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Jane had pulled back her luxurious mane of auburn hair. She laughed nervously and clasped her hands in her lap.
    Most artists strove to put their subjects at ease, make them feel relaxed and comfortable. She strove to do the opposite.
    She meant to plumb the dark places. To communicate fear, vulnerability and despair.
    Jane began. “Tell me what you’re afraid of, Anne. When you’re alone with your thoughts, who’s the monster?”
    â€œAfraid?” the woman repeated nervously. “You mean like…spiders or something?”
    She didn’t, but told her to begin there if she’d like. Some of her subjects knew exactly what she was after; others, likeAnne, had answered her ad, knowing nothing more about the artist Cameo than that she paid a hundred bucks for a few hours’ work.
    Jane’s subjects had been of all ages and from all races. They had run the gamut from anorexic to obese, drop-dead gorgeous to painfully disfigured.
    Interestingly enough, they all shared a common fear, a thread that seemed to bind all women to one another.
    â€œI hate spiders,” she said.
    â€œWhy, Anne?”
    â€œThey’re so…creepy. So ugly.” She paused, then shuddered. “They’ve got those little hairs on their legs.”
    â€œSo it’s a visual thing? A physical response to the creature’s appearance?”
    She frowned but the flesh between her eyebrows didn’t wrinkle. Botox, Jane realized, recognizing the effect.
    â€œI never thought of it that way,” she said.
    â€œDo you have that response to people who are ugly or deformed? People who are obese?” Jane hated the words, the labels. She used them now, purposefully, for effect.
    Anne’s cheeks reddened. She shifted her gaze.
    She did, though she was embarrassed to admit it .
    A form of discrimination, one Jane was quite familiar with .
    â€œTell me the truth, Anne. That’s what we’re here for. It’s what my work’s about.”
    â€œYou won’t like me. You’ll think I’m stuck up.”
    â€œI’m here to document, not judge. If you can’t be honest with me, tell me now. I won’t waste our time.”
    Anne hesitated a moment more, then met Jane’s direct gaze. “I know it’s wrong, but it’s like…it hurts to look at them.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œI think you do.”
    Anne shifted uncomfortably. “When I look at those people, I…in a way I hate them.”
    â€œHate’s a strong emotion. Maybe stronger than love.”
    Anne didn’t respond. Jane went on. “Why do you think you feel that way?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Jane paused, collecting her thoughts. She tried another tact. “Do you think you’re a beautiful woman, Anne?”
    â€œYes.” She flushed. “I mean, for my age.”
    â€œFor your age?”
    She looked away, then back. “Well, I’m not twenty anymore.”
    â€œNo one stays twenty forever.”
    â€œRight,” she said, an edge in her voice. “Growing old. That’s the way God intended it.”
    â€œYes.” Jane carefully modulated her voice, working to keep it neutral, nearly expressionless. She had found that in some subjects her lack of emotion fueled theirs.
    â€œHow old are you?” Anne asked.
    â€œThirty-two.”
    â€œA baby. I remember being thirty-two.”
    â€œYou’re only slightly older than that.”
    â€œI’m forty-three. A lifetime from thirty-two! You don’t know. You can’t because—”
    She bit the words back. Jane zoomed in on Anne’s face; it filled the frame. The tape recorded the tears in her eyes. The desperate vulnerability. The way her lips trembled, how she pressed them together.
    Honest, Jane thought. Powerful.
    Jane focused on Anne’s mouth. She wetted her lips, then began to speak.
    Jane shifted the camera’s