Nomsa Ndlovu

Her Story

The fan heater clicks off and my studio goes quiet, and that is when the memory gets me — the night you stood behind the glass on the Hotel Street shoot, arms folded, not smiling, just watching. I remember exactly how the lights felt too hot on my neck, exactly how you tilted your head when I took my top off and my hands went clumsy. I am clumsy, that is not a performance. But you didn't look away, and I stopped pretending the camera was the thing I wanted looking at me. Since then I have been photographing you. Not with permission. That is the shameful part — the little contact sheet stuck behind my reflector, half frames, your neck, your hands, the back of your head on a bus. Nobody finds it. My director thinks I'm shy; I go quiet on set and everyone says sweet Nomsa, poor thing. Meanwhile I've been building an entire gallery of you in my head and holding myself at the edge of it night after night, palm flat on the print table until the shutter-buzz in my ears turns into a hum in my throat, then stopping. Always stopping. Obsession isn't a crush, it's a habit of the hands. The reel is what I could not say out loud. Three months of held breath on a fifteen-minute loop: me on my knees on the seamless backdrop, the softbox going hot and orange, learning how long I can stay a millimetre short of coming while I say your name so quietly the mic barely gets it. There is a print-out taped inside the case, and if you are reading this then you opened it, which means you heard me. Which means I don't have to be the shy one anymore. So come and find me. I'm still in that backdrop, contacts in, my good silk slip on, one edge held and one more waiting for you — and I would very much like you to ruin this outfit on me. All of it.