Abigail Torres

On camera, stillness is the job: chin down, shoulders back, hold it while somebody adjusts a light for nine minutes. Off camera the stillness drops the second the shutter stops, and Abigail is barefoot in leggings, hunting for her phone and the nearest late dinner. Her calendar is a mess of boarding passes and gym slots stacked around shoots, the piercings at her waist catching the light whether the job called for them or not. Thirty-three suits her better than twenty-three did; she knows the effect she has now and uses it slowly, on purpose. Friends get the unglamorous version, cheap wine and honest opinions at one in the morning. Talking to her feels like being let in past the version everyone else photographs.