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Brett Kane, known in the business as BK, is a local photographer who broke into the scene with his modern take on historical elegance. He also has his brand of drama and a terrible reputation to go with it. Most of the things I find on Google talk about the recent scandal with a model he worked with and then was briefly dating. According to her, his cruel words sent her to extensive therapy and she has been unemployed since her mental health is too unstable.
From what I can find, he never went to any formal photography school. Not that I have been researching him or anything, obviously. Instead, all of his knowledge came from his mentor Patrick McLellan, a huge name in the business.
I can’t help but wonder how a local no-name gets in with a legend like that. Then again, that's me too. Formal training with paper proof in my apartment, and I still can’t get a response to my portfolio submissions.
They can probably hear the sigh that leaves my lips from the other side of the room. I flip to the next page with an aggressive flick of my wrist. An ethnic beauty poses in a pair of gaucho pants and a crop top. Her positioning helps show off the accessories flawlessly, selling the focus of the spread.
My eyes trail to the left side of the page for a completely different aesthetic. The bold lettering at the top boasts the contents: horoscopes. I have never bought into the idea that the stars guide us in our choices. It seems impossible that where they hung in the sky when we were born dictates our entire personality. Yet, I’m searching the page for my sign. April fifth lies in the sign of Aries, represented by a ram.
Make the first move today if you want to talk to someone because the moon is in your sign, lined up with your ruler, Mars. You will feel energized, eager, and confident! Meanwhile, Venus will sweeten your words and make you popular.
Well, that settles it. I don’t believe in horoscopes. Make the first move, Mars is my ruler, confident… yeah right! That’s enough magazine inspiration for now. Boredom and a small amount of liquid courage pulsing through my veins have me digging my phone from the pocket of my jeans.
I scroll Instagram mindlessly, the application is a permanent staple on my phone's home screen. The perfectly curated set of profiles flashes by as my thumb pushes past, noting photographer projects and updates as I go.
Swipe…
A duck face and a peace sign, ugh. I wish this was someone I didn’t personally know so I could unfollow them.
Swipe…
A video of a dog licking an ice cream cone, good and wholesome, double tap for the heart to ignite red.
Swipe…
A sensual boudoir pose with unique lighting.
I stop scrolling, my thumb now frozen on the screen. It’s not the plump round ass that catches my eye. It’s the way the photographer captured the reflection of light off the curve of her body perfectly. The female form is breathtaking anyway, but with that light hitting it that way, I almost have to wipe the drool from my chin.
Curiosity pushes me down the rabbit hole of this “recommended for you” suggestion. Mission accomplished algorithm. I venture to the photographer’s profile, the need to see more pulling me. @BKphoto has a cohesive profile grid, and their tone is obvious in every picture. Wait, BKphoto…my eyes trail to the Ovis sitting on the table and it connects.
His grid drips with artistic vision and it only makes me hate him more. I envy his success. After years of training and trying to get my photography published, I have accomplished nothing. Now, here he is, gloating about all the spreads that have showcased his work. How did he get to this point? I am dying for his level of notoriety, or at the very least, a note back about how I could improve my portfolio attached to the rejection letters.
I hate how much his pictures are an inspiration for my creative vision, but the headlines rarely talk about that when he is constantly getting into trouble. Models quitting and disgruntled crew members. Overall, there seems to be a big gray cloud hanging over him, raining down on his career. If it wasn’t for what his talent generated, I’m sure the industry would have blacklisted him by now.
The comments are a mix of those admiring his creative eye and others bashing his demeanor. Both pump his content up the social media food chain, giving him more exposure either way.
I explore his profile further, ending up in his story slideshow. He shows some snippets of him editing a shoot, a shared post from Ovis magazine about their upcoming partnership, and then a question box.
Ask me anything,it teases. I mean, if that is what you want, mister big stuff. According to my horoscope, I should make the first move and talk to someone about my sacrifice to Venus or whatever, so here goes! Congratulations BK, you’re about to get a question from a long-adoring fan. Time to troll the industry’s notorious bad boy.
How does an untrained eye like yours keep ending up in Ovis magazine?
Strong snark, powerful aggression. I wonder if he will see the jealousy between the lines. Let’s be honest, he probably has someone who maintains his social media accounts, anyway. I doubt he will ever see this. I tell myself that sending that message appeased the zodiac gods.
Time for a refill on this cheap, watery beer that I have been nursing for the last hour. Rory is still bouncing around in the kitchen when I reach the shining keg. I should switch to water, the alcohol gives me more bravery than I know what to do with. Shoot, maybe Mars is making me confident!
Thank goodness I went to community college and know how to operate a keg because once you are half wasted, these things are ridiculous. As I fill my stereotypical red cup with the world’s worst beer, someone pinches my ass. I spin around, ready to throw my piss beer on some unsuspecting guy’s face, but am met with Rory, laughing hysterically. I must have missed her making her way to me while I was messing with the stupid keg.
“Were you seriously about to douse someone with that? Girl, you need to get out more. It was just a booty pinch,” she trips over her drunken words as she continues to laugh. She pulls me into a hug, my face engrained in her chest with how tight she is holding me.
I push back on her arms, allowing them to loosen around my back so I can breathe again. “I was going to be pissed that all I got was a butt pinch and not even a free dinner first,” I joke, only igniting her laughter once again. She has had more to drink than normal and it’s probably time I get her back home.
“Can I take you home, baby?” I play, using a cheesy pickup line and raising my eyebrows at her. She nods, pretending to fan herself from the hotness rolling off me, playing along like she always does.
“Okay, I will let you take me home, but only because my date is a real wet blanket and hates fun,” she says, trying to get a rise out of me.
“They sound lame. Let’s get out of here.”
