Venus came out of the sea in a black one-piece and green eyes, and honestly the rest of the beach could pack it up and go home.

We shot this waist-deep, the tide doing half the styling for me. Every time a wave pushed through she’d plant her feet, square her shoulders, and come back up glassy with salt water, and I’d just keep the shutter going because none of it was a pose. Jayda doesn’t pose. She sets her jaw, levels that emerald stare straight down the barrel, and waits for you to blink first. I never won that staredown. The camera didn’t either, it just kept handing the moment back to her, frame after frame, the afternoon light going soft and gold behind her like even the sun knew to stay out of the way.

I kept the whole roll for this one. Usually I cut a shoot down to the three or four that earn their keep, but when the muse walks out of the ocean looking like a myth, you don’t edit the myth, you let it run.

Botticelli wishes he’d booked this call.