Emma Lou takes her place on a pale studio cyclorama, platinum hair swept up from a porcelain face while a life drawing class gathers quietly around her. She has arrived already wearing nothing but a pair of black holdups, her slender, willowy figure lit by soft north light that gilds every delicate line. Her skin is luminous against the neutral backdrop, her small, pert breasts and softly rounded hips offered to the room with the unhurried poise of a model who understands exactly what the pencils are chasing. There is something devotional in the way the artists watch her, and Emma seems to drink it in, her mouth just parted, her eyes cool and knowing.

Perched on a simple stool, Emma arches her spine and glances over one smooth shoulder, the long sweep of her back descending to the peachy curve of her bottom, the dark welts of her stockings cutting softly into her creamy thighs. She lowers herself to the floor and lets her legs fold up above her, the nyloned feet crossing lazily in the air while her blonde hair spills out around her head in a pale halo. Every angle is a quiet study in contrast, the black silk of her holdups against dewy, pale skin, the precise geometry of a raised knee, the candid warmth of a girl who loves being looked at. By the time the photographer steps in close to catch the last pose, Emma is bent forward with her hands on her thighs, wickedly aware of her own charm and entirely at home in this high ceilinged temple of paper and light.