*ooof*: Midnight

What a fantastic year to have been a fan of Mr Armitage. Hardly a month without new photos and interviews, culminating in December with the expected onslaught of interviews and live appearances all over the world. Without getting into a retrospective here (that may be something for my own blog), I would just like to say that I have thoroughly enjoyed this year. Mr A has certainly kept me very busy with his prolific and ever-sexy challenging photographic output. And so have you, dear readers. And now the last day of the year is upon us. The highpoint of the festive season is coming to a close and a time of introspection is bound to follow. Let’s finish this very formally and very beautifully – as befits “our man”.

Dressed up to the “twelves”?
Richard Armitage in a shoot for Esquire UK
by Blair Getz Mezibov, 2013

Poised, alert, composed. A man as elegant as the surroundings he is pictured in. Mr A is dressed up in a tux. Styled by Gareth Scourfield and photographed by Blair Getz Mezibov for Esquire UK, Mr A is posing in the distinguished architectural grandeur of the Town Hall Hotel, Bethnal Green, London. A classic case of an organic shoot where everything comes together: the aesthetic quality of the Art Deco hotel, the exquisite clothes and the handsome model. I am aware that this shoot is not a paticular favourite within the Army. Yes, Armitage poses somewhat artificially in these images. And this particular shot is a case in point: Our model is placed at the bottom of a large marble staircase. With strong geometrical shapes dominating the composition, he is standing very stiff and erect in the centre of the frame. His body turned slightly towards the right, he is gazing off-camera to his left. His arms are stretched along his sides, his shoulders drawn back. A look of concentration – or is it a tiny frown, a hint of a sneer? – on his face. He is lit from his front left which creates some shadow on the right side of his face but at the same time manages to light up all the important bits.

He’s not quite out of place – but there is an air of artificiality in the images. The one that works best of the whole shoot (at least when it comes to the sensibilities and preferences of the Army) is the seated profile shot – it looks least forced to me. All other shots are characterised by obvious posing: standing alone on a grand stairwell, lonely leaning against an empty doorway, slouching on his own beside a pile of wooden chairs, resting lonesomely in a chair. The keyword here for me is “alone” – he has been artificially placed in an environment that is devoid of life. There is a certain feel of alienation in the images, however nicely they are composed, and the facial expressions of the sitter add to the alienated impression. Apart from the cover spread of the editorial, the sitter avoids the viewer’s gaze and demonstratively looks off-camera. And in the one shot where he *does* connect with the gaze of the audience, he frowns heavily, almost angrily. No wonder that the Army feels alienated from the object of their affection man – we do not like to be ignored and we want to feel the warmth of a human gaze. We may enjoy the heat of a smoulder or shudder lustily under the dangerous glint of a lascivious lech, but we feel chastised by the anger of a grump.

But let us not jump to conclusions. I neither believe that Armitage was unable to control a possible feeling of uncomfortableness (which we are quick to assign to himself whenever our expectations are not met or when the notorious APM kicks in), nor do I think that the grumpy look was unintended by the photographer. This shoot, I am afraid to say, is simply not aimed at us. As much as we are the perfect audience for any Armitage shot (for the simple reason that we like lusting over looking at the man), this shoot was not made for drooling females but for fashion-interested males. Specifically for the type of man who buys a magazine like Esquire, aimed at style-conscious, well-to-do men of the 30+ age group, or in the words of Esquire themselves “successful men and men who want to be successful”. Would those men like to see a seductively smiling consexual, exuding vibes of hotsexhotsexhotsex? I doubt it. A rival for the affections and attentions of females is never welcome.

So Mezibov decided on the grump look deliberately, in my opinion. On second thoughts, that is – because I have previously argued that the spread was a fashion editorial that did not focus enough on the fashion. I stand corrected. This, my second analysis comes to a slightly different conclusion because I have now considered the audience that this shoot was made for – not the fangirls, but the fashionboys. Mezibov directs his model in such a way that the clothes take centre stage. And yes, they do that even in those shots where they are obscured by a sitting pose. By making his sitter avert his gaze, he takes away the emphasis from the model and avoids an emotional connection between the model and the audience. He puts an air of arrogance and nonchalance on the model by making him ignore the camera – which *we* may not appreciate because we want to see him connect with us and exude warmth. However, undistracted by a connected gaze the intended audience can roam over the appearance of the model and focus on the clothes without fearing a potential rival for female attention. There’s the POV of a male photographer for you – he probably got that one right while Hassler, Dunn et al push the button much more effectively for the leering appreciative female audience…

Will Mr A be sporting a tux tonight? Is he clinking champagne glasses in the distinguished surroundings of an up-market hotel? Or is he sleeping into the new year with a top-secret script under his pillow, biro stains on his thumb from writing copious notes on the latest character to attract his attention? Or maybe he is cuddling up on a couch somewhere, with a loved one who is keeping him warm and happy. I magnanimously grant him some personal happiness sans moi tonight. But I will engage my imagination one last time in the old year and make him do what would make me happy…

11.20 pm on New Year’s Eve. He had flown into town from his holiday back home the day before. After the festivities with his family, he had been looking forward to a quiet, calm New Year’s Eve. No obligations, nobody to entertain, nobody’s expectations to meet. Noone to meet, full stop. Just himself and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Perfect company. At twentyfive past 11 he was not so sure anymore. The bottle was already three quarters drained, and the apartment felt decidedly empty with just himself in there. “I could go to bed”, he mused. “But that feels a bit boring…” He scratched his head.

His eyes came to rest on the pile of unopened mail that he had dumped on the dining table when he had arrived the day before. He had briefly registered an unusual envelope addressed to “Richard Armitage, Esq.” with bold, flowing letters before he had discarded the mail. His curiosity got the better of him. Reaching for the envelope, he noticed how stiff the letter felt – containing a card, maybe? Impatiently he ripped the envelope open and pulled the ivory card out.

-.o.-

Ten minutes later he was on his way out. A bit of wax in his hair, a quick wash of his armpits and that delightfully tight tux that he had bagged at the end of that grumpy shoot in the summer snugly fitted on his lean and slim body – he silently thanked his ancestors for the good genes they had bequeathed to him. He waved down a cab and settled into the back seat. “The New Yorker Hotel, please”.

He whistled to himself as he strode through the brass doors into the hotel foyer. “Classy.” Brightly lit by a massive art deco chandelier, he almost felt blinded by the reflection of the light on the marble floor and the golden panelled ceiling of the hotel lobby. “The Crystal Ballroom?”, he asked a hotel employee on his way to the stairs. “Second floor, Sir. Just follow the music!” He nodded and strode up the stairwell.

Soft music greeted him when he opened the door to the ballroom and stepped in, nervously checking the appropriate straightness of his tie. “Maybe I should’ve put on the bow tie”, he mused. Straining his eyes to look down to that unreachable spot under his chin to fuss with the tie knot, he did not notice the hush that had suddenly settled over the assembled guests. And neither did he notice that there were hardly any men in attendance. A phalanx of ladies, dressed in ball gowns in all colours of the rainbow, was slowly making his way towards him, as yet unnoticed by the handsome newcomer. It was only when the his gaze fell to the high-heeled feet on the floor in front of him that he became aware of someone standing close.

“We are so glad you followed our invitation, Richard”, a soft voice purred. He raised his gaze in surprise. “We have been a bit short for dancing men”, a second voice said to his right. And before he could look to the direction of the second speaker, a third voice chimed in, “You’ll be in much demand, Richard…” Before he could say anything, he found himself in the middle of the dancefloor. “You are just in time”, the warm voice of a woman said to him. “Only ten minutes to make a lot of women happy, Richard.” The deep brown eyes behind the dark specs twinkled full of warmth and humour. “But you will Serv us well…” He blinked uncomprehendingly and automatically swayed her to the music. The careful placing of a hand on his shoulder made him look to the left, and before he could say anything, the owner of the hand had replaced his dancing partner. “I had been hoping for a red carpet encounter, Richard”, a clipped English accent said to him, “but I’ll take this patterned carpet encounter any day… Szczęśliwego nowego roku…” He opened his mouth to ask her what language she was speaking, but before any word came out, a new lady had taken the place of the tall stranger. Brown eyes twinkled at him beneath blond tresses… “So it is true what they say – you *are* even more handsome than in my edits. Tell Sir Guy that Angie sends her love”, she breathed, as she left his embrace with a twirl. Before he could take a breath to thank her, a new dance partner took his hand. Ms Gigglepants swayed her hips tantalisingly, a trained dancer for all he could tell, and they fell into an easy rhythm together. “Remember to smile, Richard” she whispered against his cheek with a soft giggle. They danced for a minute before they were interrupted by a tall brunette. Richard sighed with relief “I know you, I finally know someone. Prof Obscura, long time, no see. What is going on here? Can you enlighten me?” Obscura winked conspiratorily. “You are making a lot of dreams come true, Richard, just keep dancing…” and with a flourish she vanished from his embrace.

He had no idea where they were coming from. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, but rather than feeling disconcerted or alarmed by it, he just fell into an easy flow of following the music and welcoming another softly feminine form in his embrace. He smiled when he recognised the shape of the brooch his dance partner was wearing. “You hold the key to Erebor”, he offered with a smile. “No, *you* hold the key”, Linda60 said. She sighed deeply, and with a regretful glance passed him on to the next lady in waiting. He did not know their names. Nell. Chaifreak. And he did not need to. Richardiana. Micra. His eye settled on a bright, glittering stone on his latest partner. “The Arkenstone”, he breathed. “That’s me”, she smiled… Blondes. UtePirat, Mezz. Brunettes. Lady Oakenshield. Siriusly. Exotic beauties. Morrighansmuse. Mujertropical. Lamaruca. Gratiana. Antipodean. Bollyknickers, KatharineD, Groovergreene. American. Crystalchandlyre, Perry, Kelbel, Marieastra. Katie. “Have I met you before?” he asked, recognising the long brown hair and the bright smile on his partner. “Yes, we have. Armitage Army cannot keep calm!” she said enigmatically and danced out of his arms. European. Kathrynruth, Joanna, i.f., Herba. He closed his eyes, being danced into the new year by a whole alphabet of admirers. Kathy, Leigh, Peggy, Teuchter,Verbosa, Zeesmuse.

He opened his eyes. The music had stopped playing. His arms were empty. The ballroom was deserted. “What???” He blinked in confusion, incomprehension. Had this been a dream, a figment of his imagination? He could still feel the whispering breath of his dance partners on his cheek, soft fingers in his own, the press of a hand against his shoulder, the faint memory of a floral scent in his nostrils, the echo of music. His legs moved out of their own accord. With big strides he made it to the door, into the corridor, onto the empty stairwell. He stood on the bottom step – surveying the empty lobby in front of him. The clock struck 12. From the corner of his eyes he noticed a swish of a ballgown, a billowing swirl of tulle, vanishing through a door to his left. His gaze fell onto a see through, high-heeled slipper, lost and forlorn on the wide expanse of the lobby floor…

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

Thanks to Mr A for ongoing inspiration, good humour and enduring creativity.

And thanks to Servetus for having me.

~ by Guylty on December 31, 2013.