Bal masqué. A mask buys you honesty, cover the face and everything else gets louder. Pipa behind the disguise, somehow more herself than ever.

The mask was a last-minute thing, I think it was sitting on the dresser and one of us said why not. Black bodysuit, thigh-high boots, and that little domino mask, and suddenly the whole shoot had a different temperature. She climbed up onto the teal armchair facing the window and looked back over her shoulder, and that was the frame. Brickell glittering nine floors down, all blue glass and construction cranes, none of it as interesting as her.

What I like about hiding the eyes is that you start reading everything else, the turn of the spine, the boots dug into the cushion, the back of a hand against the light. She gives you less and you lean in harder. That’s the whole trick, and she ran it on me all afternoon.