The location was a collector's showroom outside Warsaw: one white wall, two hundred pairs of sneakers on little metal pegs, arranged by colour like a very expensive rainbow. I was told, twice, before I'd even taken my coat off, that I was not to touch the wall. The wall was insured. I was not.
Here is the thing about telling me not to touch something: I will spend the entire day thinking about touching it. You can see it in the frames if you know what to look for - my hands jammed deep in the pockets of my grey sweats, like a woman physically restraining herself. The photographer thought it was a choice. It was containment.
The shot that ran everywhere was an accident, which is how the best ones usually go. Between setups I crouched down to fix my sock, looked up to say something rude about the lunch situation, and started laughing at my own joke before I got to the punchline. Click. That's the frame. Eight years of posing classes, outdone by a sock and low blood sugar.
The campaign did numbers, the client sent flowers, and three separate friends texted me the billboard from the tram. Nobody believes me about the sock. But look closely at the bottom left of the picture - one shoe, ever so slightly crooked on its peg. I never touched the wall. The wall knows what it did.