It’s a chilly, grey October afternoon and I am drinking Riesling on the roof of The Gansevoort Hotel in downtown Manhattan. The wind off the Hudson River raises tiny goosebumps on my bare legs. I should be freezing my ass off in this ridiculous miniscule, filmy dress I’m wearing but I don’t feel a thing. Just pure exhilaration. I clink plastic wineglasses with friends Megan Marie and Jen Weaver, who are sitting across our corner rooftop table. Robert Sturman is drinking a beer. We are regrouping from a morning of shooting photos that aren’t quite working.
Sturman is an artist who is acclaimed for his photographs of yogis. “In the 19th century the painter Degas was obsessed with ballerinas. I’m obsessed with yogis,” he tells me. His work isn’t limited to yogis, though. He has traveled the world capturing beauty and, among other creative accomplishments, was the official visual artist of the 47th Annual GRAMMY® Awards. Basically–the guy is an artistic genius.
That’s why we’re all here. This is a far cry from the enchanted forest of Connecticut, where Robert was shooting earlier in the week. Just a few days ago–barefoot in the mud–we posed alongside a secret pond, and lay down in autumn’s first fallen leaves, pretending to be wood nymphs. Now he wants some NYC work for his portfolio. We’ve been wandering around the city all morning looking for visually inspiring settings. So far this morning I have arm-balanced with my cheek resting on the pavement at the corner of 39th Street, and done Crow Pose atop a police barricade. Jen did a carefully precarious headstand on top of that same police barricade. She is one ballsy chick, our Jen.
We finish our drink. The light is beginning to change, and so is the mood. Robert has hit his groove.
“Are you guys ready to do some work?” Robert asks us.
It’s guerrilla yoga. At Times Square we wait for a light change before darting out to shoot in the middle of the street. Somehow, Megan pulls this off in 6 inch, spindly Manolo Blahnik heels. Robert almost gets hit by a bus but the shot is worth it. When the light changes and a police car pulls up, we successfully disappear into the crowd.
Over the next couple of hours we yogis fling ourselves upside down on street corners, backbend in train stations and leap for shots. Robert peers through the lens of his camera, composing.
“How about me in full scorpion on top of The Empire State building?”
“How ’bout me in handstand on the back of a speeding train?” we joke. The ideas get more and more outrageous as the afternoon wears on, and our inhibitions shrink. When we handstand our dresses fall down over our heads. Passers by stop to gawk but we don’t care.
Normally I hate having my picture taken but this is fun. So what if I am normally unphotogenic and awkward looking? For an afternoon, I have stepped into somebody else’s life. Tomorrow I will go back to stressing about being overly busy, over-committed, and worrying about what’s going to happen in the next 6 months. Just for today, I feel talented. I feel pretty. I feel like a princess. This is an afternoon I will never forget.
Hungry, exhausted, cold, needing to pee, and happy, we head back to Grand Central Station. We board trains back to our every day lives and wonder if got any good shots.
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