ON THE HUNGER ARTIST
My stomach whines like a dog in heat. I put a hand over it to staunch the noise.
“Don’t move,” he tells me.
I’ve been lying naked in his cold studio for several hours now. I’ve waited, unspeaking, on a faux fur rug atop the harsh concrete. He changes the cool-toned lights for ones covered in orange and pink gels. Then back to the cool-toned ones, and then to a red one, a blinding white one, a sun-colored one. Sometimes he gives me a sheer scarf or a silk sheet to arrange around myself, but never over. He comes and adjusts the angle of my breast on top of a pillow, telling me to hold while he reloads the film in the camera.
He is nothing more than a shadow behind the lights, pacing back and forth. He crouches low with his camera. His long, lanky legs jut out into the light. They were what I noticed first about him, all those months ago. He always wears the same black cigarette-cut pants. I was sitting in a low chair at a party when I saw them walk up to me, my eyesight even with his hand in the pocket. I followed them all the way up, my drunken eyes catching on crisp lines and soft fabric, and landed on his sharp face. It was sallow, haunted, grotesquely beautiful.
“Perfect,” he says, moving a large lamp an infinitesimal amount to his right. “Head back—no, too much—there. Now, your eyes. The shadow of his foot taps behind the line of light. Then those legs rush toward me in two large strides. I jump when his face appears from the darkness, remembering what he looks like in gruesome hypermnesia.
He licks his thumb and rubs it over my eyes, holding the back of my head in place. I can feel the caked eyeliner smudged under my eyes. He smiles, a tiny chip in his front tooth, and nods his head before retreating to the shadows once again.
“Mouth open.”
I part my lips in just the way I know he likes. He snaps a few photos, pausing to advance the film between each shot.
“Look up—no, just your eyes.”
My eyes move to where the wall meets the water-damaged ceiling. Several more snaps.
His sweater comes off. I hear it hit the floor. I feel my nipples harden even more as the cold air settles on my skin.
“Suck your stomach in a bit.”
It growls when I do as he says. He ordered takeout about an hour ago. No one has shown up yet.
“Good.”
He sets the camera up on a tripod and attaches a shutter release cord to it. He steps to the side. The toes of his patent leather boots and the end of his long nose are peeking into the light.
“Hold your breath for a moment. Don’t move a muscle.”
He presses the button on the cord and counts the seconds on his gold watch. I count along with him, one, two, three. When I get to four I hear the lens closing and exhale.
“Again.”
One, two, three, four, five. I blink before he releases the button.
“Dammit. Again.”
One, two, three, four. I don’t blink this time. My eyes are watering from the dry air. There’s a knock on the door. I stay perfectly still until he drops the cord.
He sighs. The cord hits the concrete floor, the metal button on the end clinking in the near-empty apartment. I look at the black and white photos of me hanging on the wall where my toes point, fresh from the darkroom. Next to it is our rumpled mattress in the corner, under a curtained window. The sun shines on our faces early in the morning every day, waking us long enough to fuck and fall back asleep with a pillow over our heads. We never make the bed.
He stomps to the front door and wrenches it open. Cold, early-spring wind wafts inside over me. I stay lying down, eyes to the door as the air pinches my skin and goosebumps cover me. The young delivery boy anxiously looks over to me. I smile at him. My photographer shoves a twenty into the boy’s hand, grabs the bag of food, and slams the door shut.
I stay in the same position as he sets the bag of food in the kitchenette, riffling through it until he pulls out an egg roll. He steps into the light, illuminating only his façade. He eats the egg roll in slow, savoring bites, holding the camera in his other hand down by his belt. The waist-level finder is open and he keeps his eyes on it, focusing the lens with his long fore and middle fingers. When I lick my lips he snaps a photo, advancing the film expertly with those same two fingers. My stomach growls again.
He repeats the process with two more egg rolls. The smells of the takeout bag have permeated the whole apartment now. I breathe in deep to fill my body with the illusion of food. I taste the spices in the back of my throat, feel the crunch between my teeth, wipe my fingers along my thigh. My stomach feels as though it caves in on itself.
Yet I still don’t move. I stay on the cold floor until the concrete weaves into the marrow, my elbow bruising under my withering weight. But I remain. I remain until the sun sets on the other side of the curtain, until the food is long cold and half eaten. His shutter speeds slow and my breaths become longer, more languid.
He’s waiting. He wants to see me crack, see me beg for relief. I don’t. I stay lying here, on the faux fur rug covering the cold studio floor, staring through his camera, watching as he becomes more and more unsure of his shots.
Finally, when he reaches the end of another roll, he places the camera on the floor, gently, tenderly, and grabs the food from the kitchen. He sits on the floor in front of me. I open my mouth, in just the way I like it, and he feeds me the last egg roll.
Stella Juliana Bonifazi, 24, Philadelphia - USA ✯ IG: @bone_head_photography
“Stella Juliana Bonifazi is a 24-year-old queer photographer and emerging author. She is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing and an MA in English at Arcadia University. She is originally from Tulsa, Oklahoma and is now living in Philadelphia. She attended the Kansas City Art Institute and received a BFA in creative writing and a BFA in photography.”