Content
The hotel matters. So many logistics to consider, naturally. Security, a discrete exit. Exceptional views and comfort are paramount. The difference between the Chelsea and an Econo-whatever is vast. It’s about ambiance as much as décor. Perhaps more than anything, however, it’s the bathroom and its lighting that will make or break the hotel. Because it’s here where the face that will depart into a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, or onto the streets, raw in their trampled concrete – should she choose to wander off from the hotel and the limo whose driver pines for her, surreptitiously, from beneath the brim of his chauffer’s hat, amid hordes who may in fact know nothing of her métier – it’s here, in the bathroom, where the face really sees itself. Encounters its beauty or its undoing through projected, watchful, or stalking eyes prior to greeting the world. If the light is too dark, or worse, too bright with no dimmer switch, those who always leer will speak through her, her alone and vocalizing as she stares into the bathroom’s foreign, unforgiving mirror. “Deep questions and lack of sleep can take years off your life, mademoiselle,” the oglers will assert through her mouth. “They can also destroy your face.” To which she’ll have no convincing comeback.