Ella Rose Muse: the story: Do a Good Thing; WaterAid shoot

Monday, 3 December 2012

Do a Good Thing; WaterAid shoot

Hello all!

It's time for some annual do-goodery, and this year I'm making myself available for a shoot sometime between now and Christmas, with all of my modelling fee going towards WaterAid (see info about them below).

I'll be hoping to hear from photographers between now and the end of this week, and it will be on a bidding basis, whereby you let me know your offer of budget and shoot proposal, and I will pick the most suitable offer.

Email me at: ellarosemuse@live.co.uk

In a nutshell, please state in your message:

The price you would be able to pay (for WaterAid) for a 2-3 hour shoot (and let me know if you'd like to go for 1, 2 or 3 hours). It's totally up to you what you say you can offer, but as a guideline (in case it helps) my normal UK rates are £45 per hour or £150 for four hours. I imagine I will get widely varying offers, so it's up to you what you state, and I'll pick the best offer.
A list of dates you would be available on, between now and Christmas.
The type of images you would like to shoot - just a vague idea so I know what you have in mind. (I'm available for all my usual styles: fashion, portraits, art nude, dance, wedding, lingerie, etc.)
Your location; I'm based in Oxfordshire so will probably need to prioritise offers in the south east, though not necessarily.

Other info:- You will need to arrange the shoot location yourself, whether it be a studio or home set-up location. If you'd like to shoot with me longer than 3 hours, that's great, but I will probably (guiltily) need to pocket the extra money myself, just so you know. :-)
- Being (technically) a paid shoot, you will not be required to send me any of the images you edit after the date, though as always it would be appreciated if you wanted to.
- In return, you get kudos and a good feeling. And some brilliant shots!
- Think that's it! :-)

Get in touch!

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Here's some info about WaterAid, from their website:

Vision

WaterAid's vision is of a world where everyone has access to safe water and sanitation.

Mission

WaterAid transforms lives by improving access to safe water, hygiene and sanitation in the world's poorest communities. We work with partners and influence decision-makers to maximise our impact.

What we do

WaterAid enables the world's poorest people to gain access to safe water and sanitation. Together with improved hygiene, these basic human rights underpin health, education and livelihoods, forming the first essential step in overcoming poverty.

We work with local partners, who understand local issues, and provide them with the skills and support to help communities set up and manage practical and sustainable projects that meet their real needs.

We also work locally and internationally to change policy and practice and ensure that water, hygiene and sanitation's vital role in reducing poverty is recognised.

Our values

Inclusive
WaterAid aims to be inclusive in all that we do. We work with economically poor and marginalised people who often miss out such as women and girls, those living with HIV/AIDS, minority ethnic groups, older and disabled people and those who face discrimination. The needs and voices of the communities we work with, our staff, volunteers, partners and stakeholders shape our policy and practice.

Always learning
At WaterAid learning is central to our practice. We continually evolve to make sure that our work is sustainable, innovative, relevant and effective.

Collaborative
The water and sanitation crisis will only be solved by collaborative action. Our engagement with other organisations, communities, staff and supporters underpins our success. We value their diversity.

Accountable
We believe that we should be accountable, responsive and transparent to those we serve and those who support us.

Inspiring
WaterAid is a passionate champion of the role safe water, improved hygiene and sanitation play in improving health and education and reducing poverty.

Courageous
We set ambitious goals, raise challenging questions and speak with courage and conviction. We are assertive yet humble and respectful.

Walter De La Mare, 'The Listeners'

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Natasha Khan/Bat for Lashes, 'Horse and I'

Got woken in the night,
by a mystic golden light.
My head soaked in river water.
I had been dressed in a coat of armor. They called
a horse out of the woodland.
"Take her there, through the desert shores."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear.
You're the chosen one, there's no turning back now."

The smell of redwood giants.
The banquet for the shadows.
Horse and I, we're dancers in the dark.
Came upon the headdress.
It was gilded, dark and golden.
The children sang.
I was so afraid I took it to my head and prayed.
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."

Mark Doty, 'A Display of Mackerel'

They lie in parallel rows,

on ice, head to tail,

each a foot of luminosity

barred with black bands,

which divide the scales’

radiant sections

like seams of lead

in a Tiffany window.

Iridescent, watery

prismatics: think abalone,

the wildly rainbowed

mirror of a soapbubble sphere,

think sun on gasoline.

Splendor, and splendor,

and not a one in any way

distinguished from the other

—nothing about them

of individuality. Instead

they’re all exact expressions

of the one soul,

each a perfect fulfilment

of heaven’s template,

mackerel essence. As if,

after a lifetime arriving

at this enameling, the jeweler’s

made uncountable examples,

each as intricate

in its oily fabulation

as the one before

Suppose we could iridesce,

like these, and lose ourselves

entirely in the universe

of shimmer—would you want

to be yourself only,

unduplicatable, doomed

to be lost? They’d prefer,

plainly, to be flashing participants,

multitudinous. Even now

they seem to be bolting

forward, heedless of stasis.

They don’t care they’re dead

and nearly frozen,

just as, presumably,

they didn’t care that they were living:

all, all for all,

the rainbowed school

and its acres of brilliant classrooms,

in which no verb is singular,

or every one is. How happy they seem,

even on ice, to be together, selfless,

which is the price of gleaming.

Kate Clanchy, 'Poem for a Man with No Sense of Smell'

This is simply to inform you:

that the thickest line in the kink of my hand
smells like the feel of an old school desk,
the deep carved names worn sleek with sweat;

that beneath the spray of my expensive scent
my armpits sound a bass note strong
as the boom of a palm on a kettle drum;

that the wet flush of my fear is sharp
as the taste of an iron pipe, midwinter,
on a child's hot tongue; and that sometimes,

in a breeze, the delicate hairs on the nape
of my neck, just where you might bend
your head, might hesitate and brush your lips,

hold a scent frail and precise as a fleet
of tiny origami ships, just setting out to sea.

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