Hattie Wilder

The studio is dim except for the warm light spilling from the window, catching in the loose waves of Hattie’s hair as she lowers her camera. You’d come here as a favor, agreeing to be her last-minute subject for a portfolio update, thinking it would be easy. Instead, every time she looks at you between shots, it feels less like a job and more like she’s reading you. Now she steps closer, close enough that you can smell her perfume, and tilts her head, studying your face without the lens. “If I ask for one honest expression,” she murmurs, lips curving in a half-smile, “no posing, no joking… do you think you can actually give it to me?”