Max. I want to begin by saying how honored I am to have you modeling for my work. I know, I know. You're not used to being the one in front of the camera for once, but I have a good feeling here, Max. I have a good feeling this… will be my masterpiece. Our masterpiece. Because really, what's a photographer without their subject? There's a symbiosis in it. Neither exists alone. The photographer must find the angles to highlight the most interesting qualities of the subject, and the subject… well, they need to have those qualities to begin with. You, Max, have those qualities in spades. You remember, don't you, my lecture on Arbus. I hope you do, because I swear, sometimes it seem like no one in that class does anything but space out. True, I was partly talking out of my ass. I respect Arbus' work. But Arbus didn't go far enough. Just desperation? What I said back then about beauty and innocence instead… it was a trick statement. See, in desperation, in despair, in our darkest moments… all qualities are highlighted. We are never more beautiful than when we are damaged. Never more innocent than when the world corrupts us. There are some things that can't be staged, Max. Things that have to be and have to happen for the photo to truly have meaning. I could hire someone for this, but the passion and anger Rachel had as she railed against the cruelty of the universe, against me? The indignant, violated, sheer hate in her glare? That can't be faked. Neither could the brokenness and loss of hope in Kate's eyes that shined when she was pushed to the breaking point. The dead, lost, spaced out eyes… it's beauty sticks with me. It stuck with you too, Max. I can tell. Ah, there's the anger in your eyes. Anger not on behalf of yourself, but for your friend. And that leads to my next point, Max. I know, I know, boo lectures. But it's the last one I have to give you, so bear with me here.
For a few, a select few… when the chips are down, they rise up. The refugees in war zones who look out for each other. The man who cuts his own arm off to escape a cavern. The girl who's there for her good friend when she tries to jump off the roof, who actually manages to talk her down. You're a hero, Max. And what's a hero but a human who is extraordinary in their humanity? What will I see when I strip you down to your core? Despair? Rage? Emptiness? Or… strength. I'm excited, Max. I am. I always knew we'd do great things together.
Why? Are you really asking me why I'm doing this? C'mon, Max. You're smarter than this. What have I always said? Always take the shot. The photograph comes first. Think, Max. Let's bring it back to Arbus. She captured people in desperation. But did she help them out of it? No, because that would cheapen the art. The pictures of starving children. They didn't feed them before they took the photo. They didn't feed them after. Because then the photo would mean nothing. Or what of the iconic Murder of a Viet Cong by Eddie Adams, or the just as iconic Tiananmen Square Tank Man photo by Jeff Widener? Eddie didn't stop the execution. Jeff didn't stand with the protester. They let those things happen. Let them pass their course. Sure, the executioner had sympathetic reasons. He could even be seen as a hero. Sure, Eddie made token efforts to let people know the whole story. But he never bothered to go far enough. Because they knew as I do. There is just the photo. And the photo comes first. I saw those and photos like them as a child and was struck speechless by their beauty, their meaning. That was photography. Not the meaningless drivel in fashion magazines. Not the sentimental photos of trees, or children smiling. No, true photography are things that show the human condition, whether the human give permission or not. The permission doesn't matter. The life doesn't matter. Only the art. I wanted to create that art. And from that day on, I couldn't help but look everyday at every person I saw and wonder 'How could I push you? Break you? How could I reveal to yourself, to the world, to the camera what you really are? Who are you, at your core? What truly lies underneath?' Call me a sociopath, but people are more interesting that way, don't you think? I knew like they knew that you could save the child or the man and have it last for but a moment. But photos are forever. My work is forever, Max. You'll be forever too. There should be a solace in that. You'd be Super Max for weeks, maybe months. But they'd forget your heroism eventually. You'd be back to being no one. I'm making you eternal. You should thank me for that. I've always had your back, Max.
Speaking of someone who's always had your back… I know I should apologize. By society's standards, I should apologize for a lot of things. But societal conventions are bullshit, pardon my French. Though I doubt you'll pardon any of my actions, heh. Still, Chloe… I never had any real plans for her. I mean, I took stock of her potential, as I do everyone. But there was Victoria to get to. You to get to. But she knew too much. And she was with you at the junkyard. So one thing led to another, and… don't look at me like that, Max. You're not that naive. Out of it as you may be, I can see it in your eyes. See right into your soul. In the core of your being, you know what happened to her. It wasn't a nightmare, Max, a hallucination. See, I even have proof.
Look at the photo, Max. Look at it, or I'll have to force you to, and you don't want that. Atta girl. It's beautiful, isn't it? While you were out, I simply was… compelled to take a photo of her. True, I didn't know Miss Price that well, but even I could see the passion in her every movement, the life that pulsated from her body. Always moving, never still. Until now. Still as the grave. And yet, eyes wide open. Even in death, she finds no peace. The contrast between her life and death, and yet that similarity at that core… like I said, beautiful, don't you think? And the blood dot on her head is a rather striking image. I'm rather proud of it.
Oh, yes. Yes, Max. Perfect. The look in your eyes. It's like everyone before you at once. The rage of Rachel. The brokenness of Kate. Only more, only heightened. So many feelings at once. I could almost believe the whole scope of human emotion are in those eyes of yours right now, all at once. You loved her, didn't you? You loved her in that way few people do. I'm not saying I believe in soulmates. I find that all rather hokey, and yes, I said hokey. Not a word, Max. It's luck, not destiny. You find that person or persons that happen to be where you are, that happen to meet you like that, that happen to like you, and you happen to connect. They worm their way into your heart, your soul, and you are intertwined. You finish each other's sentences, you banter in easy, natural beats. When you're around them, you feel like you're where you're meant to be, and when you're not, you can't stop thinking of them. You're content. Because while it may be luck… it feels like destiny. Am I hitting the nail on the head, Max?
The subjects before… I just hurt them. Not their friends. Not their loved ones. Their pain was… isolated. Contained. They could take some manner of comfort in the fact it was just them. Not you. No, you, I've reached into your soul and cut it in half straight through. Tore up a half and crushed it beneath my feet. Even if you get out of here, which you won't, but hypothetically… it won't come back. She's gone. Dead. You didn't save her. You're alone and broken and no longer whole and it's a pain deeper than all the others' combined. Hate radiates off you. You would kill me a million times over in the most painful of ways if you could. Despair threatens to drown you. How can you live without her? Regret runs through your mind as you try to will the past to change with all you are and all you have. Your body trembles with emotion, your eyes red, your lip snarled. But your eyeballs… lifeless. Devoid of hope or fear or anger or… anything. Because you know. Nothing matters now. Not without her. You wish it was you. You wish it was anyone else. You wish it was the world. Now you just want to join her. Now you can no longer see the point in life. You're broken, so very broken, and you know nothing will make you whole again.
Beautiful.
So beautiful.
I knew you'd be my best work, Max. I had the utmost faith in you. Now. Let's get to work, shall we?