






Project
Creative Direction / Art Direction/Photography
Styling / Copywriting
Coy Culture - The Hottest Day of the Year
Editorial and Short Story
EDITORIAL TEAM
Model:
Sydney Furiuichi
Photo Lab:
Contact LA
Editorial and Short Story
EDITORIAL TEAM
Model:
Sydney Furiuichi
Photo Lab:
Contact LA
It was all about the attutide: mysterious, charming, brutally honest and against the grain of typical the “hot girl”. Sydney was perfect for this series of Polaroids and 35mm film images. Her fresh look juxtaposed with the attitude she embodied. I could picture her as the narrator of this little story. Her deeply personal recounting her conquest from the night before seems as though she is speaking to her Diary rather than a person.
Venice, Ca
It was the night after, the night after and as much as I’d like to wax poetic, it’ll suffice to say, it was either a long night or a short day? Whatever, I never can tell these days and I’m still wearing the clothes from last night. Actually, who are you to judge? I’m wearing the clothes, the makeup, oh, and somewhere on my body I’m sure I’m wearing the guy from last night. The guy whose pants and underwear lay on my floor like my grandfather’s sub-Saharan hunting trophy.
Salvatore is crying to be let out, my dog, not the man spread all over my bed. So I hook the leash onto his collar and shamelessly walk him down the steps of my faded 1960’s apartment, passed the kidney shaped pool. The practically radioactive LA Sunshine beats down, I’m already sweating before I get to the sidewalk so I unzip my jacket, honestly, I’m about to burst into flames as the pup finally does his business on some baby boomers rose garden. I pretend to be too absorbed in my phone to notice. Who has roses in this climate anyway? Salvatore’s morning routine is a Karmic gift for the clearly wasteful amounts of H20 it takes to keep those blooms radiant in 105 degree heat.
Before heading back into the refuge of my apartment, I dip my hair into the over-chlorinated pool. I turn on the kettle and stand in front of the fan, while my trophy from last night gets frisky with my ass. Since you and I are being honest with each other, I don't remember his name.
So, I look over my shoulder and half-heartedly ask “Hey, what’s your name?” He pouts.
“Don’t be hurt, I wasn’t gonna even offer you a coffee”