the commercial photographer
by Douglas
Messerli
“For photography, cobalt blue is one of the most
challenging colors to reproduce. According to researcher Robin D. Myers' paper
on color accuracy, the color cobalt shows up more accurately when the image was
shot in low light or when other colors are incorrectly reproduced, and this
applies to both film and digital photography. To reproduce a cool cobalt with a
simple blue subject, it is recommended to use fluorescent lighting combined
with low and minimal red and infrared emissions to reduce the blue from being
ultramarine.”
Gustavo
Hernández de Anda and Julián Hernández (screenplay), Julián Hernández (director) Cobalto (Cobalt) / 2023 [21 minutes]
Yet the studio, cast mostly in the cold cobalt
blue light is also a source of memories for Damián, who has simultaneously been
loved and abused through the capture and photographic representing of his own
image in response to Uriel’s attentions. Sometimes we cannot quite determine whether
Damián’s small yelps of pain are from the bodily damage his john has inflicted
or from the memories of their photographic encounters wherein Uriel, bit by
bit, as he made him over to be the model and lover he wishes him to become.
Slowly as we move back towards their past we perceive Uriel as the
loving creator of the young, 18-year-old Damian, as he moves him again and
again, sometimes not so gently, into a sexual position for his photographs
which create an artistic world while not always recognizing the human one of
the model himself.
Almost continually, even now as an injured man
asleep, Uriel snaps Damián’s image, as if “stealing the subject” away from his
own being as fearful natives often suspected of foreign intruders as attempting
to do as they entered their world in the early 20th century with their demands
to record and, let’s face it, commercialize the moment of their discoveries.
These body-stealing moments are alternated,
of course, with kindness. “Do you need anything?” And once again, the snap of
the photo, the wind of the camera, this time in the past, with a mention that Damían was
born in Celaya, in the province Guanajuato, Mexico, making him a provincial,
outside of the center of Mexican culture, Ciudad de México. “He says he was
born again when at eighteen he arrive in Mexico City.”
Almost from the beginning Uriel attempts
to make him over, to “try smiling with his eyes,” something quite difficult for
the surly Celayan.
Back to their previous days, Uriel
declares Damían to be a terrible model, for which
the subject of Uriel’s voyeurism seems to feel necessary to apologize. But, of
course, Damían is, in fact, a beautiful human being with whom Uriel falls in
love, despite the distance he puts himself between all those whom he photographs.
But Uriel’s lovely photographs of Damían are not his only works, and his model soon
discovers openly pornographic pictures of Uriel engaged in sex with the owner
of his apartment, Orlando, from which he has procured it, accordingly, for
free.
That scene is followed by a rather brutal
photo-shoot, wherein Uriel asks his model to pose in a black face mask as he
places him what appear to be several soft-porn S&M pictures, during which
he tells his own story of also being an outsider, who met Orlando, who moved
him into his studio, and who soon after went away for long periods of time, leaving
the studio into his care.
When he returns, Uriel again corrects his
model (“Straighten your neck”) as he attempts to transform him into the creature
he might be able to fully love.
Once more we are rushed into the future,
as Uriel attempts to care for the still-healing Damían, the hustler feeling
angry that he cannot remember the beater’s face, and that even worse they took
all the money he had made. And now commerce creeps back into the conversation,
as Damían pretends to admit, “I do it for the money, OK?”
Uriel’s answer is strange, “We both know
that’s not true.”
“And I do like it,” answers Damían.
“I know.”
That
admission of their relationship, in fact, leads them into a mad sexual frenzy,
a sex scene far more tough that the tender wrestlers, that we realize they are
ready in their lust to nearly to consume oner another, to devour almost as
vampires one another’s flesh.
What we realize is that the anger,
frustration, the hate is mutual because, in fact, Uriel has used
Damían for his commercial
advantage, and even if the other is now working as a hustler, he is perhaps the
purer of the two of them, since Damían truly embraces sex as a sensual pleasure.
In only this last scene has the photographer finally put away his camera.
Lover, voyeur, consumer, and the ready
receptor of the orgiastic pleasure of sex are conjoined ultimately in the remarkable
Mexican director Julián Hernández’s most recent short film, a work that
explores territories where few others these days might take us.
Los
Angeles, August 27, 2024
Reprinted from My Queer Review (August
2024).