I don’t mind taking pictures for free. Every picture is one new thing to add to my portfolio, another lesson in editing, a new way to look at a composition. I like the practice because I love what I do. Photography is who I am. It’s a reflection of how I see the world. But dancer headshots are tricky. The dancers don’t always care about the artistry, they just want a picture to upload with their audition registration. And Raelyn is one of them.

    Normally, all headshots and dance audition related photos are taken before the season starts, but Raelyn missed it. And now here we are, a week into December and I got forced into taking her pictures.

    Friday evening rehearsals have let out for the night, but she and I linger around. Raelyn sits on the floor, her pancaked pointe shoes half-off to allow her feet to breathe. A compact mirror is open in her hand as she reapplies a spot of earthy concealer under her eyes. 
 

    We’re not friends. Sure, we go to the same school and spend most of our evenings at the same dance studio but we’re practically strangers. She has a pretentious attitude and confidence that gets under your skin.
 

    Her posture is straight, dark eyes half-lidded and lazy, but as always arrogance and confidence radiate off her. Her coiled hair has been expertly wrangled back into a slicked back bun with nary a flyaway in sight. She’s an incredible dancer. She might not have the best extensions or can do the most turns, but her muscle control, presence, and artistry are undeniable. 
 

    There’s no point in small talk we into it. I pull out my camera capturing the perfect moments. Sometimes I’ll reposition her so the fluorescent lights aren’t so harsh and tilting her head for good headshot angles. But she knows what she wants. It’s one of the quickest photoshoots I’ve ever done.
 

    “Okay…” I say as I flip through the pictures. Every single one is stunning. The headshots, arabesques, attitudes, and jetes are stunning. I try to imagine what I even need to fix, but it’s just minor lighting and color adjustments. 
 

    “I really appreciate you doing this, Adora.” Raelyn slips off her pointe shoes, carefully rolling out her ankles. Confidence still sits in the air around her, but it’s subdued with exhaustion. 
 

    “I mean I can’t complain. Going off your reputation, I thought you were gonna be one hell of a diva.” I pause on one of the headshots I took. Her chin is slightly tipped, eyebrows subtly lifted. The look in her eyes commands attention, with the tilt of her chin almost reading as a challenge.
 

    I love it. The confidence is captivating, but I know it’s not what directors want. My mom is a former soloist at the Dance Theater of Harlem and always talks about how directors look for confidence but not arrogance. They want someone who stands out in an audition, but will be able to blend into a group. That headshot does not give that impression. 

    Especially when Raelyn is already a black girl.

    But then I flip to another. It’s not good by any stretch of the imagination. It’s an in-between image where Raelyn laughed at one of my jokes. I’d seen her smile and instinctively taken a picture, it was blurry and off-center. But now that I’m really looking at it, it’s captivating in a way none of the pictures can compete with.

    The smile infects the rest of her features. It’s a light that softens all her carefully sculpted edges. Maybe it’s not what a ballet director would look for, but it’s real. Genuine. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her smile without reverting to her usual smugness.
 

    But this is different. A glimpse of the real Raelyn. It’s not something you’d find on her highly curated instagram feed of her dance highlights. It wouldn’t meet her standard of arbitrary perfection. And that makes it precious.
 

    I’m so enraptured that I forget that someone’s beside me. The sound of a disapproving hum makes me jump. When I whip my head around, Raelyn is hovering over my shoulder. Disapproval twists her expression, with her brow furrowed and lips pressed into a downturned line. 
 

    “You don’t like it.” I realize.
 

    She sits back, and shakes her head. “God no. I mean, my smile is all lopsided and there are all sorts of creases in my face.”
 

    I shake my head, turning bringing the camera closer. Smile lines aren’t a bad thing. She looks good when she smiles. It’s the kind of smile that has me smiling along with her. I can’t look away. Because for a brief moment, I bypassed her facade and reached the real person underneath. It’s an intimate moment that almost no one else will be able to see.
 

    “I love it.” The words slip past my lips before I can think better of them. When I turn to look at her, her expression is confused, but softened.
 

    Her body stiffens, eyes widening. But then her surprise shifts into confusion. “Why?”
 

    “I didn’t think you even knew how to smile like that.” 
 

    I take in her current expression. With the slight furrow of her features and widening of her eyes, she looks caught off guard. It stays frozen on her features for a moment, before melting into a timid frown. A bashful retreat as her gaze initiates the lowering of the rest of her face. She bows her head, ducking away from me in a clear attempt to try and hide her face.

    But there’s no attempt to cover it with bluster, at least, not one that’s successful. She gives up and just curls into herself. Somehow this is weirdly endearing. Watching how the imperfect shyness renders her ego useless is more captivating than her movement quality.
 

    “That sort of smile looks good on you.” I say in an attempt to soothe her newfound awkwardness. 
 

    Then I’m met with a new look. One somehow more revealing and stripped away than any of the others. The bashful creases of her face soften even further with her frown easing into a smile. Her lips aren’t peeled back into an almost manic sneer. Her chin isn’t tipped in a show of arrogant pride. There’s no tilted head to skew the way she views things. Everything is smaller, like she wants to show as little of herself as possible.
 

    The urge to raise my camera and snatch a photo is almost impossible to ignore. It’s the perfect candid. A moment of humanity, stripped away of any formality or bluster. A picture of the real Raelyn. Not the rigid facade of the aspiring dancer. Not the arrogant brat every one scrambles to distance themselves from. It’s an image I love even more than the candid laugh.
 

    But in a way, the memory is almost more precious. This is something just between the two of us. Something no one else needs to see. You can’t retouch this moment. No color-correction or adjusting the lighting. It’s not even like there’s anything to fix. It’s just perfect.
 

    Raelyn clears her throat and turns her attention to her pointe shoes. Undoing her elastic ribbons and taking off her toe pads. Within seconds all traces of her smile is scrubbed from her features. She’s reverted to a familiar veneer of feigned indifference. Her posture straightened and posed even as she hunches over, expression stiff, eyes half-lidded. She’s a stone statue of nonchalance. “Thanks.”
 

    “There’s not much to really retouch.” I resume flipping through the other, more intentional shots, a less intense headshot, her arabesques, attitude, and stunning grande jetes. “Maybe just some lighting adjustments…but it shouldn’t take long. Maybe three days if I really lock in.”
 

    “Whatever works for you.” Raelyn tells me, holding her shoes in hand. “I don’t need them for another week or so, and I think I can just bring the headshot with me for ABT.”
“It’s no problem.”

​

-

    I didn’t expect much to happen when I sent the pictures off to Raelyn. I meant it when I said that I didn’t need to do much. I balanced out her skin tone to make the harsh studio lighting more forgiving—she wasn’t too washed out but enough for me to take issue. It was easy work, not really 

something to have fun with, but not a slog either. But that doesn’t seem to matter. It’s been weeks, but I barely see Raelyn. If anything, I think she’s avoiding me. 
 

   She doesn’t look at me or in my direction. She doesn’t even look through me the way she does with other people who annoy her. I exist but she doesn’t want me to. 
 

   She doesn’t post the pictures on Instagram. Unlike the other headshots and pictures that highlight her talent, my work must not have had the look she wanted. I don’t understand. It should be what she wants. Her legs are perfectly turned out, head tilted the way it’s taught. No hamburger hands, just soft ballet fingers. 
 

   I can’t help but feel disappointed. I did my best to take the pictures she wanted. And the response I got was:
 

   “omg I literally love these. You’re actually the best 💕 💕 💕”
 

   Three hearts so she must mean it…
 

   But then I really looked at them. And I mean, really looked. The arabesques and jumps are the same, except maybe she’s a little more flexible than last year. But there’s a difference in the headshots. There’s a softer quality to ones I took. They aren’t as rigid or as cocky as the others. It doesn’t read as arrogant. 
 

   How did I do that? It’s the same Raelyn as before. I was there trying to angle her scowl. Trying to soften the rough edges. She didn’t look like this in person. Her muscles were held and powerful. Since when did she look so…human?
 

   Suddenly it hits me that this is something she doesn’t want people to see. Stripped of her hardened exterior and bravado, she’s not the titan she’s made herself out to be. But I’ve seen it. I’ve captured it. I’ve spent hours staring at it, enhancing its facets without even realizing.
 

   And now, I realize with a swift, plummeting disappointment, I will never see it again.