Marc Balet: I Forget; A Memoir
Christiaan (hairdresser), Lena Kansbod (model), me (art director), Robert Turner somewhere in Thailand. Photo Arthur Elgort.
I FORGET; A MEMOIR
Thailand with photographer Arthur Elgort
It’s nicer in First Class. It just is. As the plane to Bangkok banked and descended first into Germany, I noticed how homey our first-class cabin had become since New York. Robert brought his own cashmere blanket on board eschewing the airline’s less plush variety. Special teas and our own expensive honey were placed on spare snack trays. Walkman headphones perched on our trendy heads pumped Blondie, Donna Summer or The Talking Heads into overheated ears. The small, down filled pillows strewn around were carried from our homes. We brought a multitude of magazines on board and laughed and gossiped about the models, our friends, on their glossy pages. We loved or hated the make-up on Rosie Vela, or Janice Dickenson. Patti Hanson’s hair was genius or completely naf. Esme looked so fresh. We made sure to compliment Arthur’s latest work in Vogue as he sat two rows up. Our First Class had a very lived in, casual, luxe look.
In Munich strangers entered our home. We eyed them suspiciously and begrudgingly while making some mental and physical room for them. A pair of leisure suits, one in powder blue and the other in khaki, arrived and took seats forward of me. Leisure suits. I’d never seen one in the wild before. So, this was the species that bought them. The khaki suit with matching hair was plain and uninteresting. The other guy was blond, cute with a small, pug nose and thick build. He looked German. What business were these guys in, I wondered.
During our next long leg of the flight the blond got up and sat alone, not far from me, in a small area of first class arranged as a mini lounge. Uninteresting magazines were arrayed there but this guy did not look like much of a reader. “You know you can take out the middle arm rest so you can have both seats to yourself.”
He informed me as an intro. He was American, not German. Good sign.
“Thanks. I know that.” I didn’t.
“You traveling to Bangkok for vacation?”
“No, I’m with this fashion flock. We’re all going to Bangkok to photograph for a magazine for a few weeks. I’m the art director. Those two gals are models (one of whom was now blissfully passed out), that’s the photographer over there snoring.” I pointed to a fashion editor, assistant, a male model, hair and make-up duo. “We’re a team.”
“Sounds interesting. Where are you going to shoot?’
“Uh. Well, I’m not sure. I haven’t figured that out yet. I guess I should have before boarding. I’ll meet with some tourist agency when we land and take it from there. Do you know Bangkok?”
“I live there. I know it really well. You need some help?”
“Always. Can you steer me in the right direction?”
“I can. Sit here next to me and we can talk about it.”
‘OK. Fantastic. I can definitely use some help. I’m Marc”
“Todd.” (Naturally)
We sat for a while discussing photo locations. He knew the perfect place for us to shoot; a Disney-like village made up of clean, ‘faux ancient’ temples that our readers would easily mistake for the real thing.
I jumped up to hit the bathroom and when I returned my Todd was nowhere to be found. Was I jettisoned for someone else in Coach?
“Your friend would like you to join him for a drink upstairs.” The stewardess smiled slyly as she delivered the message. This guy’s a pro, I thought as I ascended the plane’s circular staircase to the far more private upstairs lounge.
Todd had already ordered something for himself. His warm nuts had already arrived. I’d never tasted alcohol. I had a tomato juice. Todd didn’t seem particularly interested in the intricacies and nuances of the Vogue Patterns photo shoot. He did seem unduly vague when the conversation (momentarily) turned to him. His work took him all over the world. He was in some kind of government trade thing in Thailand. His conversation was way too coy and evasive. The uniform leisure suit and those regulation black shoes were giving him away.
I tossed a toasted cashew in my mouth and inquired, “So, tell me, Todd, whose side are you on?” I meant politically.
“I’m on your side, Marc” He answered, politically and rested his hand on my thigh.
“Well, Todd, it seems we’re on the same side.”
“I know that. What are you going to do when you’re not working in Bangkok?” He asked.
“When I’m not working, I generally enjoy going to places where there are lots and lots of men.”
I replied
“I know all the places for that. I’ll take you. But you’ll have to stay out late.”
“I’m here on a fashion shoot, Todd” I said, “So that will be fine.”
That’s how it started with Todd the CIA agent and me.
When we finally landed in Bangkok Todd escorted all of us plus our 40 pieces of luggage right through customs without stopping. There is usually a long delay at customs when traveling with fashion baggage because of the mandatory list, or carnet. That list contains a record of every piece of clothing you bring into the country and must be checked against each item. That way customs can check, upon exiting the country, that you have not sold any of the goods with which you entered. It’s very frustrating and time consuming.
He merely showed his credentials and we were whisked right through. I was so proud of my Todd. We were off to a good start. I would see him on and off for years to come.
No one from my team seemed particularly fazed about this stranger helping me out. Strangers often offered me a helping hand. That night Todd, all blond and smiling, arrived promptly at my hotel ready to escort me out. He asked me if I minded eating where locals ate. A few minutes later we were dining at a restaurant with dirt floors and chickens running in between our legs pecking furiously at the scraps fallen from the weathered wooden tables. I noticed much fowl on the menu.
Later, we went to a club filled with lots and lots of men. It was jammed to the dark rafters with them. The music was strong and good. Todd led me to a shadowy corner of the place where we leaned against a wood-slatted wall. We lingered for a couple of minutes taking in the raucous scene. Then, he gave a hard knock on the wall. It opened! He took me by the hand and quickly led me through the opening. The wall shut behind us.
We climbed a narrow, dark staircase. A green light emanated from a room at the top. Upon entering, my eyes focused on a sea of cheap, black and white, checkerboard linoleum floor tiles. Around the perimeter of the space were sofas found in garden furniture stores in the American 1950’s. These were tubular in design, the seats and backs covered in Naugahyde in burgundy and cream with contrasting piping. I remembered how coverings like these stuck to my bare skin on hot, Connecticut summer days. The lighting consisted of Dan Flavin style, green florescent tubes that encircled the room three quarters of the way up the drab walls.
The young, half-naked, beautiful Thai boys who filled the seats sat enthralled by a black and white television screen that hung from the ceiling. Their raised faces shone with a mix of cathode ray light and the green cast that bounced off the walls and low ceiling. None looked our way.
“Which one do you want?” asked Todd
“What? You mean to take one? Where?”
“There are rooms in the back, all very clean. Just chose one. My treat.”
I had never been in a brothel before. I felt so naïve.
“It’s not in my culture to do this, Todd. I’m sorry. It’s an alien concept for me. These kids…treated like cattle,” I whispered. “You and I standing here is such a cliché of rich Americans paying to have sex with young, third world guys trapped in this demeaning environment. Who’s that hot one in the corner? “
“If you want that one you’re going to have to hurry. He’s the police commissioner’s boy and he’ll be coming here soon. “
“Sold.”
On a Thai temple — Bangkok.
The next morning we began shooting the fashion catalog in and around the fake temples. We followed Arthur, our leader, like newborn ducklings through the Thai maze. We waited for him to stop and declare “Here. The light is great. Get the tripod, or the scrim or the model.” While walking through the alleyways in this ersatz village I spied an enticing pool of light illuminating a large, blood red rug upon which sat an enormous, gold Buddha. This shrine was the perfect locale to photograph a long, sexy, evening dress we needed next.
“This spot is perfect. We can lay her down right there in that amazing light, Arthur. With that gold Buddah in the back it’s genius, no?” I was thrilled.
“That light is perfect.” Arthur agreed
“What about those red ropes cordoning off that whole area, Marc. Isn’t it prohibited to go in there?” asked Robert languidly.
“This might not be a place we’re allowed to shoot in, Marc,” Arthur agreed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll only be in there for a few minutes. Start combing her hair. She’s going in.”
A couple of minutes later our model straddled the thick ropes attempting to block our entry and maneuvered into place within that wondrous natural light encircled by that luscious red and gold. Her hair was combed to confection, tousled, a tad wild. The accessories reflected in the sunlight made them dazzle. She sprawled out as though she owned the place all sexy cat and alluring.
The screaming I heard next broke my concentration.
“Start shooting,” I yelled to Arthur. “Don’t lose this light. Keep shooting no matter what happens.’ To the model, pointing: “You. Stay sexy. Don’t lose it!” I turned to see a tribe of Thai nuns buzzing closer and swarming like bees protecting a hive.
“No photo. No photo. Holy place. This very holy place. Go away. No photo.” They waved their robed sleeves hysterically while yelling in fractured English at me. Weren’t nuns supposed to be quiet? Wasn’t this a fake village?
I tried to reason with them.
“Excuse me.” At 6’2” I raised my voice and hands far above the din. I needed to explain to these foreigners why our mission here was so important.
“Excuse me, nuns. Excuse me! We are shooting for Vogue. This is for Vogue.” I lied. The Fall Vogue issue wouldn’t appear in Thailand for months. Everyone anticipated it. Only then would these uninformed nuns realize we weren’t really from Vogue. They would never see their sacred temple featured in those esteemed pages. Ha!
“Do you understand?” I pronounced the word Vogue very carefully so that the full impact of that title would be understood.
“Very important fashion for Fall Vogue.” To Arthur, “Do not get distracted, Arty! Keep shooting! We don’t leave this hallowed ground without this photo. And make sure it’s horizontal for chrissakes.”
