Martina

A smiling face, a casual wave.

A cool facade so well conceived.

Behind the mask a truth so grave.

A silent pain, so deeply grieved.

You see the laughter, hear the jest

But not the shadows in their eyes.

A burden carried, unexpressed,

A hidden storm, beneath the skies.

The words unspoken, thoughts unseen.

A battle fought in quiet strife.

The weight of worries, always keen.

A lonely dance with inner life.

So look beyond the outward guise,

For kindness lies in love's embrace.

“Are you alright?” might well suffice

To lighten the load in a troubled space. 

 Anonymous

Last year I was in Sicily on a photo shoot with one of the most beautiful models I have ever worked with. That’s saying something as I've worked with some absolute stunners over the years. This particular model is one of Dolce and Gabbana’s “top girls" and she has those sort of sexy, sultry, vaguely Italian-ish looks that Domenico (Dolce) and Stefano (Gabbana) simply adore. I adored her too (from afar) while looking at her online portfolio. Martina was shooting in Europe when we were seeing girls in New York and therefore could not attend our casting call. I booked her on the strength of those photos alone. This can be a serious gamble; I’ve been burned before when a model, booked purely on the strength of her portfolio, shows up on set looking almost nothing like she did in her agent's online presentation.  

Martina arrived in Noto, the wonderful baroque city where we were staying, looking tired but gorgeous and, thankfully, just like her online pics. We had dinner that first night with the entire crew. There were about fourteen of us all yammering away (as fashionistas do) but Martina was quiet. She was wearing sweat pants and a hoodie and her tall lanky frame was completely obscured by the voluminous folds of her travel ensemble.

The next day, after two hours in hair, makeup and styling, Martina got on set. She moved as if floating on water. She was like a cool stream in front of my camera - graceful, fluid, clear. But she seemed grumpy and distracted. “Smile!” I barked at her more than once - and she did smile - but it was empty. A stiff rigor of a smile that appeared nowhere but on her mouth. Her eyes were sad and vacant. 

The next day was even worse. She was quiet at breakfast and then midway through the meal she jumped out of her chair and, speaking a language I did not immediately recognize, she left the room shouting into her cellphone. 

Once we got on set she went through the motions of being a supermodel. She moved through her poses, knowing instinctively how to show the garments off to their best advantage. "This skirt has so much fabric," she said to me, "maybe I should spin so you can see that?" She was right. But she did not seem fully present. She even left the set once to take an "urgent" phone call which pissed me off even further. "Well this shoot is urgent too," I wanted to yell after her retreating figure, but I held my tongue. 

That night Martina skipped the crew dinner, almost running out of our van and into the hotel the moment we got back from location. Her cellphone was clamped to her ear, her eyes frantic. “She's being so goddamn dramatic,” I sighed to myself. 

At dinner I was talking with the crew about how the shoot was going. We all had to agree that Martina was one of the most gorgeous girls we had ever had the pleasure of working with. "But she's a pain in the ass,” I bitched, after we had all sung her praises. “She's not giving me much in front of the camera.”

After dinner as we were walking back to our rooms the stylist came up to me and asked if we could speak to me for a minute. "I'm not supposed to tell you this but Martina is going through a lot right now."

"Well obviously!" I replied, "but we all have shit going on and we don't bring that to work, do we?"

"Well...this is a little more intense than our usual issues." As we walked to our rooms she told me what was really going on with our lovely but distant mannequin. 

Martina is from Ukraine. Our shoot was happening at the exact same time that the government in Ukraine was going door to door, grabbing men, no matter their age or occupation, and sending them to the front. To be used, no doubt, as cannon fodder against the superior Russian force. Martina’s dad had fled their home and was hiding in the next town over. Martina’s mother was being threatened by the mobs that were going from town to town and grabbing men. “We know he's here somewhere,” they said as they trashed Martina’s family’s small apartment. 

So while I was on set barking at Martina to “smile like you mean it!” she was working with a “coyote” who for a hefty fee was trying to smuggle her father out of Ukraine. The plan was to get him to Poland and then to Spain where Martina had rented a small flat. There, God willing, she and her family (she has a younger sister) could live together until the war in their county is over. 

“Jesus,” I said, appalled at the news, “should she even be here?”

“She has to be here. She has to keep working,” the stylist explained. “She has to make money. She supports her family financially. The coyote and the apartment in Spain and getting them all there and all the bribes Martina will have to pay to get them out are going to end up being a small fortune.”

“Why didn't she tell me? I would have been so much…. nicer?” I muttered, increasingly ashamed of my behavior. 

“Martina doesn't want anyone to know. She doesn't want to cause a fuss or be a distraction from the shoot. I’m not even supposed to tell you.”

The next morning at breakfast I went up to Martina and pulled her out of her chair. “Good morning, my beauty,” I said, and then enveloped her in a long, fierce hug.

When I released her she had tears in her eyes. “What's that for?” she asked me - but she knew.

This was Martina’s last day and although she did spend an inordinate amount of time on her phone, switching seamlessly between Ukrainian, English and Spanish, I was amazed and inspired by her. When she got on set I was patient and compassionate. I didn’t ask her to smile once and she was almost more beautiful in her melancholy.

The next morning Martina flew out. She was on her way to Spain. Her father had arrived in Poland and she was ecstatic with joy. “Next I’ll get my mom and sister out,” she whispered to me as we hugged goodbye.

“I know you will,” I assured her.

I hope I’m right.