Portraits of our dreams (Hashirama x Madara)

2. Word clip (Hashirama)

People believed it was bullshit when you said that cold nights were the best. 

When you said that it was the cold provided the crispiness to your photos, they would laugh it away.

"It's all in your head", they would say. "The photos aren't actually more crisp just because it's cold."

What they didn't understand was that there was an entirely logical explanation behind it. Cold weather at night meant no clouds (as that was what allowed the day-heat of the Earth to evaporate without being reflected back). No clouds meant no humidity. No humidity meant less water particles in the air. Less water particles in the air meant crispy photos.

And crispy photos meant more money for Hashirama Senju. 

That's me, by the way. Hashirama Senju, freelance photographer. That was how I like to shake hands with people when I first meet them, although with a crooked smile and a glimmer in my eye so the one I shake hands with will understand I'm not full of myself. Well, I am full of myself, but they don't need to know that. 

Just kidding. Haha. Sorry, I'm not very good with jokes. 

Either way, I was currently chasing one of those crisp, water particle-free photos. It was past midnight, the slightest hint of sunrise starting to tickle the sky playfully, providing me with just the right colour of the sky. I was a photographer of city skylines and architecture, and right now, I was trying to catch the perfect photo of a skyscraper made entirely out of transparent glass. 

Its lights from within, as well as the blinking lights that had the purpose of warning IFO's (like UFO's, but instead of unidentified flying objects they're identified flying objects, like aircrafts and helicopters and the sort) created a playfulness that I liked. 

What was spectacular about this shot, however, was that the full moon was now in such an angle that it looked like it was resting on top of the skyscraper. The glossy photography magazines would love it.

I honestly didn't care much about the money. I did, however, love how happy my mother became whenever my name showed up in a magazine. She would instantly buy seven copies of the magazine, even if I was thirty-two now and ten years had passed since I was first published, and then stick the magazine up the face of anyone in her close proximity.

"That's my son!" she would say, pointing not at my name below the photo but at the actual building I had captured.

"I'm not actually a building", I would say to the poor person whom my mother harassed with bragging about me. "I'm usually a person."

Me and jokes, as I said. 

But I also got a deep satisfaction myself when I got that one perfect shot. 

I snapped quite a few pictures so I would have different angles to choose from once I started editing, loving the sound my camera made when the shutter... umm, shut. Then, I packed my camera and stood with my hands in my pockets, watching the building for a while before moving on to my next object; might as well catch a few more full moon beauties.

It was wind still now, so I released my long, chestnut hair from the low bun I had made so it wouldn't be in the way when I worked. Then, I moved on.

I was back home early in the morning. People were already out and about; people on their bicycles on their way to work, elderly people walking their dogs, parents taking their kids to preschool, dutiful joggers. 

I smiled. To them, I looked like anyone on his way to work, and I liked thinking of the fact that they had no idea that I had actually just finished working and was on my way home to sleep.

Once I came to my apartment, a beautiful loft that wasn't very big but open and airy and freshly painted white, with white floorboards and a stainless steel kitchen with a white marble countertop, I took my shoes off and then immediately went  to my computer to upload the photos. I brushed my teeth during the uploading process, then, fully dressed, went to my small double bed and lay down to look out at the dove blue dawn outside my tilted windows, hands beneath my head. 

I was surrounded by all photos I had taken that had gotten published in international magazines. They were many now. I had started at eighteen, and as I was thirty-two, it was a good yearly number. If I had decorated the walls with the photos that had been published in local and national magazines as well, I would need a bigger apartment, or start using the floor.

But lately, I had begun to yearn for something else. I wasn't tired of architectural photography; not at all. On the contrary, it appealed to me more and more each year as I gathered more skills and got the means to update my equipment.

But it would be nice to learn something new, to update my skills and step out of my comfort zone.

I sighed. I knew what it was that I wanted to try. I wanted to try portrait photography. 

But despite my splendid humour and humbleness, I did not have friends I could ask to model for me. I didn't have a hard time making friends, but I usually found I didn't want to. I was very comfortable in my own company, and rarely had the social energy to meet anyone.

Would it be strange, I thought, if I advertised that I was a photographer in search of a model? Maybe, I could provide a link to my web page on the advertisement so they could see I was being serious. I could advertise in the local paper, and maybe also on poster boards. Like people did with their missing cats.

My thoughts were going astray, I noticed. Soon, I was fast asleep.

When I woke up after lunch, what had seemed such a good idea before I fell asleep seemed ludicrous, as was often the case with ideas you conceived on the verge of sleep. Advertising for a model? How ridiculous and perverted. 

I stretched and went to my computer, unplugged my camera and pulled my curtains over the windows, a strange construction I had made seeing the windows were tilted, to block out the sunlight. 

Then, I sat down at my computer to edit.

The photos I had taken of the glass skyscraper with the moon were probably some of the best ones I had taken during my career. Even so, I couldn't quite enjoy myself. The editing didn't come to my hands as naturally as it usually did. Instead, I found I was drumming my fingers against the desk.

Then, I opened a Word document.

The Word clip immediately popped up.

Can I help you with anything? it asked.

Please, go fuck yourself in the ass, I answered.

I'm sorry, I cannot help you with that.

I smirked, then cracked my knuckles and got to work. 

To whom it might concern.

My name is Hashirama Senju, and I am a freelance architectural photographer with over ten years of experience in the field, published in several international magazines. 

I now desire to learn portrait photography, and would like to have someone to model for me. From the waist up, fully dressed classical portraits. You will receive payment and full right to use the photos alongside me.

If interested, please write to me at contact@hashiramasenju.com

Kind regards,

Hashirama Senju (www.hashiramasenju.com)

I designed the poster carefully, then, before I could think weird perverted man, I printed several copies out, and went for a walk to put the posters up.