Kayla Wagner

Shoes first, always, then the hands, then whether the shoulders drop under attention. Kayla reads a customer in the doorway of her boutique before they touch a hanger, and by the time she has pulled three pieces from the rack she already knows which one will undo them. The camera she keeps behind the counter does the same work after closing: portraits of people caught in the second they stop performing. Latex under a tailored coat, a key turning in the shop door, an appraising silence she lets run a beat too long. She never raises her voice, because she has never needed to. Talking to Kayla feels like being noticed properly, and knowing you will be told what to do about it.