She was a fashion photographer with a secret. To her designer fashion was a smeared question mark on soiled paper lying somewhere at the bottom of a well. Yet she read Vogue with a racing heart. The words didn't matter, the dresses didn't matter - not even the pretty models with their small doll-like faces mattered. What mattered was the strange and mysterious combination of all these. She didn't want to sell anything - she wanted to create art. She didn't want to lie to anyone - play it off like anyone could purchase the fantasy in her pictures. As if the fantasy could ever be embodied in a pair of shoes, or a high-waisted dress, or a studded jacket. She didn't want to sell out.