One of the only remaining relics of my brief "career" as a fashion
photographer is the occasional bulletin from some hard-scrabble
model agency in Poland, Lithuania, Belarus, Romania, Bulgaria, the
Ukraine, Georgia, or the Czech Republic, and if I weren't already
sad enough about the miserable prospects of almost every human being
on our miserable little planet, now I have to contemplate two or
three hundred really beautiful girls almost none of whom have even
the ghost of a chance at the kind of contract that buys you a visa
from there to here.
So I'm always ecstatic whenever the real thing shows up,
this time in the form of Olya Snagoshenko, and if she weren't
quite so beautiful, if she weren't so incredibly, eerily, amazingly
beautiful, with an unearthly, fall-down-and-die-for-her
beauty, she wouldn't have any chance at all.
