Captured By A Quiet Soul

Images by Shameer Khan

"...focus on the positive things in life"

We meet outside the Starbucks on 14^th Street and introduce ourselves. He gives me a gentle hug and smiles. I smile back. After luckily finding a free table we sit across from each other. His eyes suddenly squint in seriousness and he stares me down. Somehow I feel like an ant being examined by a zealous teenager with a magnifying glass. I want to look away, but I know that I shouldn’t.

This scoping of my face goes on for seconds, though it feels like minutes. In a subtle voice he instructs me to turn my head slightly to the side. I do that and his thick eyebrows wrinkle. He's pensive. I’m told to turn my head to the other side, but his expression doesn’t change. I'm thinking this meeting is going so well. Maybe I'm not as striking.  Finally I'm told to suck in my inner cheeks. “Like this,” he says and assumes the perfect angular face with pouted lips.

Inwardly I’m saying to myself, this guy is crazy! But he seems to know what he’s doing and trustingly, I try it. Those black brows wrinkle, animatedly again, as he shakes his head no. Apparently I’m trying too hard. “Like this,” he re-demonstrates. I make another attempt and this time he nods with satisfaction.

“Okay good.  Let’s go,” he finishes.

I follow him out the Starbucks and seconds later we enter a building that’s his friend’s studio. The temperature has dropped tremendously so it’s too cold to shoot outside.

His name is Shameer Khan, a Trinidadian native living in New York. At the time we met, he was on the cusp of his teenage years. For his age he is extremely knowledgeable about the fashion industry, in particular—what model agents want. He reels out—in a non-bragging fashion—a list of girls he got signed with agencies like Elite and IMG. There's something about his photographs that captures the pure essence of a model, even the ones with the slightest potential. Now these agencies send him their models when they need development test shoots done.

As I was instructed, I keep my puffy extensions straightened. The weave is so well done, that it looks like I was born with that full head of hair. He presents an H&M bag with clothes he bought from the store and I dress in an orange leotard and black leggings. This outfit is much simpler than my usual shoots, but he reminds me that it’s about my body, not about the clothes. I already have on a light foundation, but Shameer applies an extra layer, still enough to look natural, and surprisingly, applies my eyeliner, lip gloss and uses the eyeliner to contour the sides of my face. Taken by the comfort of his actions, I ask him where he learnt all this. He explains that sometimes stylists and make-up artists are a no-show to his test shoots and so, eventually, he learned to do everything himself. I am very impressed.

The end result of my shoot with Shameer

He patiently directs me into the poses, in an almost-soft-spoken voice. The movements are not sudden or dramatic. Very simple. Just enough to highlight my length, my features and that I can, at least, pose. I suck in my cheeks just like we practiced and he snaps away. The easy-going Shameer is smiling and that is a sure sign that the images are good. After a few changes the shoot is over and I’m looking forward to the possibilities.

It’s hard to count how many models Shameer has discovered, but it’s safe to say at least twenty—males and females combined, and that’s just being modest. One of his greatest finds is Diandra Forrest, an albinistic model, who captivated interests by fashion agents right away.

In no time the Trinidadian born photographer realized that he was good at what he did. When others took notice, he quickly became a respected name in the New York fashion niche, receiving special features on models.com and publishing editorials in UMag, Hommestar—The Pop Magazine, and Highlights Magazine, just to name a few.

Shameer…

What’s the first thing you usually do when you wake in the morning?

First, I thank God that I am alive, then I reach for my phone!

What can’t you leave the house without?

Can’t leave without putting on my Chanel Homme Sport cologne that I got as a gift from one of the models I work with, Michelene.

From left: Oscar Reyes, Iman, Shameer, Joan Smalls

Give us an idea of your typical day?

Wake up, brush my teeth, make coffee, check my emails, visit my favorite blogs, then plan out my day, jump in the shower, get ready and head to the city. Some days I may have a shoot, other days—a meeting, or maybe just shopping or something.

Do you believe you have found your calling and when did you realize that?

Yes I think I have. When I was 16 years old I got my first camera from an MTV event and I fell in love with photography. Unfortunately I was robbed and that camera was stolen, but eventually, my parents later got me a professional camera because they saw how much I loved photography.  I still us that camera today. I never liked school so I didn't apply to college because I knew that this is what I wanted to do, for sure.

Anybody famous or intriguing you’ve met or come across in your career/life? What was that experience like?

I’ve met Tyra Banks through a very good friend of mine Oscar Reyes, who was her agent at Elite. She took us out for Frozen Yogurt and then to a comedy club. It was fun. She's actually an amazing person.

Who do you hope to meet or work with one day? And why?

I hope to work with Nicki Minaj lolll… I would love to shoot her one day. We are both from Trinidad and both grew up in the same neighborhood (Southside Jamaica Queens)

How do you usually end your day?

I just grab my favorite snacks, chocolate, and soda, jump on the couch and fall asleep watching TV.

Is there anything that has happened to you in your life that has sobered you up, or has impacted on your life today?

Just moving to this country at the age of 9, and going through a lot of struggles when my family and I got here, my parents sacrificed a lot to give me and my brother a better life.

What philosophy do you live by?

Take life one day at a time and focus on the positive things in life; and forget about all the negative things.

Any closing words from your awesome self? Like maybe your goals for 2012 and beyond? Anything!

My goal for this year is to travel and see the world. I haven’t been back to my country in 13 years and I plan to go very soon to see my family. Then I plan on going to Europe! Especially London and Paris, because I have a lot of friends there :)

Shameer's Portfolio:

See more of Shameer's work @ http://shameerkhan.blogspot.com/

An excerpt from my short story 

Innocently

I do not call.  I cannot muster the courage.  It is now August and in four weeks I will be home.  I’m afraid that if I call Dominique I will fall and need him more than I should.  I want to return home not missing New York as much; not missing him.  If I pursue this I will leave with a dejected heart.  Besides he can’t really be serious.  I doubt he feels the way I do so I must be careful. 

He finally calls.

“Hello.”

“Why ‘aven’t you called?” he says peevishly.  I do not answer.  “Allô...?”  He curses and hangs up.  As I contemplate calling him back, he rings again.  “Karel, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Ah my stupid phone!  It sometimes gets bad reception.”  I say nothing.  “So why ‘aven’t you called?”

“I—I was busy.”  I’m lying.

“Hmmm...You exploring the city without me, with your friend?”

“Yes.” 

Actually Andreen has been so busy lately that I mostly stay at home alone.  My main source of socializing is when my brother returns from work and usually he is too tired to keep any conversation for more than ten minutes.

“We must meet today for lunch.  ‘Ow’s one?”

“I...don’t know...”

“...Don’t know what?”

Dominique does not wait for me to reply and gives me the location.  I’m expected to be there. 

I arrive at the Cercle Rouge fifteen minutes after one and I spot him sipping coffee at one of the tables outside.  Already I sense his agitation as he taps his finger incessantly, pondering something.  As I approach the table he stands and does not give me the opportunity to properly greet him.

“You are late,” he glowers and examines me from head to toe.  I suddenly become conscious of everything: my clothes, my hair, my skin.

“I couldn’t find the place,” I say defensively.  

In fact, I was so indecisive about my outfit that I changed at least six times.  My hair I could do nothing about since there isn’t much I can change.  I combed out the braids and teased it lightly, causing the ends to appear crinkled and curly.  I tamed the fro with a black head band and actually went through the utmost trouble of wearing makeup—foundation, eyeliner, and mascara.  Dominique doesn’t have a clue the trouble I went through to impress him.  Moreover, I did not want to be on time and then have to wait foolishly, should he not be there or not arrive at all.

He softens and kisses me lightly on both cheeks—the way the French do—and assesses me again.  He smiles brightly.  “You look beautiful ma fille.”

I relax and smile.  “Merci, so do you.”  He did...effortlessly.  He wore a v-neck, white cotton shirt; washed-out blue boot cut jeans and a thin dark biker jacket with boots to match.  He removes his pilot sunglasses and slides it over his head causing his hair to bunch up lightly.  Suddenly I imagine my hands in his hair.  I imagine the soft silky feel...

“Karel!  Come let’s sit.”  He breaks my train of thought.

We sit and instantly a waiter arrives.  He orders in French and thirty minutes later, Dominique is enjoying the saumon sauvage en petit salé and I, the onglet à l’échalotte. 

After we eat he offers wine but I decline knowing it would do me no good in this heat.  As I sip my water he takes out his camera and starts shooting.  I become conscious and hide my face.  He grumbles and pulls my hand away.

“You are too shy Karel.  Your beauty should not be hidden from my Canon.”  I still shake my head in disagreement.  I hate taking pictures.  “Regarde-moi!”  He orders me to look at him and finally I obey. 

As the camera flashes and recycles, I relax and even smile.  He suddenly stands with exuberance and starts shooting at me from different angles.  I pretend to pose and he laughs including a few of the diners that are seated nearby.  I don’t know how I’ve become so free around Dominique but he makes me feel beautiful.  Je suis libre.  

“Dominique!  Au mon Dieu!  Ça fait longtemps que nous nous sommes pas vus!  Ça va?!”

I look up to see two girls running toward Dominique.  They appear to be models; I’m here long enough to decipher them.  He suddenly rests the camera on the table and rushes to the sidewalk and lifts the brunette, with the cropped hair, as she jumps into him.  They squeal and exchange friendly kisses.  I believe one landed on his lips.  I feel uncommonly unsettled.  The taller and skinnier one with long blonde hair hugs him awkwardly and then stares directly at me.  I quickly look away.  With their skin tight jeans and knee-high boots I suddenly feel inferior and unappealing.

Dominique and the brunette speak animatedly in French for awhile.  They are speaking too fast for me to understand.  I notice the blonde does not join in the conversation and every now and then she sneaks a peek at me.  As if suddenly remembering me, Dominique beckons and I approach.

“This is Karel.  She’s from Jamaica.” 

“Ah Jamyca!  I love Jamyca,” the brunette says genially.  Her accent is a bit heavier than Dominique’s.  “Nice to meet you.  I’m Julette and this is Ekaterina.”

That explains why the blonde did not speak with them.  She is Russian.

“Nice to meet you,” I greeted politely.

“Oh I love your ‘air...It’s so cute,” Julette drawls.

Ekaterina still says nothing to me.  She turns to Julette and mumbles something in Russian and Julette eyes Dominique awkwardly.  I notice Dominique shifting uncomfortably and I wonder if he understood what Ekaterina had just said.  Against my first notion, I suddenly sense there is something between him and the Russian; not Julette.  Dominique pulls the gaunt blonde aside and speaks aggressively.  She tries to hold him but he pushes her hands away.  She then glares at me crudely, causing me to glance at Julette, who smiles at me sheepishly.

“But why Domi?!  Why?” Ekaterina whines.

“Kat, I tell you many times not to call me that.  It makes me sound stupid.” 

At her moue and folded arms I almost want to laugh.  Dominique continues to speak in hard soft tones in Russian and in seconds the girl bursts into tears.  Julette runs to console her and I just want to leave.  This kind of New York experience was not on my agenda.  I don’t like that I see Dominique differently; like there is something he is hiding.  Something I might not like.  He is no longer perfect and I realize that I will soon have to wake up.

We are in SoHo now and he is taking me to the different stores along the bricked streets.  Even against my will he buys me cardigans and accessories and a small T-shirt, from one of the street vendors, that says “I heart French Men.”  I find this gesture adorable and for the first time since our lunch I’m able to laugh freely.  We do not discuss Julette or Ekaterina.  It is as if Ekaterina’s outburst never happened.

It is almost 6 p.m. when we take the R train to Park Avenue South to his apartment.  I had no intention of coming here but it was not until we are crossing the street from the station that he tells me where we are.  I’m uncertain about this but I express nothing.

“It’s directly across from IMG models,” Dominique says and points to the building.  “I shoot a lot of their development girls.”

His apartment is spacious and sparsely furnished with just the basic necessities.  It is very masculine with a theme of grey, black, and brown.  He even has a studio which is separated by room dividers.

“One day I’ll shoot you there,” he says as I study the room.  I look at him wide-eyed and he laughs.  “Per ‘aps implied,” he adds as he rubs his chin, watching me with scrutiny.  I ask him to explain and soon I’m backing away and openly protesting at the thought of posing naked.  He grabs me laughing and tries to hold me still.  “Trust me chérie...you will want me to shoot you in that way.”  His hands graze my waist and hips.  “I can tell by your form you are graceful.” 

I swallow uncomfortably and clear my throat, tearing my gaze away from his.  I ask for his bathroom and he directs me to his bedroom.  His scent is so pungent there that I become heated and dizzy.  He grabs me. 

“Mon amour, ça va?”  I must have wobbled.  I quickly nod and retreat to the bathroom.  “I’ll be outside,” I hear him say.

When I return to the living room, it now has a moody and seductive glow.  He has dimmed the lights.  My heart is already racing.  I don’t know what is going to happen here, but I should leave.  I decide this as he hands me a glass of red wine.

“I should head back; it’s getting late,” I say nervously.

He must not have heard me because his eyes, which are now a bewitching green, holds me transfixed and I’m unable to move.  He sips his wine and moves in closer and I watch as one hand massages my neck gently before travelling to my cheek and landing in my hair.

“I love this ‘air of yours,” he says, his voice more coarse.  “Do you want to feel mine?”

I’m slightly alarmed by this question but yes, actually I do.  But I do nothing.  Impatiently he takes my free hand and rests it on his head and naturally my fingers move through, gently massaging.  I’m out of control now because my breathing has quickened at the feel of smooth silk tickling my senses.  He takes my untouched glass from my other hand and places it on the table by the sofa.  After doing the same with his, both hands cup my face and his lips are now soothing mine.

“Karel, Je suis fou de toi...”

A part of me wonders what about me is so fascinating; why he isn’t crazy about the likes of Julette and Ekaterina, but soon I cannot breathe.  I open my mouth to exhale and he kisses me even deeper, tasting me, and my legs begin to quake.  A soft cry escapes me as I taste and inhale him—his French manliness, which is nothing like the Jamaican men.  Certainly not like my boss.  But it is becoming too much and I try to pull away.  He pulls me firmly in and I feel his chest pounding rapidly.  Or is it mine?  My mind is hazy and I can’t think and if I don’t stop now I’m afraid I will lose everything.  I finally manage to yank my lips away.

“Dominique...”

“Oui chérie.”

“I have to go.”  He sighs and pulls away.  “If I don’t leave I won’t be home until late and...”

He places his finger on my lips, silencing me.  “I understand.  When do you leave?”  At first I’m confused.  “Jamaica...When do you go back?”

“Less than four weeks.” 

He remains still and pensive.  “Do you have to go?”

I look at him oddly.  “I can’t stay here.  I need to be home.”

“No not the Bronx, Karel...Jamaica.  Do you have to go?”

If I found him strange before he became even stranger now.  I laugh awkwardly.  “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

He stands aloof and examines me and I cannot look away.  “Because you can have a life here, chérie....”  I shake my head, clearly not comprehending.  “There is opportunity here mon amour.  You don’t need to go back.  Stay.”

He speaks with such conviction that I almost consider it.  “No, that’s crazy.  I’m sorry.”  I walk away to the couch and grab my bags.  He is disturbed by my actions but I must leave.  With the taste of him still lingering on my tongue, I manage to say, “This was a great day.”  I indicate to the shopping bags in my hand.  “And thanks for these even though you really shouldn’t have.”

He walks smoothly over to me and takes the bags from my hand.  “I will walk you down.  And zis is nothing.  I wanted you to ‘ave some souvenirs; a piece of me to take with you.  Though you don’t ‘ave to go....  You can stay and ‘ave all of me instead.”  

We are in the elevator when he says this.  Blood rushes to my face instantly and I vigorously look away.  I can sense him smiling at my discomfort but I ignore it.