exhibit; two views of one person.  First, as we usually see them, and then, that other person which he or she is also, but which may starkly contrast with the first.”

“Rather the professional appearance, as opposed to the private self?  Is that the idea?”

“Perhaps, in away, but it is more than that.  Look at these; we have the bus driver, in his uniform, efficient, orderly, responsible; then we have the picture of him jogging on a footpath-  not driving, no uniform, his propulsion his own feet, not the vehicle, and then his personal appearance -  hair untidy, sweating, rather carefree.

“Here’s another.  This one was an army officer.  We see him in uniform, the picture of authority as he calls orders to his troops; a martial figure in military attire, armed, disciplined.  Then, here we have him with his children on a picnic.  It is they who are in charge as they pull him around interplay, while he is jovial, relaxed, totally unorganised.

“Here is yet another.  See the nurse, in her uniform, on duty in a hospital.  She appears fit, capable, clean, one who physically cares for others.   Then, we put her in a hospital gown and into a bed, as a patient might be.  We see her not as one who does the caring, but one who has needs which must be cared for.  The contrast is striking, yet she is the same person.”

“Fascinating”, Ellen observed.  “You have a gift for seeing the different aspects of people, and recording them so clearly.”

“The gift is mostly work. I am constantly on the lookout for models who can show the different aspects of themselves.  You will note the pictures are always anonymous - I do not divulge the identity of the models.  I want them to bethought of as what the pictures show them, not as names.  Thus the lady is, to the observer, a nurse, a patient, but not Mary Smith!”   

Ellen spent a few minutes taking in the exhibit, and then a few more exchanging thoughts with Mr. Hunter.  He seemed quite interested in her, where she was from, what she did other than operate a book store.  He seemed to exude such charm and interest in her that she spent more time with him than she had planned. Soon, though, she had to go on to her other business.  Before leaving the store to visit the publishing outlet, she took her leave of Fiona.

As she headed for the door, Mr. Hunter again came up to her.

“I am so impressed with you!  Fiona told me a little about you.  You are such a lady of style and grace, I hope we will meet again.”

Flattered, she answered with a gracious, “I do hope so, Mr. Hunter; and I wish you well with your project!” She went on, leaving for her other business.  Her errands took  her some time, and she stopped for a short lunch after.  Then, thinking of a purchase she might make for her daughter, she visited some nearby shops.  It was late afternoon when she headed back to her car.  She passed by Fiona’s store on the way, and, on a whim, decided to go in again and have another look at the photo exhibit.  Something likeit might just make a good promotional event in her own shop.

As she entered, Mr. Hunter greeted her again.

“Mrs. Morrison! I am surprised to see you back so quickly!  I am honoured!” 

“Yes, Mr. Hunter. Frankly, I was quite interested in your exhibit.  It seems to be attracting quite a number of people.  Do you do it in many places?”

“Some.  Right now, I have booked to show it at three locations next month.  But, I do want to expand it.  It is not nearly finished, and before I show it in the more prestigious locations, I would like to add some additional items.”

“I was thinking, Mr. Hunter,”  she went on, but he interrupted her, “Please, Geoffrey. We do not need to be so formal!”

“Geoffrey.  Would you consider showing it in something like the shop I have?  It seems to get a lot of attention.  Of course, I don’t have so big an area for it, so, perhaps before it grows too much--”

He thought for a moment.  “Mrs. Hunter, I really think it better not to book further showings until it is more complete.  I want to devote my time to finding additional models to include.  It is a challenge, as you can understand.”

“Yes, I quite understand.  Well, perhaps at some future time we might think about it!”

“Perhaps.  But, there is another matter.  I am so impressed with you, your appearance, your style, the work you do.  Would you -  I hardly know how to say this,  but would you consider being one of my models?”

“Me?  A model?  Geoffrey, I am a grandmother.  I am not young and pretty, certainly no model.  Whatever possesses you to think I would be a good subject?”

“Because, Mrs. Hunter,  you are just the kind of person I try to depict. You are a person of standing in your community, you have character, you are - as you say - a grandmother, a leader in the community, a business woman.  Now, you are an example of style and respectability!  I would love to be able to make you one of my contrasts!”

“And what, Geoffrey, would be the contrast?”

“Ah, madam, that is where I have the challenge.  In some way we must show another side of you.”

“Well, Geoffrey, when you think of it, do let me know.  It does intrigue me.  Now, I must be getting home.  I have a distance to drive, and a meeting of the guild this evening!”

She made her farewell, and was soon on her way.

It was late that evening when she arrived home. She had gone directly to the guild meeting, and Alistair did not see her until she pulled her car in front of the house.  He opened the door for her, and greeted her as she came in.

“Did you eat?” he asked her.  “You had a busy day!”

“Indeed I did”, she replied, kicking off her shoes, and shooing the cat from a small table on which she proceeded to rest her feet.

“Care for a touch of curry?  I stopped at a take-out on the way home.  I only ate pasrt of it.”

“Sounds good.  Would you put it on something for me?”  she asked.   

At home, Ellen put comfort ahead of decorum.    Being orderly and proper was almost an obsession with her when in public or at her shop, but at home she cared little for it.  While Alistair warmed her snack, she stood and divested herself of her blouse and skirt, then, assuring herself the window blinds were closed, she sat down at her kitchen table in her bra and half slip to eat what her husband now offered her.

She went over her day with him.  As she finished her food, she recalled to him the photo exhibit she had seen, and the interest Mr. Hunter had expressed in her.

“Can you imagine?  He wanted me to be a model for his project.  Me?  A model? “

“You should consider it” he told me.  “You might become famous! The new Mona Lisa!”

“Hardly!” she answered.  “His models are all anonymous.  He doesn’t use any names, just the photos themselves.  His idea - contrasts - is what makes it interesting.  Really, it was intriguing, to see people shown in such different ways.  He makes you think about a side of a person that would one would not think of.”

“What kind of a contrast would he use with you?” Alistair pondered. He thought for a moment.  Then, he answered his own question.

“It really wouldn’t be difficult. He could show you as everyone sees you each day - that style you show, every hair in place, everything just right, everything in good taste, and you busy, working, the lady of impeccable taste, always doing the right thing-”

“Alistair, you are making a joke of me!”  Ellen retorted.

“No, Ellen, I’m not. Everyone sees you that way.  You have a sense of style, you always try to be in the right place, saying the right thing, making that wonderful impression you always make!”

“Good taste is not elegance. It’s just being proper, and trying to keep a good sense of proportion.  Anyway, what is the contrast you thought of?”

“The way you are right now!  Look at you!  The lady of style and good taste, the one who always doing everything the proper way; flopped in a chair barefoot, in a bra and a half slip that’s riding up her legs showing her underpants, munching on a plate of curry on a paper plate, and spilling it on her leg!”

Ellen looked down at the drip which had just fallen to her thigh.  She looked at her husband and laughed.

“Alistair, that’s just when I am with you. I wouldn’t be like this with anybody else! You know that!”

“Which is exactly what makes it the contrast!  It’s the side of you I know about, but you’re public never sees!”

“Like my sloppy housekeeping?”  she asked, throwing her empty plate to a rubbish bin, and missing.  

“Like the way you are at home.  Ellen, everybody has a private side.  Maybe that’s what your photographer is trying to show.  It can be so different from what we show as our public face!  I love your private side - I know you can be messy, untidy, and sit around in your underwear.  What would I do with you if you were always prim and proper around me?”

He smiled at her, as she considered his thoughts.  “So you think I should pose for him in my business suit in my office for one picture, and in my sloppy house dressed in my underwear for the other?”

“Well, it would be a contrast. A quite real one!”  he noted.

“I may never hear any more of it.  Thanks for your thoughts!”  she concluded.

Ellen had no real expectation of hearing further from Geoffrey. She thought about his exhibit from time to time, wondering just what kind of contrast he might invent for her.

After a week, she received at her shop a phone call from Fiona.  

“Ellen”, she began, “do you remember Geoffrey Hunter, the photographer or artist or whatever, who had the exhibit here?”

“Of course. I looked at it and had quite a conversation with him!”

“You must have made quite an impression. He asked me how he might get in touch with you.  He really would like to have you as a model for his project.  Did you give any thought to it?”

“Yes, Fiona, he did mention it.  We didn’t pursue it, I thought he was just making polite conversation.  Is he really serious?”

“Indeed he seems to be, Ellen.  Serious enough to want to talk to you about it.  Would it be all right with you if I gave him your shop telephone number, so he could ring you up?  If you don’t want to be bothered, I’ll just tell him so!”

“Go ahead and give it to him,”  Ellen responded, without hesitation.  If he rings, I’ll see what he wants. It just might be something interesting!”

Ellen waited for the call she knew Geoffrey would make.  It came the following morning.

“Mrs. Morrison?”  the voice inquired, “Geoffrey Hunter here. Do you recall our conversation about my project?”

“Yes, I do”, Ellen replied politely.  “Was there something further about it you wished to discuss with me?”

“I would very much like you to consider modelling for me for my project.  I have thought over all that I have learned about you, all that I saw, and I just think you would make a perfect contrast.  Would you consider it?”

“I have thought about it. First, what would I need to do, and second, just what would the contrasting pictures be like?”

“You need only be yourself.  We would need to agree on a time I could visit in your area. I would want to make several pictures of you in your shop, your office, wherever you usually function, dressed as you ordinarily would be.  No special preparation needed; in fact, I would want none.  I would try to capture you just as your are; self-assured, with that style and good taste that seems always to surround you.”

“You flatter me!  But what of the contrasting view?”

“Of course, it would be quite different from the way you usually appear.  You know that, because you know my theme.  I would not need to do the contrasting pictures at the same time; we could schedule another time for that.  I have thought t through, and I know how it should be done.”

“Which is?”

“I would need to explain it to you when we do the first group. You understand I would make several photos, from which I would eventually select the one that presents the image I want.  The contrasting ones would, of course, need to be very, very, different. I would not expect you to be completely taken with the concept if I explain it over the phone, but when I see you I think I can show you what would best illustrate my theme.”

“Suppose I don’t like the contrasting idea?”

“Of course, you could withdraw.  I would of course not use the first group unless you agreed to pose for the second, also.  But that is the risk I would assume.  Can we proceed?”

Ellen wondered about the contrasting images, but the idea sounded exciting. She agreed to pose, and they set a day the following week when he would arrive and photograph her for the first set.

He had told her special preparation would be necessary, but Ellen was not one to be careless. The day before he was to come, she had an appointment with her hairdresser. That evening, in anticipation of his visit, she stood looking into her closet, considering the appropriate attire for the coming day.  Alistair watched her with interest.

“One would think you were meeting with the Prime Minister”, he noted, “instead of with an artistic photographer who wants to picture you as you always are, and won’t even use your name.  Why so particular?  You usual gift for style should see you through!”

“It’s not just any photographer.  He’ll be using the picture as an exhibit.  Who knows, people a generation after may see it in a book.  Wouldn’t you want me to be in something that might be remembered?”

“Remembered?  You’ll be anonymous.  The reason he wants you, you said, is because of the way you always present yourself.  Just be natural - that’s what he wants!”

“Be natural?  I suppose.  But, what really is getting to me is how he will want to do the contrasting picture - I can’t imagine what he will come up with!”

“As I suggested,  flopped on a chair in your underwear with your bare feet on the table! That’s the contrast I see!”

“Would you really want me photographed like that?”  Ellen asked, rather seriously.

“Ellen, I have no idea what he might invent.  He’s an artist - he will think of something. But, if you want him to use the pictures tomorrow, you’ll have to go along with the contrasting views!”

“Even if it means posing in my underwear and bare feet!”  Ellen laughed at the thought. “Well, if that’s what he suggests -  anyway, he won’t use my name - what difference will it make?  No one around here is ever likely to see it!”

Ellen selected an adequately conservative yet stylish business suit, and set it aside for the morning.

The following day, Geoffrey Hunter appeared at her shop in mid morning.  He had a younger man with him, apparently an assistant.  The assistant carried some equipment, including some lights.

“Mrs. Morrison, you look wonderful - exactly as I thought you would.  This is Alex, my assistant!”

Ellen extended her hand to the younger man.

“Good to see you, Mrs. Morrison.  You look just as Mr. Hunter described you.” Alex noted, warmly.

Ellen showed them around the shop briefly, then asked where they would prefer to do the photos.

“I don’t want anything in the background that would specifically identify the place or the area, or you personally”, he noted. “My subjects will all be anonymous, as I told you.  But, let’s try one in your office, and then one or two of you standing in a part of the shop.”

Ellen noted that Geoffrey was meticulous in his use of lighting and his choice of backgrounds.  He posed her several times in each location, then carefully selected the pose he preferred, and made several pictures. He would change the pose slightly, and try again.  His patience and obvious striving for perfection impressed her.

After more than an hour, he seemed finished.

“Now, Geoffrey, will tell me what I should do for the contrasting picture?” Ellen asked, then added, “My curiosity is intense.  I must know what you have in mind!”

Geoffrey packed up his equipment, then sent Alex to take it to the car.  “Alex will go back, now, he has another assignment.  Yes, I have given great thought to the contrasting pictures, and I will discuss it with you.  It is important you understand why I make my specific suggestions, so I do want to explain it to you.  Might I do so over lunch?”

Ellen agreed, smiling, still intensely curious.

They walked to a nearby restaurant, asking for a quiet table in the back, where they might talk.    Their order was taken, and Geoffrey began to explain.

“Ellen, if I may, my project will be successful only as it presents subjects in absolute contrasts, one person, two very different views.   I carefully consider just what will show the most complete and distinctive contrast for each individual.  What I wish to do with you will be to present you in a very, very, different way - as your associates, your employees, your friends never see you. It must be dramatically different.

“In fact, the presentation must show you in such a different and unusual way that I would not expect you to agree to it unless you understood the artistic message which I must convey, and how I do it.  I could ask it of you only because you are assured that the pictures will be absolutely anonymous - no names, or even places, will ever be used in the exhibits or the book which follows.

“Geoffrey, you have my attention.  Please explain - I really am fascinated!” Ellen urged him.

“First, Ellen, you understand I am an artist.  Perhaps, in some ways, I am something of an anthropologist.  That is, I like to do photographs which tell a story about the subject I am photographing - the subjects, as you know, are not be shown by name, for that inhibits them.  Rather, the completed work should be exhibited and sold in places quite far from where the photographs were made.  Now, consider some of what I have done.”

He produced a folder from a briefcase he had been carrying, and began to take several photographs from it.  

“Now, you have seen some of my work. See this first photograph, this is Mrs. Harshman; she is known for her gardening.  Yes, I made a portrait of her, somewhat formal, but I will also had her dress with the clothes and tools of a gardener.  Then - I took her outside, give her an axe, and posed her as though she were cutting a tree.

“The next photo is a town councilman.  I have shown him in his proper business attire, wearing his badge of office.  But, next, I have shown him as no one would imagine him - as a street sweeper, a volunteer helping to clean rubbish from the roadways.

“Now, Mr. Hill is a bus driver.  I  portrayed him in his driver’s uniform - but then in jogging clothes, as he runs on his own legs.  I saw  Mrs. Needham in her nurse’s uniform, attending a patient.  Then, we had her placed in a bed where she  appears as a patient, being cared for by another nurse.  It  shows her in the role contrary to her usual self.  These are some of what I am seeking to depict.”

“But what of me?” Ellen asked, a little insistently.

“But in your case”, Mr. Hunter went on, “you are such an active, elegant lady, so well dressed, so representative of the best of the community; it would take some very special treatment to show you in the proper contrasting ways.”

“Mr. Hunter, you are an artist.  I know you have thought of something.”

“Oh, Mrs. Morrison, I have.  I know how the contrast should be done in your case, and it would be beautiful.”

“My husband says you should photograph me in my rather untidy house. I don’t brag of it, but I am really not much of housekeeper.  He says that would be the perfect contrast - that is, if I was sufficiently relaxed and informal!”

“My idea for you is so startling, Ellen, that your house would be only a distraction. However, I would want your husband there when I do it, for his idea is not far amiss. It just does not go far enough! Ellen, you are grasping the concept!  But, I would not want to show your home, whether it is immaculate or untidy.  What I would want to show is you!”

Mr. Hunter hesitated for a moment.  Then he explained.

“Mrs. Morrison, when a lady is so elegant, so reflective of the best upbringing, and of such good taste, there is only one way to do her justice.  She should be posed showing her elegance, her style, and her good taste, as we did this morning.  Then--”

He hesitated again.

“Yes, then what?”  Ellen queried him.

“Then, she should be photographed unclad.  Completely natural.  Showing that which she would never show to her associates, doing that which she would do only privately!”

“Do you mean undressed?”  Ellen was a bit shocked.

“Yes.  Naked, if you will - it would be the perfect contrast!”

“MISTER Hunter” Ellen exclaimed, drawing herself up indignantly.  “I am a lady. I am a married woman, and a grandmother.  How can you suggest such a thing?”

“Because, Mrs. Morrison, you are a lady.  A wonderful, elegant lady.  You would look beautiful.  Of course you are a married woman, which is why I would only do it with your husband present.  It is your choice, but you would be a magnificent subject!”

Ellen glared at him for a moment.

“I think, Mr. Hunter, you had best seek another subject.  Thank you for your offer”.  In silence, she began to eat her lunch.  She found herself at a loss for the appropriate words. His suggestion was so unthinkable, yet he proposed it in such a polite way, she found it hard to be rude to him.  Rudeness did not come naturally to her, but what he proposed was, she thought, nothing any gentleman should suggest to a proper lady. 

Geoffrey went on, after some moments of quiet.

“Ellen, I know this sounds most improper. But I ask you to think of me as an artist, which I try to be.  Surely you are aware that the human form is often depicted in works of art; and I see you as an art form.  I realized that you might refuse, but I took the chance that you might consent, and so I did the photographs this morning.  If you do not wish to proceed, I will still offer you prints of the photos we made.  But I do ask you to consider my request. We would do the photography in a most private setting, just Alex and me, with your husband present.”

Ellen thought as she ate.  This was just unthinkable.

“Perhaps you can create another contrast more suitable for me, Geoffrey!” she suggested.

He thought for a minute.

“I have considered this since we met with Fiona.  Ellen, you might consider mine an artistic temperament, but I am something of a perfectionist.  I want to do only the best, that which is absolutely the supreme presentation I can conceive. What this is of you, I have tried, in my poor way, to explain.  But, do not ask me to do less than I am able to achieve.”

They finished their lunch.  Ellen was still in a state of shock.

“Thank you, Geoffrey!  You are an artist, I give you that. I appreciate your interest. But what you propose is out of the question.  It is not possible with me.  Now, I think we must bid each other farewell!”

Geoffrey thanked her for posing that morning. He assured her she would get prints of the photographs, and he offered her his card as he departed.

They had no further exchange of words that day.  Ellen avoided contact with him. In her mind, she wrestled with his proposal.  How dared he suggest that she pose nude? What decent woman would do such a thing.  It was absolutely unthinkable, out of the question.

She could not, however, put the idea from her mind.

For two days she made no mention of it, to anyone.  Still, the thought stayed in her brain, and she kept coming back to it.

Then, one evening, she mentioned the subject to her husband.

“Alistair, remember the photographic artist who did my pictures the other day?”

“Indeed I do.  You were quick taken with how to dress for him, as I recall. But you never mentioned how it turned out.”

“Oh,” she answered, “the photos in my shop went well. He seemed happy, and I shall be received prints of his work.”

“Did you determine what he will do for the ‘contrasting pictures’ he wanted to do?”

“Yes”.

“And what does he plan to do?”

“Nothing. Unless, of course, I should agree to his rather unusual concept.”

“Unusual?” Alistair raised his eyebrows.  “What unusual idea did he develop?  Seems to me the whole concept was unusual - that’s why, I suppose, he’s considered an artist.”

“He wants to do some further photos - the contrast concept, but I did not agree to it. Anyway, he wanted you to come along with me if I agreed to what he wanted!”

He indicated”:, Alistair questioned, “that I was to accompany you? Am I to be photographed, too?”

“I am not sure”, Ellen went on.  “But it is important that you be with me.  He wants to do contrasting photos- he has already done pictures of me in my best dress, as it were, but then he would like to the contrasting ones -  without the best dress!”

“Without?  What are you implying?”  her husband seemed confused.

“Alistair, my dear, this is just between us.  You must never discuss this elsewhere.  He wants to  photograph me in a way I have never been photographed in my life. If you were to witness it, you would need to absolutely breathe not a word of it to anyone around, ever.”

“Just how would this to be done?”

“He took photos of me dressed as I usually am, and now he wants to the others - without my clothes. I know - it shocks you.  I was shocked.  It is really unthinkable. I have thought about it for days. I simply cannot get the idea out of my mind.”

“It shocks me, too.  I should have thought you would have told him off properly, and seen no more of him!” her husband commented.

“I did, really.  But I have been thinking about it.  I have never, ever, done anything like that!”

“Then, you won’t.  Did you tell him so?”

“No. I tried to, but the idea has taken root in my mind.  I am thinking that I just might do it!”

“You might?”  Alistair exclaimed.

“All right, then.  I will!”  she answered him decisively.  

“Ellen, how could you ever--”  he wound up just shaking his head.   He well knew his strong willed wife, and he was not going to attempt to dissuade her from that which she had firmly decided to do.

“You must not tell anyone, and I do need you to come with me.  I could possibly pose that way alone. It will be hard enough, even with you there.  I don‘t really know why, but I just have a urge to do it.  It is simply something I must be a part of!” 

Alistair knew better than to argue.  He held great reservations, but he knew his wife. Clearly, this was her decision.  He just hoped no one else ever heard of it.

Ellen had made her decision, however reluctantly.  She did not change her mind easily, but she had now to implement that which she had decided.  The next day she took out the card Mr. Hunter had given her.  She noted the telephone number, and dialled it.

She reached Mr. Hunter.  “This is Ellen Morrison, Geoffrey.  Perhaps you did not expect to hear from me, but, is your offer of this morning still open?”

“Of course, Mrs. Morrison, but I understand your feelings.  I really did not mean to offend you.”

“If I did it, my name would never be used, and it would not be shown near here?”

“Of course, that is my policy,” he replied.

“Then, I will do it.  Where will it be done?  It will, of course, need to be quite private. I will insist on that!” 

“I have in mind, Ellen, a suitable place, though I will need to check on its availability.  It is a house, not presently occupied, which I sometimes borrow for special settings.  It is perhaps forty or fifty miles from your place.  If it is available, and if I give you directions, could you come next Tuesday?”

“Yes, I believe I could.”

“Then, allow me to verify the availability, and I will ring you back.”

Ellen hung up.  An hour or so later, Geoffrey called her back at the shop.

“Ellen, Tuesday is fine. Could you manage at three o’clock? I will tell you how to get there!”

She took down the driving instructions as Geoffrey gave them to her.

“Yes, and this will be completely confidential, will it not?  I will bring my husband, but no one else.  How should I prepare?”
 
“I am glad three o’clock will be satisfactory. If it is a good day, we may do some poses outside - the area is quite private. Yes, as I have thought it over, a little preparation might help.  I would suggest you come dressed casually, as your clothing will not be part of the pictures. Also, it would be well if you rank several tumblers of water before the session - it does have an effect on the model that helps in these situations.”

“As you wish.  I am sorry if my earlier response seemed abrasive- you understand, I have never done anything like this before.”

“That is, Mrs. Morrison, exactly why you would be such an excellent model!”

They ended their conversation..

That evening, Ellen greeting Alistair as she arrived home from her shop.

“You were surprised to get my call this afternoon at your office?”

“Well, Ellen, you rarely ring me there.  You asked if I could join you Tuesday around three, to have the photographs made?  Is this to be what you decided to do?”

“Yes, it is,” Ellen explained.  “He has offered a private session to make some pictures of me, as I described, and they will be used in the project he is developing.  In a way, it a bit of an honour. After all, how many women my age are asked to be models for an exhibit of artistic photos?”

“An honour? If that is how you see it.  Some might see it otherwise!” he seemed a trifle negative.

“I know it shocks you.  I have thought about it for days, but I decided as you know.  He can make a beautiful display of it!”

“It will be a display, all right!  Ellen, how could you ever--”  he wound up just shaking his head.   

Tuesday, Ellen dressed herself in her usual business attire, a light green suit with a red scarf about her neck, just a bit of jewellery.  She took perhaps just a little extra care with her appearance.  Mostly, she gave unusually attention to the underwear she selected, something that would nit usually have caused her undue concern.

Ellen worked at her shop in the morning. As the time came for her to depart for their appointment, she recalled Mr. Hunter’s instructions, though she wondered at the purpose. She poured herself a glass of water from a large bottle and drank it down. Soon she followed it with two more.  About two, she  explained to the staff she would be leaving for the day.  She took her car and drove to her husband’s office. He met her in the car park.

“Sure you want to do this, Ellen?”  he asked once more.

“I’m not turning back, now.  Will you support me?”  she turned to him, her hand grasping his arm.  

“I cannot understand why.  You do have your reasons, I’m sure. I just hope no one around here ever sees the pictures.”  He shook his head in resignation.

They arrived at Mr. Hunter’s makeshift studio, a small house on the edge of a small village, with a fenced garden area to the rear.  It seemed to be isolated from other houses by  distance on one side and a row of trees on the other.

They went in.

Mr. Hunter greeted them.  At his side was another man, whom she recognized as Alex.

“Mrs. Morrison - Ellen!  Good to have you; too, Mr. Morrison - so good to meet you.  Now, this is Alex, my assistant.”

Mr. Hunter was turning on the charm.  The atmosphere seemed relaxed.  They entered into the room he was using as a studio.  One wall was covered with a large cloth backdrop, and lights and camera equipment were positioned about.

“Now, Mrs. Hunter, I think we should start in here and then, I would like to get a few shots of you outdoors in the garden.  The light is strong, today, and the effect should be quite good.“ 

Turning to Alistair, he said, “ Mr. Morrison, you can stand here and watch your wife.  You should be proud-  she is quite the elegant lady, today - but, then, isn’t she always?”

Alistair found a chair and sat. 

To Ellen, Geoffrey asked, “Are you ready to prepare for the contrasting set, as we discussed?”

Nervously, paling a bit, Ellen nodded, “I think so.”  She stood, almost shaking, in the studio room.

“Do I prepare myself here?”  Ellen asked, a bit shyly.

“Yes, here will be fine”, Geoffrey Hunter advised her.  

“Shoes?”  she asked. 

“I think you should remove them.  We want total contrast.  Nothing should remain that can be removed.  Your glasses are OK, though - we don’t want you walking into trees!”

Ellen laughed a bit, trying to ease the tension.

Alistair asked, “Do you need some help?”

“No, thanks,” Ellen noted, taking off her shoes.  “This is something I do every day. I can handle it. It will take me a couple of minutes!”

“Mr. Morrison, you have a remarkable wife”, Mr. Hunter observed.

“I know - and a will of her own, to match, Mr. Hunter.  You have no doubt noticed!”

“Yes, and it’s Geoffrey.  May I call you Alistair?”

“Quite all right, Geoffrey!” Alistair responded, perhaps more nervous than Ellen.

As they watched, Ellen removed her scarf, belt and dress, hanging the items carefully on a chair.  In a minute she was standing before them in white knickers and a bra.  She looked at Geoffrey. She was pale and trembling just a bit. She was showing an obvious blush.

Geoffrey tried to calm her. “It’s hard - but you will feel better about it in a few minutes. Just breathe easy and take your time.”  

“Jewellery -watch?” she asked.

He nodded, “Yes, I think it should be off!”

Nervous now, still shaking just a bit, she removed her bracelet, necklace, watch, and earrings.  Taking a deep breath, she reached behind her and unfastened her bra, then dropped it off and placed it on the chair.  She held her hands in front of her breasts for a moment, looking at the men.

“Sorry - I haven’t done this for an audience.  Give me a moment to adjust!”

Geoffrey looked at her.  “You do seem somewhat nervous.  It’s natural.  Try to be comfortable!”

“I’ll try.  I’d be more comfortable if I could visit the loo - was that what the water was for?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey observed, “I thought you might wonder.  That adds a certain amount of tension.  It affects the poise of the model - for this, I really don’t want you to be too comfortable.  We will ask you to wait for now.”

She nodded assent.  She finally lowered her hands, seized her knickers, and pulled them own, then stepped out of them.  One hand instinctively moved to cover her pubic area, as she faced the men.  She felt terribly exposed, extremely vulnerable.  She was conscious of her breasts, lacking support and moving in a way she seemed unable to control. She wished they would just stay still.  She stood erect, rigid, trying to keep her breasts still, a hand trying, quite inadequately, to conceal her dark pubic hair.

“Is this all right?  I seem to have run out of clothes!”

They let her stand there, the lights illuminating every crevice of her body, for a short time, as Geoffrey and Alex considered the viewpoints and lighting.  Ellen stood, nervous, one hand pressed over her pubic hair, trying vainly to conceal it, while dark clumps protruded from under her hand.

“You modesty is commendable, Mrs. Morrison.  It makes you a wonderful model.”, Geoffrey observed.

She nodded in slight agreement, trying to steady her loosened breasts with her other hand.

“Mr. Hunter, you must have known I am not twenty - I am a grandmother, and parts of me are a bit flabby, I fear.  I am sorry I hang so - so --”  she struggled for the right words.

“Gracefully?”  asked Geoffrey.  “Allow your parts to hang, Mrs. Morrison, you should not be ashamed of their appearance.”

He posed her, standing, using  several poses. Alistair watched without comment, enjoying the display of his wife’s anatomy and her weak attempts at modesty.  He reflected that she was still a quite good figure of a woman.

After taking the shots they wanted, Geoffrey invited them to go outside.  Ellen was horrified at the thought.  “But -  I’m Naked!  I can’t go out there!”

“It is quite private, Mrs. Morrison.  The sunlight will be very good to your body.  We need some of you standing and walking outdoors.  Perhaps we can even have Alistair join you for a picture or two!”

They posed her outside.  She was almost trembling, looking about in fear someone might peer through the trees or over the fence.  After taking several poses of her standing and walking, Geoffrey called to Alistair.  “Here, stand with your wife -  we want you together!”

Surprised, Alistair stood beside his naked wife, holding her hand. He felt perhaps just a little out of place, standing juxtaposed, him dressed and her nude.  He allowed several shots to betaken.

“Mr. Hunter, I hate to ask, but really, I am quite uncomfortable. How much longer must I wait for the loo?”  Ellen asked, her hand pressing on her pelvic area.

“I was thinking you would come to that”, Geoffrey answered.  “Now, I want to get a photo of you doing something very personal and private, so why don’t we have you squat right here, as you did before?”  He indicated a spot  in front of a small tree.

“You want me to - to urinate, here?”  Ellen asked, incredulously.

“It is an act you have need to perform, is it not?”  he asked her.

“But not here - not in front of everyone - I just couldn’t!”

“But,” Geoffrey noted, “you could hot earlier have envisioned removing your clothes in front of us. If you will, and you acknowledge your need, it will complement my study in contrasts, for no lady of your style and reputation would be expected to be seen in such an act in front of others.  It is the perfect picture to complete my study!”

Ellen blushed noticeably.  She squatted, looking up at her husband standing next to her. She extended her hand up to him.   “Hold my hand”, she requested, adding “At least I don’t have any clothes to hold.  I don’t know if I can do this - let me try!”

She held the pose for perhaps a minute, releasing nothing.  “It’s hard”, she observed.

“Take your time”, Geoffrey assured her.

Finally she produced a small stream.  It grew to a stronger one.  Her head was turned down.

“Look up!”  Geoffrey requested.  She raised her eyes.  The camera caught her face as a stream poured from her lower body.  She kept her grip on her husband’s hand.

Finally she was finished.  “Have you got enough?”  she asked of Geoffrey.

“I think so. You were good model!”

Ellen turned to her husband.  Grasping him firmly, she planted a passionate kiss on his lips.
She explained to him,  “Don’t I usually do that when I’m dressed like this?”  There was mischief in her voice.  

He reached up and seized her breasts, squeezing them, as he returned the kiss.

Alex and Geoffrey watched.  “Hey, you love birds - you’d better go home before you get into that!” Alex warned them.

They returned inside.  Ellen looked at her pile of clothing. She slipped her feet into her shoes, and started to slip her dress on.  She placed her jewellery into her handbag, then scooped up her underwear into one hand.

After a few words of farewell to Alex and Geoffrey, they left.  Ellen slipped into the drivers seat.  As she did so, she handed her underwear to Alistair, asking “Could you hold this?  Remember when you used to do it for me?”  Alistair did not answer.

On the way home, Ellen seemed a bit light hearted.  The ordeal was over, and she no longer feared it.  She felt strangely excited and aroused.  

They arrived at their home.  Alistair unlocked the door, as Ellen closed up the car. They went inside.  They were alone.

Ellen reached for her underclothing in Alistair’s hand.  She dropped it on the floor.  She placed her handbag on a table.  She began unfastening her dress, facing Alistair.

“When”, she asked him, “was the last time you watched me pee?”

“It has been a while”, he acknowledged, “and I never saw you do it in front of two men, either!”

The dress was quickly laid over a chair.  She kicked her shoes off.  “Could you do it”, she asked her husband, “in front of one woman?”

Alistair, almost speechless, found himself being undressed by his wife of more than thirty years.  He started to help her.  In moments, they were both naked.

She led him to the bathroom.  “Pee!  In front of me!  You haven’t in years, but I did it in front of you, and in front of them!”

He stood and tried.  He had an erection and it was difficult. His efforts produced little success. Suddenly he felt a tug and found himself pulled onto a hallway floor.  He stared at his wife, as she pulled him down and rolled him to his back.

“Ellen”, he protested weakly, “What got into you?”

“This afternoon was one of the strangest and most exciting things I’ve done in a long time.  Now I have one more activity to pursue, just like Geoffrey’s study in contrasts - right now I’m about as improper and inelegant as I’ve ever been - now just you hold still and let me do my workout!”

He knew it was no use protesting, even if he wanted to.  She mounted him, her body pulsating with the effects of her erotic arousal.  She shook her torso, her hanging breasts brushing him, the erect nipples almost scratching him.  The crescendo of their activity culminated in what seemed a physiological explosion, as she collapsed on him, her breathing hard and quick.

She lay there for a few minutes, neither of them moving or speaking.

“I say, this was a fun day!   You won’t tell anybody?”  she asked of him.

“Too bad Geoffrey didn’t get the final act - oh, what a contrast!”  Alistair observed, not moving, exhausted.  Then he added, “You going to mention all this at the Women’s Guild tomorrow?”

“Not a chance”, Ellen replied, “Not a chance!”

END


