2 comments/ 15904 views/ 1 favorites My Ten Best Studies By: PnkOcelot MY TEN BEST STUDIES By CC AVONS (1971) ------ CHAPTERS 1) INTRODUCTION 2) AUTHOR'S NOTE 3) MODELS 4) THE STUDIO 5) UNDRESSING 6) SKIN TONES 7) POSING 8) FRECKLES 9) ALCOHOL 10) BREASTS 11) BUTTOCKS 12) BODY TYPES 13) NIPPLES 14) ART AND PORNOGRAPHY 15) LEGS 16) ABOUT THE AUTHOR INTRODUCTION I do not wish this title to sound arrogant, so I will hasten to clarify its meaning -- the photos included in this book are not necessarily the best photographs I have ever taken, nor do they show the best models that I have photographed. They are technically among the most interesting, and provide me opportunity to discuss the technical aspects of my profession. How else, for example, could I adequately explain the difficulties of photographing dark skinned models without showing Saskia (Plate 3), or demonstrate methods of capturing blonde hair without the models in plates 1, 6, and 8? I must emphasise that this is not an instruction manual on the Art of Photography, but an examination of a small portion of my own work, which I hope will be informative and entertaining as possible. AUTHOR'S NOTE This book is divided into distinct chapters, but there is no directed order in which they should be read. As with any technical manual, I advise that you read the sections that are of interest to you. I must advise you also that you should look elsewhere if you are looking for sordid and frivolous material. Titillation has been scrupulously avoided throughout the text, and my typist, Miss Tite, has been strictly purging my text of any material that she deems unnecessary or unsuitable for delicate eyes. Of course, the topic will never be suitable for family reading, but she and I will endeavour to protect it from any accusations of gratuity. I had drafted a fascinating chapter regarding the language of the studio, but it quite upset Miss Tite's delicate sensibilities, so the offending manuscript has not been included. Aside from my name, and that of the aforementioned Miss Tite, all other names have been altered. This does not demonstrate resistance of behalf of the models to reveal their names, but it allows them anonymity when it is required, and in some cases it has been impossible to find the models: I have permission to use the photographs, but not their stories. I also wish to avoid advertising my models to my competitors, A wise prospector does not announce the place in which he finds his gold, but zealously pans until he has acquired all of the gold. If I were to reveal the true identity of Miss Kimberly Sterne, every photographer from here to Brighton would no-doubt be paging through telephone directories and combing the country until they located her. The poor girl would be unable to bathe without some keen cameraman positioning screens and lights around her bathtub and pointing a camera lens at her buttocks, or some other gorgeous part of her unclothed young form. My other motive for changing the models' names is for clarity. Of the ten models featured, four shared the same name. I was unaware of this coincidence until I had finalized my photo selection, but it leads me to believe that there is a certain English girls' name which endows its bearer with beauty, grace, intelligence and patience. So to avoid confusion, I have changed this name. I will not reveal this name, but will say that Shakespeare shared my adoration of it. MODELS However skillful a Renaissance still-life painter was, he could not make rotten fruit look attractive. He could accurately depict the decay, but no prince would hang rotten apples on the wall of his palace. The same is true of the modern photographer, but our brush-wielding Italian is at a distinct advantage. If he wishes to paint an apple but has only a rotten one, he can choose to paint red where he sees brown, firmness where he sees softness, freshness where he sees decay. In the studio, the photographer has no such luxury. He must choose his model with great care, for no amount of lighting or retouching can correct a figure who cannot model. I once knew a pair of identical twins (Plate 4) whose bodies were indistinguishable, but one had the demeanor of a model and the other did not. She seemed awkward and forced, while her sister was lithe, supple and confident. It would be unfair to say that a single blemish will make a body unsuitable. My studio is very near the Milwood Theatre, and I was once (early in my career) fortunate enough to be introduced to Miss Alana Mullins, one of their most accomplished young actresses. I had seen her on the stage, but it was only in the bright light of the studio that I became fully aware of her proportional perfection: she was pretty, as most actresses are, and her figure was flawless. The light seemed to play on her form as if she was commanding it. Her hair seemed controlled by clouds of unseen sylphs, whose fairy hands arranged each strand. What is more, she had the ability to convincingly portray a character on stage, and she has since become, I hasten to add, one of Britain's most successful and revered stage actresses. But this is by the by. She was undressing, proudly claiming that an actress did not need to cower behind a peacock-screen to disrobe. Her breasts were as perfectly pleasing as the bulges in her dress suggested, and the gentle curve of her belly was simply exquisite. She was talking confidently until the time came for her to remove her knickers. They were expensive looking, well-fitted, possibly French, but she paused and stood awkwardly still. "I can't," she said. I fetched her a large glass of brandy from the cupboard, and she sat on the armchair, toying with a curl of her hair which had fallen lose about her ears. When she saw my concern, she told me, in strictest confidence, that I may not like her buttocks, due to a childhood injury. After much coaxing, she removed her unders, and I saw the scarlet welt across her buttocks. She had, she said, been hit with a cane at some point in her schooling, and the mark had failed to fade. By some cruel fluke of biology, she would be forever scared with her punishment for arriving late to a scripture lesson. I was angry, both for the personal affliction, and that anyone could damage such a perfect photographic subject. This was, I thought, the blemish on the apple, and it was my duty to paint over it, or at least conceal it. I was considering the best pose for Miss Mullins when she looked at me seriously. "It means I've never been fucked," she said, unsteadily. Now fully undressed she looked shaky and vulnerable and wonderful. "When a man gets near I can't bear to show him, so I've never got far enough to have sex... and I doubt that a virgin makes a good model. Not if I can't be confident when I've never been fucked, when I'm like this. You don't mind, do you?". I am ashamed to say that I did not mind. I lifted her in my arms, carried her to the altar, and I deflowered her. She moaned and screamed and purred as only an actress can, in fits of pain and pleasure. (Miss Tite says I should stop, and return to the point). Once we had finished, she wiped herself down and was ready to welcome me in the professional capacity. She was still wet, sweaty and her face shows a euphoric glow (Plate 8). You will note that her smile seems entirely natural, her closed eyes suggest a natural serenity, and her half-closed legs are provocative without being overtly sexual. The shadows on her body were formed by a 1000W bulb, positioned on the left, at around 25 degrees from the horizontal, ensuring that the shadow of the left nipple is clearly visible on the right breast. I notice now a slight smear of white liquid on Miss Mullins's inner thigh, for which I fear I must take full responsibility. The buttocks, with their red mark, are kept entirely out of shot. This example proves, I think, the imperfections can sometimes be hidden on the body of a truly skilled model, but in many cases it is simply impossible. One must select one's models carefully. According to my notebook I have seen 1568 girls over the past twenty years. 978 blondes, 57 redheads, 533 brunettes. If any man in this city wishes to buy underwear for his wife, I will probably have a record of her vital dimensions, along with assorted other notes, and occasionally a photograph. I know, for example, that the wife of the vicar once had a 38 inch chest, a twenty-two inch waist, firm buttocks, type 4 breasts, type 2 nipples, and 'all the coyness and reserve of a sex-starved rabbit'. She had not modeled for me, as she seemed utterly incapable of holding a pose, and has now lost her useful good looks. Of all the models I have used, dancers are the most easy to work with. Their bodies are toned and strong, and firm, and beautiful. With some notable exceptions actresses are very difficult as they struggle to maintain a pose, or portray a character without speaking or moving. There is true skill in posing, and it must not be overlooked. Society girls have exquisite bodies, but seem almost too confident, too haughty for a natural pose. Shop girls are (surprisingly) very good, accustomed as they are to looking pretty and following instructions. Waitresses too, have beautifully toned arms, and the ability to stand still for long periods of time while I adjust cameras and lighting. Prostitutes are unpredictable, and are not generally suited to my style of art. They are physical and sensual beings, instead of unerringly physically beautiful ones. Most men, I have heard, prefer brothels where the lights are turned out, and it becomes a sensual jungle of physical pleasure, rather than a visual experience. I will write more about Kitty and Maria later, but Miss Tite is looking sternly at me, so I must return to my theme. My most illustrious client was a duchess (Plate 5). I met her when commissioned to photograph her estate and property. Her home, Tottram House is an ancestral mansion on the outskirts of the city, a place where peacocks strut the lawns and parlour-maids strut the corridors. I arrived there on a bright spring morning, and was welcomed by a busty servant girl, who took my coat, and led me, almost sulkily, to the Duchess's study. Here, the Duchess presented me with a map of the property, and marked upon it the features that she required to be photographed. I showed her a portfolio of my architectural work, but I had neglected to remove an explicit nude life-study of Kimberly Sterne. "Is this your wife?" the Duchess demanded. "No ma'am', I replied, and explained my profession -- how architectural photography was my first love, but the skills easily transferred to other areas. "You'd better go and photograph the fishponds." She said, and waved me away dismissively. The servant girl led me to the garden. She was pretty, short, well-formed, but mainly hidden beneath a shapeless blue dress. She was quiet and sullen, but seemed to work with an admirable efficiently. She led me to the orangery, and left me to my work. She returned an hour later, and informed me that the Duchess wished to speak to me, and I should return immediately to the house. At this time I was convinced that I would lose the commission, and that a morally outraged Duchess would set her dogs on me, or report me for possessing such indecent material. I followed the maid again into the study, and stood in front of the desk. I am not a tall man, but I seemed to tower over the servant. I was beginning to wonder what she looked like under the dress. "Mr Avons," said the voice of the Duchess, "sit down, we should talk." Her proposition was simple. Her husband had been away in India for three years, and she wished for him to return. The way to lure him back, she reasoned, was to remind him of the physical delights which she could offer him. She expected the utmost confidentiality, and total discretion, but I was to photograph her. She was, I guessed, nearly forty, but had a body of which a much younger woman would have been proud. Her face was young and soft, almost naively childlike, and her body was broad, but not fat. She was nearly as tall as me, and had large, majestic breasts, which seemed to have retained much of their younger shape. Her hair was very dark brown, nearly black, and was pulled back into a tight bob. She would not be easy to photograph, but would potentially make a very good subject. "Shall we get started," she said, unclasping her belt and lowering her skirt to her thighs. "I've got the wrong camera," I told her. While you may be as beautiful and majestic as this building, I can't use the same lenses for both." She looked momentarily shocked. "I'd be delighted to fit you in tomorrow evening," I told her, "If you could come to my studio, I'll have the right cameras, lights, everything you could need ma'am." "Thank you," she said "four o'clock sharp. I am going to the theatre tomorrow evening, so can be no later." The sullen servant girl smiled at me. I was becoming even more curious as to what delights were concealed beneath the blue dress. Like a fisherman tasting a storm in the air, I sensed that there was something deeply pleasing about her, despite her awful costume and servile profession. "Four o'clock tomorrow" I said. "Dorothy," said the Duchess, "show Mr Avons out". The petite servant led me to the door, and returned my coat. It was only much later that I discovered that my instinct had been right. Sometimes the most perfect models come from the most unexpected places. THE STUDIO The photographer's studio must be his office, his showroom and his workshop, and should be an open space, unbound by close walls or fixed furnishings. My studio was also my home, with small rooms on the rear wall furnished as a darkroom, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. During modeling, these doors were always kept firmly shut. It is important that the studio must allow the model to feel entirely at ease. Lucinda Lane (who has refused permission for her photograph to be included in this publication) was once terrified by a skull which I had carelessly left on a lighting stand. She later swore that she had heard it speak, but all that I remembered was hearing her scream, watching her bouncy naked body leaping from the bathtub, still covered in bubbles, and rushing barefoot onto the street. We had started the shoot very early in the morning, so she found herself surrounded by a crowd of office-suited businessmen, struggling to protect her modesty while their thin trousers bulged, and the soapsuds disappeared. She later claimed that I had taken her dignity, but I assured her that she had no dignity to start with (and I had the photos to prove it). Lucinda and I often argued, but she had beautiful legs. The design of my studio must be attributed almost entirely to Ellen Williams. She is a friend and assistant, and has proved essential to my career. She can always be relied upon, although I know very little about her. She says that she is studying art, but spends time working at the Millwood Theatre, and is occasionally seen climbing into cars with rich men. I first met her after she overheard me telling an actress friend that I required some background scenery for a series of photographs. I returned to my studio one evening to find it entirely transformed. One wall was a forest, with green lights, painted trees and soft green backdrop. Another was a traditional Victorian stippled backdrop, complete with upright chair, a pot-plant, and a tiger-skin rug. The third wall was a ruined Greek temple, with massive plaster columns in various states of destruction, sculptures of Venus and Diana, and a plywood altar. "For sacrificing virgins," she said, stepping from behind a pillar, "I'm safe, how about you?" "I'm safe," I said, slightly confused and a little shocked. "They were throwing them out at the theatre," she explained, "I heard you wanted them. "Yes, thank you." I think it was at that moment she moved in. She does not ever stay for long, but when she is not working or painting, she sleeps in the studio, much like a cat. If a model is here she will be unfailingly helpful, and her contacts in the theatrical and artistic communities have provided to be very helpful over the years. The Greek temple has provided the backdrop for many hundreds of my photographs, the formality of its ruined columns standing in stark contrast to the curves of my models -- the timeless attraction of classical beauty. Many models have pushed their round breasts against the mighty columns, or reclined upon the white altar. A handful of Bacchanalian orgies have taken place outside the temple entrance. My lights and camera equipment are stored at one end of the studio, and the furniture is rearranged as it is required. I have a cupboard containing a large number of props, including clothing, candles, mirrors, toys and theatrical props. The scenery that Ellen provides serves most purposes, and the classic black or white backdrop is often used. Ellen is like a cat. Sometimes she's here, sometimes she isn't. She will disappear for days at a time, and I will return to find her, curled on my bed, sprawled on the tiger-skin rug, or carelessly dozing on the altar. When a model is here she is endlessly helpful, and I will recommend to you to have a female assistant whenever possible. They are so much more reliable than men, who seem to spend much of the time lusting after the models (and fucking them if they are giving the slightest opportunity). Ellen has requested that her photograph is not included in this book. She is very good with makeup, and I will endeavour to understand her techniques for forthcoming chapters on 'legs' and 'breasts', but she is unwilling to share her methods openly. Like the canny gold prospector, she will not reveal her secrets Aside from Ellen's leavings and comings, my studio is generally a quiet place. I will work all day, seeing perhaps eight models on an average day. My studio sits in a non-descript property on Millwood Road: it seems once to have been a warehouse of some sort, so there is plenty of space. It is not signposted from the road, but those who need to find it will always be able to. This is how a studio should be. UNDRESSING The most important element of photography is ensuring that the model remains comfortable throughout. Tension makes it impossible for a model to pose satisfactorily, and unsatisfactory photographs will result. You may have already heard my story about photographing a model for a soap advertisement. I had filled a bathtub with warm water and bubbles and Lucinda Lane, and she began posing. She caught sight of a skull which I had left on the lighting rig, and was so terrified that she ran into the street wearing nothing but a thin veil of bubbles. Your studio should be kept tidy. My favourite piece of furniture is the peacock feather screen which stands by my darkroom door. The outside is woven from peacock feathers, and the inside is mirrored. Each mirror is slightly deformed along its length to emphasise or diminish the female figure. It ensures that the models feel happy with their own bodies before the photoshoot. They feel slimmer and bigger-busted than they have ever before been. The screen was a gift from Saskia (Plate 3), who told me that it would be the most useful piece of equipment I would ever own. She also gave me a device called 'The Prince', and a priceless piece of advice, which I still treasure. White girls, she said, have freckles all over their bodies, but on every girl there is a single freckle that with stimulate. The slightest touch at that point will thrill her, to press it will inflame her passion, and to kiss it will draw her to the edge of ecstasy. Once you know where a girl's freckle is, she will fall for you entirely. Unless, that is, she discovers the secret of the freckle, and then her need for you, and all of mankind, disappears entirely. My Ten Best Studies When she told me this she seemed almost bitter, perhaps because freckles did not show on her dark skin. If she did have a freckle spot, she had been unable to find it, and she was one of the most sensuous people I ever had the pleasure to photograph. You could not leave her alone without her hands slipping between her legs, and emerge, glistening and wet. Often I would stop to reposition a light, and turn to find her writhing on the floor. She was truly insatiable. SKIN TONES I appreciate the beauty of women, from whichever part of the world they come. There is a difference between the senorita with her gentle, gasping climax, the passionate oriental who wails and shrieks from the moment she is undressed, the mademoiselle who does not shout until the moment of pleasure, or the frauline, who falls silent when aroused. I base these observations on my own experiences, and hesitate to make claims for their accuracy. The English rose, however, is the most beautiful woman in the world. I do not wish the disrespect models who did not have the good fortune to be born within our shores. Turn again, if you will, and consider Kitty in Plate 10. Which other nation could produce such a beauty? When one is faced with a model of darker hues, I recommend a book by Mr Timothy Richards, entitled 'Skintones' which should serve as your bible on this matter. Mr Richards describes the most effective lighting for each skin tone to achieve your desired effects. A bright light on a dark skin will give the effect of lightness, to put it in its most simple terms. I have little to add to Mr Richard's excellent work. POSING I realise now that I have left the Duchess and the beautiful young Dorothy hurrying to my studio for four o'clock and neglected them. As I hope I have already made clear, the model should be the focus of the photographer's attention as well as his camera's, so I will open the door and welcome them inside. The Duchess sits on a straight-backed Victorian chair, and Dorothy stands at her side. Dorothy still wears a shapeless skirt, but a well-tailored white shirt emphasizes the shape of her upper body. She is gorgeous, but I will not let such things cloud my judgment. "Madam," I asked, "what exactly do you want from the photograph?" The Duchess's husband, she explained, had gone to India three years ago, and was so caught up in financial matters that he had not returned. On seeing the photograph in my portfolio, she conceived the notion of sending him a photograph of herself, to remind him of the pleasures that he was missing. I realised it would be a difficult job, not only to create a picture, but to create one to produce the desired effect. "Would you slip your clothes off Ma'am -- behind that screen." She disappeared behind the screen, and emerged, smiling, moments later. The mirrored screen had done its trick. "If you were my wife, I'd come back from India every day to see that," I said. It was flattery, but it worked. You may consider it unprofessional, but any man in my position could see that her confidence was the most important element for a successful shoot. And although my statement was an exaggeration, it was not a lie. She was robust but slim, her breasts were type three, perky, with lovely type one nipples. There was no need for ice or warm water. Her buttocks were round, and pleasantly yielding to the touch. Both her arms and both her legs were long and strong and slender. "Sit down," I said. She sat. I have learnt that 'sit down' is a far better instruction than 'pose' or 'sit naturally' as it ensures that the model remains natural in her movements. "Which part of you did he like best?" I asked, flicking on the lights. With some women it was obvious where the camera should go, but the Duchess had no particular feature that outshone the others: she was equally good all over. She indicated her bottom and stood up, her back to me. I moved a black backsheet behind her, turned on a soft light, and focused the camera. "Now, look at me, over your shoulder... that's lovely.. wiggle your bottom... breathe out... fucking gorgeous..." It was a good photo, I knew as soon as the shutter closed. "That's gorgeous... now, over the other shoulder... stick your bottom out." After five minutes she was relaxed and laughing. I had at least ten good shots, and I knew it was not her who had driven away her husband. I photographed her in every standard pose, unsure exactly of what she wanted. Little Dorothy was watching from the temple columns, seemingly fascinated by the Duchess' breasts. Pose is an essential consideration. You must consider the body type and personality of the model, the lighting, and the resultant placing of shadow on the figure. I cannot provide you with any clear rules on the subject except that your model should be relaxed and comfortable, and the pose should come naturally. Plate 5 shows the Duchess looking coyly over her shoulder and offering her buttocks to the viewer. One can almost imagine slipping into that soft flesh and indulging one's most animalistic desires, but Miss Tite again implores me to stop. In summary, there are two types of poses, the sexual and the non-sexual. A sexual pose places the model within a narrative of intercourse. As plates 6, 7 and 8 show, she need not be in flagrante, Plate 6 shows Miss Mullins on the bed, pouting at the camera and spreading her slender legs. In plate 7 we see her face and upper body at the moment of climax and in plate 8 we see her lying naked and exhausted, careless and tousled, with a wisp of cigarette smoke curling from her lips. Contrast these, if you will, with the photograph of Kimberly Sterne (Plate 2). This is not a sexualized image in any way. The model kneels, staring into the distance but does not implicitly acknowledge the camera. She does not appear to be in a situation before or after intercourse, (although moments after this photo was taken, we were at it like dogs on the tigerskin rug). She is a sensitive and accomplished lover, and a skilful model. These two skills are rarely found together. FRECKLES I met Kimberly Sterne at a party. It was not long after Saskia had been arrested, probably a film premiere, I forget now. The room was full of actresses and dancers, and actors, writers, artists and producers. Pretty waitresses floated around with trays of champagne glasses, a band played on the stage, and a general hubbub of conversation filled the room. Kimberly was wearing a dark blue velvet dress, cut so low at the back that another inch would have revealed her bottom. Midway up her back, slightly to the left of her spine, were three freckles. I walked behind her and brushed my hand against them, as if by accident. Even if Saskia was correct there was no certainty that these were the freckles, but Miss Sterne's sudden interest in me suggested that Saskia had been right. During our conversation it was impossible to touch the freckle again, but when I had persuaded her that she had the tone and finesse for modeling that I had the opportunity to test the theory further. With the pretence of wiping away a stray hair from her naked back, I discovered that it was the highest of these freckles that had the desired effect. A photographer should endeavour to identify the freckle that produces this reaction, and use it to his advantage. There are many occasions when worried models have been calmed by applying light pressure to this point, and in three of the plates in this text, the magic freckle has not been retouched. Miss Tite, my typist, recently expressed doubt about the existence of this point on her body, but with an examination of the visible portion of her body I located it behind her left ear. This information is not gratuitous, as it serves to prove that even doubters can be convinced. For two or three minutes Miss Tite will be floating on a cloud of sexual ecstasy, and I fear her refusal to type sordid detail may be momentarily relaxed. I will attempt to remain focused on technical photographic analysis and censor any material that may be considered inappropriate. ALCOHOL One of the most importance substances in my studio is alcohol. Not only the solutions used for cleaning the equipment, but the cupboard full of gin, port, whiskey, sangria, champagne and vodka. Relaxation is vitally important, and a tod of spirits will improve the performance of any model. It is vital that the drinks chosen are of the highest quality, as models have been known to complain if the drinks are unsatisfactory. Early one morning Lucinda Lane claimed that the gin I had poured for her was too cold to be enjoyed, and nearly flounced from the studio in a rage. I instead poured her a large glass of vodka, which she drank very quickly before she stripped and climbed into the bubble filled bath. She was a gorgeously spirited young lady. Ellie, my informal assistant, drank vodka like a Russian and was seemingly immune to its intoxicating effects. Miss Mullins drank gin, Kimberly Sterne drank white wine, and Saskia preferred a full-bodied red. The Duchess insisted that I opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate her first foray into pornography. She insisted on sitting naked to drink it, crossing and uncrossing her legs with unnecessary frequency. If little Dorothy had not been present, I'm sure the Duchess would have tried more. She claimed she enjoyed the freedom of being unclothed, and would not imprison herself within her dress until the last possible moment. It was while we were sipping our champagne that we discovered we would both be attending the theatre later that evening. Miss Mullins (the model with the bruised buttocks) was in the show, and had insisted that I attended. It is always fascinating to see your model outside of the studio, and I recommend that aspiring photographers should endeavour to see the model in her natural surroundings if they wish to understand her full potential. As I say, a well-stocked drinks cupboard is vital. BREASTS Kitty and Maria, the models in figure four, have the most photogenic breasts I have ever had the pleasure of working with. They are, by my understanding, type three breasts; large, well-defined, and seemingly impervious to the irksome effects of gravity. If Newton had ever set his eyes on Kitty or Maria he would no doubt have torn up his work and turned his attention to riper apples. There were not hideously large, but firm and well proportioned, with soft rosebud nipples on each, positioned little cherries on a cake. In figure four the pair are depicted in a mirror, showing a total of eight perfectly identical breasts. From any angle they looked gorgeous, but I learnt that it quickly becomes easy to take bad photographs. Even from a bad angle, it is impossible to make good breasts look bad. Maria had auditioned after responding to an advertisement for models. We had completed three shoots together, and I was negotiating the sale of the photographs to a reputable men's magazine. Out walking one evening, I saw her on a street corner -- selling her body to the night -- as the poets would have it. She pretended not to recognise me as she led me to her room, undressed me, and pleasured me in ways I had only dreamed of. I found her special freckle, nestled conveniently between her breasts, and I was wondering how I had failed to see it in the studio when Maria walked in. "WHAT ARE you DOING to my SISTER?" she shouted. The answer was not difficult. She slammed the door, and left us. It was only when Kitty was wiping herself down that I saw the artistic potential of two such beautiful ladies. I knew Maria was desperate for money, and not camera-shy, and Kitty's special freckle nearly guaranteed her involvement -- she was such a brazen whore at work I hoped it would transfer into the studio. I also began to form other fantasies, of an entirely unprofessional nature. Their time would come. When photographing breasts it is important to select the best possible angle. As plate 3 shows, Saskia had enormous breasts when shown in profile, but when photographed from the front they looked small and flat. Lighting the breast is important in defining its overall shape and texture. In plate 9, Dorothy coyly draws together her shoulders, emphasizing the perfect roundness of her breasts and the dark shadow of cleavage between them. In contrast, Lucinda Lane's breasts always gave me a great deal of trouble as they appeared slightly uneven, but Ellen's skilful makeup usually succeeded in balancing the imperfection. Ellen has a way with breast makeup. She has the uncanny ability to increase or decrease the appearance of a breast. Flat-chested models will have judicious shadows applied and emerge with full busts. Ellen will not tell me how she achieves this effect, it being a technique that she devised herself. In my notebooks I have a simple numerical system for grading breasts. Type 0 denotes an entirely flat chested model, entirely devoid of rotundity. To decide whether a small-chested model is type zero or type one, imagine her engaged in frantic intercourse. If her breasts bounce or jiggle, she is type one. If there is no movement, she is a zero. Type two is slightly larger than type one, but it is not advisable for type one or type two girls to wear costumes designed to make a feature of the breasts. Type three are my favourite sort. If a decision must be made between types two and three, imagine an average sized man laying his penis between the breasts. If the breasts fully surround it when they are pushed together, the model is a three. Both Kitty and Maria were threes. I was sure of it. A four is larger. Saskia, for example, is a four. Type four denotes breasts that keep bouncing long after their mistress has stopped. At type five or above, breasts become unpleasant caricatures. Two and threes are the most pleasant to photograph, but each man will have his own preferences. Nipples will be covered, (or perhaps uncovered), in a later chapter. BUTTOCKS I have already included the story of Miss Mullins' bruised buttocks, and now seems an opportune moment to add a footnote to this tale. Immediately after photographing the Duchess I arrived early at the theatre, and went backstage to see Miss Mullins in her dressing room. When I arrived there the door was slightly open, and I could hear two voices inside, Alana was evidently talking to a man. "I can't do this," she was saying, "I can't play this. I don't know how any virgin could be expected to really understand how she feels. You don't mind, do you? I just can't be confident when I'm like this." I walked away. Actresses make better whores than whores. Buttocks are most difficult to categorize than breasts. The most important characteristic of a bottom is that it is a organ separate from the leg. If it is merely an extension of the thigh, she will never succeed as a model. The Duchess (Plate 5) had a wide bottom, with a pleasant roundness to it. Kimberly Sterne had small rounded buttocks, with pleasant dimples in each cheek. Ellen, my assistant, has small flat buttocks. Beautiful in their way, but difficult to photograph. Dorothy had the most perfectly proportioned buttocks I have ever seen, but they are not pictured in this book. Again, the canny gold prospector does not share his most treasured possessions. But at this time, Dorothy's buttocks were merely vague shapes beneath an awkward blue skirt. She arrived at the theatre with the duchess and sat on the far side of the auditorium. Once the lights were dimmed the pair became invisible. Alana's performance was sadly lacklustre, but I imagine her earlier exertions against the dressing room mirror had exhausted her. Dorothy was unimpressed by the performance. When the Duchess retired to her toilette during the interval, I spoke to Dorothy in the bar. After a few brief pleasantries, she told me she was the daughter of a Duke, and had been forced to work for the Duchess. One day she would inherit a vast fortune, be restored to her rightful place, and rule over most of an English county (I forget which one). She was either telling the truth, or entirely insane, but either way I was entirely captivated. "I saw noble blood in your features," I told her, "you just don't move like a serving girl, there's something about you. That's why I was going to ask you to model for me." "I couldn't pay you," she protested. She had been present when the Duchess and I discussed the price for the photographs. "I'd pay you," I said, "I'd pay you for modeling." "I couldn't do that, she wouldn't want me to work for anyone else." "Well, we could go and see how suitable you are." At that moment a bell rang to call us back to the auditorium. "Shall we go now," she said, "it's not far to your studio from here." I agreed, and the Duchess watched the second half alone. Once we were in the studio, Dorothy's attention turned to a photo of Alana Mullins, the 'virginal' actress. I had retouched the crimson welt across her buttocks, leaving them smooth and white and perfect. "Can you make me look as good as her?" Dorothy asked. "You'll look even better," I assured her, "now will you undress for me? behind the screen." She emerged, beautiful. Dorothy's buttocks are like Kitty's breasts. They look astonishingly beautiful from any angle, firm and round and inviting. On a normal-sized woman they would have been beautiful, but on a petite girl like Dorothy, they were absolutely astounding. The same could be said of her breasts. BODY TYPES I am not a scientist, and have no formal training in drawing distinctions between bodies, but I have a wealth of personal experience, and surmise from this that there are four types of woman. I will begin with the Amazon, the tall wide women, strong and powerful. Saskia and the Duchess fall into this category. Next there are slim women, the Willowies. Alana and Miss Sterne fall into this category: category two or three breasts, small buttocks, between 5'6" and 6'. Bouncy women fill the third category with their curvy bodies, large breasts, and well-rounded buttocks. Kitty and Maria fall into this group. Once we had cleared up our misunderstanding, they eventually agreed to pose together. They were both, I learnt, ladies of the night, and often a rich customer would be offered the opportunity to experience both of them in one evening. They were fantastically tactile models, and were extremely comfortable together. One begins to wonder why women need men at all when they can pleasure each other so readily, but that, as they say, is a different story. There is something infinitely more pleasing about watching two women in the throes of passion than watching a woman and a man. Miss Tite has advised me that she will hand in her notice if I do not return to the point, but I will leave you with one piece of advice. If ever you get the opportunity to work with insatiable, nymphomaniac, teenage, lesbian, twin sluts, it is not an opportunity that you should refuse. After four days I could identify them by the sounds they made at climax. The forth category are short girls, usually large breasted and beautiful, the sort of gorgeous headstrong beauties like Dorothy who stepped from behind the screen with all the grace of an angel. She floated to the table and seized the half-finished bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. She took a mouthful, sat down, then offered the bottle to me. I took a swig and handed it back. "I've always wanted to do this," she announced, holding the bottle at arm's-length above her head and pouring champagne all over herself. I forever wish I had captured that moment on film, as the sweet liquid cascaded down her arm, her hair, her face, her breasts, her nipples, her stomach. I know not whether she had planned the moment, but her legs were held together, so the champagne pooled in her lap. My Ten Best Studies "Will you drink that?" she asked me. At that moment I would have drunk oceans for her. I knelt beside her and began to lap at the sweet champagne. My flesh was against hers, soft and warm and supple. Her breasts pressed against the back of my head. Soon I was licking champagne from her thighs, and working my way towards the shaven curve of her pubis. I paused to watch a drop of champagne gather on her left nipple, then licked it away before it fell. On her lap it was warm and feminine, tasting as if it had been brewed by gods for conquering heroes. "Now, photographs," she demanded, standing up and stroking her wet hair. "I'll stand exactly as I want, and you will point the camera. You're not going to tell me what to do." So I photographed her, as she wanted. She turned and stretched without instruction, as if she knew what I would have asked of her. Plate 9 in this book is a pose entirely of her own devising. "I'm a rightful duchess," she said. She may have been truly insane, but for that moment (and many subsequent moments) I was entirely in her power, so allowed her to continue. Her cruel father disliked her, and was unwilling to pass on her rightful inheritance. He had sent her to work for the Duchess, and then both parties had conveniently 'forgotten' the arrangement. With no proof of her parentage, Dorothy was tied to a lifetime of servitude. I was still awestruck by her when she stepped behind the screen, put on her clothes, and hurried out to meet the Duchess. "The second half will be finishing," she hurriedly explained to me, as she bustled from the room without a backward glance. NIPPLES The female nipple consists of a teat surrounded by an area called the aureole. Both parts can vary in positioning, shape and dimension, and can be affected by changes in temperature and emotion. In moments of erotic excitement the nipple with stiffen, much as it does when cold. In warm conditions the nipple will soften and become less pronounced. The condition of the nipple can be manipulated to suit the photograph, in much the same way that the male organ can be stimulated or cooled to produce a desired result. Generally it is preferred to photograph nipples in their aroused state, but there are some situations (underwear modeling, for example) when a softer nipple is desirable. Kitty and Maria (plate 4) both had large soft nipples, barely distinguishable in colour from the breast. However, as this image shows, the judicious application of ice would raise gorgeous nipples, the size of half-grapes, which perfectly emphasise the perfection of the bosoms. I frequently place lights to emphasise the shadow of the nipple. The low angle lighting in Plate 6 ensures that the shadow of the right nipple is clearly defined on the left breast. I find this artistically satisfying, as well as being deeply erotic. Again, I cannot provide detailed guidance on the correct way to photograph nipples. Be experimental, creative, and be prepared to take any measures to ensure that the nipple is in the desired state of arousal before shooting. Kitty and Maria's nipples made my fortune. We discovered a male fascination with twins, and their photo-shoots were sold to some of the most exclusive magazines. There was, after one particular shoot, a small public outcry about the unseemliness of such behaviour between two sisters, but Maria assured me that twins were often physically close and that their sexual acts were in no way unusual. "I can't lick my own cunt," Kitty once explained to me, "but hers is exactly the same." With my personal experience of both, I judged it politic to avoid observing that Maria's was marginally tighter, and that the emissions from Maria tasted much, much sweeter. But I digress. It was after this shoot that I bought twenty-four cases of champagne. Not twenty-four bottles, but twenty-four cases of twelve bottles. Little Dorothy had modeled for me six times, each time undressing behind the screen, enjoying the lights and the cameras on her tight little body, then slinking again behind the screen to dress. She was beautiful, and, although I could have taken advantage of her, I felt that there was something special about her. She was also a fantastic model, and I did not wish to lose her. During these sessions she often repeated the story of her noble heritage, the cruel Duke who had send her to live with the Duchess. Dorothy had no proof, but the Duchess held all the paperwork, denying knowledge of it whenever Dorothy had the strength to question her. Dorothy certainly had the class and bearing of a noblewoman, but I later I discovered that some of her habits were those of the most brazen whore. This is why I loved her. ART AND PORNOGRAPHY The focus of this book has been the artistic nude, following the tradition of esteemed brushstrokes through the centuries. I will admit now that my career also encompassed the seedier end of the photographic market. Here is not the place to dwell on the sordid details of my second bowstring, but there is a need to say that many of the same skills are required for each discipline. Perhaps pornography is the more challenging art form. When directing a model you have almost absolute control over her movements, but a woman during intercourse is a notoriously unpredictable beast. At the moment of climax she may curl coyly in on herself, or throw her legs wide and point her breasts to heaven. The photographer must be prepared for all eventualities. I advise any photographer that it may be advantageous, before artistically photographing a classical Grecian beauty, to photograph her with a scaled-down Trajan column wedged between her thighs. Your photography will improve immensely. Most of my models try both sides of the industry. Sometimes idealistic young art students come in, hoping to be the body of the next Venus de Milo or its photographic equivalent The fees offered for more explicit work often persuade them to appear in less artistic positions. Sometimes, pornographic models, attracted by the desire to reveal themselves to camera, find themselves well suited to the role of an artistic nude. Kitty was a perfect sitter, with a fine body and limitless patience. There seems too to be some advantage to working on both sides of the spectrum. A gentleman who sees a soft-focus Kitty in an artistic print will endeavour to seek out more revealing images of she and her twin sister performing oral acts of sexual indecency upon each other. Dorothy remained entirely an artistic nude. Since the evening of the champagne I had not touched her, she had sat for me eight times, each time insisting that she undressed and dressed herself, and left promptly after the allotted time. She drove me wild with her coy flirtations, suggestive phrases, and rounded little body. That was why I bought the champagne. It was her birthday. Before she arrived, I opened most of the bottles and poured them into the big deep bathtub. It was an extravagance, but she was a beautiful model and deserved such an effort to be made. "Happy birthday," I said, as she bustled into the studio. She was wearing a dress that emphasised her figure, pushing her breasts forward and hanging tight around her lovely buttocks. She sat down, and we talked briefly. Her mistress' husband had still not returned from India, so the Duchess was particularly frustrated. I sympathized, and poured a glass of champagne for Dorothy. She seemed happy, more flirtatious than usual, and her mood was brightened further by the fact that a respected magazine was interested in printing some of her photographs. She stepped behind the screen and emerged, as usual, naked and perfect. "I'd like you to sit in this bath," I told her. She walked over to it and dipped her finger in, her breasts shaking as she leaned forward. "Champagne?" she said. "Your birthday present," I replied. She dipped in her toes, and slowly lowered her beautiful body in. "It bubbles," she gasped. The tiny bubbles were gathering all over her body. She ran her hand down her slender leg, and a million bubbles rose to the surface, before new bubbles formed on her soft skin. "They're all over me," she giggled, slipping her hand between her legs, "it's wonderful, it's like they're kissing me all over, I never knew it would feel this good." Since filling the bath I had wanted to try it, but felt it only right that she should enjoy the experience first. "There's room for two," she lied, sitting up so her breasts rose from the water. I undressed and she moved to one end of the bath. I climbed in and felt a glorious thrill of champagne bubbles foaming on my legs. I was already ready for her, and the cool kisses of champagne bubbles on my cock served only to heighten my arousal. I took two champagne flutes from beside the bath, filled them both, and handed one to Dorothy. She giggled and raised the glass to her lips, drinking almost as much champagne as she let cascade down her breasts. LEGS Long legs are not as vital as one would expect in a model. Of the examples in this book, only two are of above average height, in Plates 2 and 5. The problem comes with scale. A tall woman needs exceptionally large breasts to remain proportionally satisfactory. A short girl can be made to look tall by many different methods. When Dorothy was modeling for me I bought smaller furniture to diminish the effect of her height. Low angles served to increase the illusion, and in many instances, the legs are not shown. Plate 9, for example, shows Dorothy from the waist up, so her diminutive height becomes immaterial. A wise man once wrote that a girl's height is "immaterial once she's horizontal" and Dorothy soon proved this to be true as we were together in the champagne. We both knelt down and embraced. Her body was so beautifully slippery. I tasted the champagne that gathered on her nipples, and she tasted that which had earlier provided me with such exquisite pleasures. Moments later we lay together, her small slippery body squirming against mine as I finally found her special freckle, nestled in her labia. She writhed and squeaked with delight and I broke into her, hymeneal blood bursting forth and clouding the champagne. It would be ungentlemanly to provide details of her exact movements, the cunning tricks with which she pleasured me. She moved like an animal. Alive, natural, little and instinctive, without the studied routine of other women. She seemed driven endlessly onwards by an insatiable evolutionary desire to reproduce. On one previous occasion, I had shared a bed with four women: Kitty and Maria, Alana Mullins, and Miss Lucinda Lane. I had not been able to move without caressing soft flesh, and no sooner had I left one orifice than I was greedily swallowed by another. That experience had required four people, but Dorothy alone was providing the same sensations, a thousand times improved. She seemed to know my desires and satisfied them instantly, hardly pausing for breath between each amorous onslaught. I was not by any means passive during the time in the bath, and tried to satisfy her to the same degree. From her moans and shrieks I judged my efforts successful. Over the hours the champagne became steadily more warmed and diluted by our bodies. Had I been called to photograph the scene I would have used soft lighting, positioned to the right to emphasise the shadows. A diffused spotlight directly above would create sparking reflections from the champagne, and I would have turned my attention to the details: bubbles on naked thighs, dripping breasts, Dorothy's face as she gasped and howled with pleasure, and the smile as Dorothy lapped champagne from the bath like a dog while I enjoyed her from behind, like a dog. But in this instance my professional work was forgotten. Photographs of that evening would have made my fortune, and sealed my reputation. In subsequent months we tried to recreate it, with bath-fulls of cheap sparkling wine. Dorothy was still beautiful, still always a passionate and untiring bedfellow (and bath-fellow), but the camera consistently failed to capture her angelic radiance. Photographers, like me, like you, are always in search of that rainbow's end, the untouchable dream of the utterly perfect photograph. The perfect model, the perfect pose, the perfect lighting, perfect angles, perfect lenses. But it is, I fear, an impossible dream, for which we must all strive, and take pleasure in our striving, not frustration from our failures. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Cecil C. Avons is a respected freelance photographer, contributing work to a plethora of respected publications across the spectrum of portrait photography. This book contains only a narrow illumination of a small portion of his work. Alongside still photography he takes a keen interest in cinematography. He lives in London with his second wife, Dorothy.