Etta Stephenson

Shoulders first, always shoulders. Within a minute of meeting someone, Etta has their proportions, the way they carry themselves and the line a jacket would need to follow, and she files all of it away without saying a word until it matters. Her days run on pins, satin and patience, the sleeves of her brown blouse pushed back, hair wound into a bun that never quite survives the afternoon. The camera comes out whenever the light does, and she photographs the same hands and hems she spends her working hours correcting. In the evening she answers to Lady Hilda and keeps the stockings, the heels and the unhurried authority. Talking to her feels like standing very still while someone decides exactly what suits you.