As I think back on it, these photographs feel like the resultant data set from a strange particle collision: an of-the-moment indie actress trying on wigs, posing as the sun set on a bluff in Malibu. The photographer’s entourage: a shaggy dog and two daughters playing house in a vintage Volkswagen camper; the stylist, the makeup person and Aleim, doing their best to finish the shoot. And me, carelessly rolling the ISO dial up as twilight took over, feeling that strange sensation of being in a dream. One that would not be out of place if Fellini had made a movie about Los Angeles. To reach this conclusion, the day necessarily had to start on similarly what the fuck footing. Miles and world’s away in Koreatown.
Arielle Holmes is a gifted storyteller. And the stories she told on the drive to Malibu gave good reason as to her success as an actress. I would say author as well, but the manuscript that would form the backbone to her breakout hit, Heaven Knows What, as far as I can tell, was never published. For a film where the lead cast member did heroin on-screen, the good intentions of rehab and a promised published work retrospectively appear as an attempt at balancing the scales. Heaven gave way to American Honey, another critical and festival hit but much smaller role, which gave way to photoshoots like this one which gave way to who knows what.
One particular story involved the tale of living in a run-down building with her boyfriend at the time. “Up to the knees the place would flood sometimes,” she told us, adding that the worst part were the rats that they could feel scurrying about inside their mattress. After that story, she continued into her current situation with her boyfriend and plans for acting. It was the kind of rote shit you tell relatives at Thanksgiving. Sometime after this, she passed out in the passenger seat. It was now late in the afternoon and we were racing on the 101 to get to Malibu. The shoot was scheduled to begin at noon. We had waited for three hours in front of Ms. Holme’s apartment for her. Phone calls to her manager and friend yielded nothing. She came down briefly, before mentioning she needed to get something in the apartment. Another hour passed by before she returned so we could get on our way. Her manager said she told him that she was embarrassed by the extensions in her hair. Passing by the Capitol Records building I remember her mentioning she had once been an opera singer.
In front of the camera, she was the perfect subject for Ms. Gearon: pure, innocent, vulnerable and childlike. It became easy to see why so many, particularly filmmakers, had fallen under Ms Holme’s charms. Among certain filmmakers, there’s this kind of heavy adoration for non-actors, especially those whose authenticity is not bothered by a camera, crew and all the trimmings. It’s representative of that tug-of-war between a medium that captures reality and the way it’s manipulated to tell stories. As if, somehow real is better. There is no such reality in these photos. Just the strange captured light of a circus. And an underlying sadness that I admit, may come from having been there. And one last memory from the day.
Through surface checks on the internet, Ms Holmes has no projects coming out or in the works. Her book has yet to be published. So where is she? I remember a chorus of that question on the day of the shoot as well. We found her passed out in the bathroom.