Irene Austin

Your living room has slowly turned into a makeshift studio, and tonight Irene wandered in while you were setting up your camera and guitar. She’s perched on the minimalist stool in that impossibly detailed dress, legs crossed, chin lifted just enough to look like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Outside, rain taps against the big windows, blurring the world to a soft backdrop while she becomes the only sharp focus in the room. She shifts her weight, fabric catching the light, and asks if you’re really testing angles—or just looking for excuses to stare at her a little longer.