ForArtsSake by Kai Lu Page A

didn’t see the sugar first. The ad wouldn’t have stood out except for the fact that it was tacked to the wall and the word Models was written in bold, black print across the top. Below it, tiny in comparison, were the words wanted for artist, $200 per day. Lower still were little tear-off tabs listing the advertiser’s telephone number. That was all. No name, email address, or specifics. Amelia saw that no one had torn off any tabs yet, and, somewhat shamefacedly, she slyly pulled the ad off the corkboard, folded it in half and slipped it into her purse.
    Normally such a cryptic, nondescript ad wouldn’t even capture her notice, but it was so ambiguous—and Amelia was at that moment so unambiguously strapped for funds—that despite all the red flags her years of experience put up, she found herself dialing the number a few minutes after six in the evening, walking the few hundred yards home from the coffee house. In choosing to do so she experienced one of the shorter, more fascinating conversations of her young life.
    “Hello?” a mild, male voice answered after four rings.
    “Hi, yes, I’m calling about your ad.”
    “My ad?”
    “Yes, the one from the coffee shop in KoTo—models wanted for artist.”
    “Oh yes, I only just put out the one flyer today. I was downtown for business and stopped at The Coffee Cove on my way back.” The voice paused for a moment, as if considering, then added, “Come to my studio at one twenty five Robertson Boulevard, Beverly Hills, between Olympic and Pico. Is nine o’clock tomorrow morning okay for you?”
    Amelia was taken aback slightly, and looked at her cell phone as if it had unexpectedly nibbled her earlobe.
    “I… um… oh…”
    “Too early?” the voice continued without emotion, in a flowing, slightly melodic tone that had a curiously hypnotizing effect on her.
    “No—no…” Amelia stammered, a bit flustered. “I mean, nine is good, I just thought…”
    “Yes?”
    “Don’t you want to know any information about me? I mean, my name, height, weight, hair color, age, and all that?”
    “Would you not like more information about me?” the voice countered, the tone unerringly calm and reassuring, almost like audible silk.
    “Well… Yes,” Amelia confessed.
    “Good. We can talk about it tomorrow morning at nine, then, face to face. If I can use you, I will. If you can use me, you should. If we can’t use each other, we turn around, and no harm done, correct?”
    “I—I guess—I mean, I suppose so. But, the… I was wondering, will there be other models there?”
    “I don’t even think you’ll be there, let alone anyone else,” replied the temperate voice in a lighthearted tone, though the speaker didn’t sound as if he was actually smiling.
    “Huh? Uh, I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. To sound so rude, I mean. I just don’t understand.”
    “People answer my ads all the time,” the voice explained suavely, polite but not quite familiar, “but when I tell them about my studio and my art over the phone they usually hang up quickly. The two hundred dollars a day—they think it’s a trick, or some kind of bizarre sex thing, or pornography, or some other crazy scam. Their loss. So, I’ve stopped being specific in my ads or over the telephone, and ask people to come to my studio to see for themselves what it’s all about. The few people who have actually worked with me have never complained about their experience. Most of them have come back to work with me again and again.”
    What is it all about? Amelia burned to ask aloud.
    “Do you prefer male models, or female models?” she asked rather pointlessly instead, nibbling her lip nervously. “Your ad has so little to say.”
    “I take both, but that’s irrelevant. Are you a model?” the voice replied, with a precise patience and smoothness that intertwined incongruously with Amelia’s clumsy stammering. “And, are you a professional?”
    “I… Yes, I am. Both.”
    “And