Nicolas Cage GQ Photo Shoot
I was about halfway through my first week of working ten hour days as a seamstress on a film called Heart of a Lion, which was being shot in New Orleans.
Suddenly, there was a text from Ali McNally; model, stylist, stylists’ assistant, business owner, and gal about town, asking if I’d be interested in working as a tailor on a photo shoot with Nicholas Cage for GQ magazine. It was being shot over the weekend-my only two days off.
I sensibly answered YES.
I fit Mr. Cage in a hotel room at the Four Seasons on Saturday. The entire production team for GQ hovered about, standing with their backs pressed to the wall while the stylist selected jewelry from Chrome Hearts and tuxedo pants from Dolce & Gabbana. There were probably a hundred pair of sunglasses on display on the bed. Designer clothing hung from collapsible chrome rolling racks. There were hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of coats, suits, jackets, hats, cowboy boots, jewelry, and accessories.
The next morning, I took an Uber across the Lake Ponchetrain Causeway for the first time. We rode over water for thirty minutes. The sun turned the morning sky the color of a fire opal.
We passed the suburbs, headed into the country, then into the deep country. As the asphalt gave way to a dirt road, I was beginning to wonder if I had the right directions, and/or if I was going to make it out alive. And then we turned.
Suddenly, the wide open Louisiana countryside gave way to the orange ground of a quarry. It was as if we turned left and landed on another planet. Orange rocks, orange sand—everything looked distinctly Martian. The production had rented several mobile homes and trailers as our work spaces.
My sewing machine and tailoring kit unpacked, I began furiously working on the things I didn’t alter the night before. Through the open front door of the mobile home, I could hear the photo shoot progressing. Nicholas Cage was having fun. The photographer and stylist and a few other guys were joking and laughing. Ali and the other stylists’ assistants steamed and prepared the selection of clothing for the next photo, and for the ones after that.
My workspace on the mobile home was bathed in golden light as the sun set. It was cold. I snuggled into my down jacket, a leftover from my life in NYC, congratulating my past self for being smart enough not to donate it to Goodwill.
The crew began the wrap-out. Cars got packed; people left. Night fell, and, far away from city lights, the stars in the night sky seemed gigantically, unnaturally bright.
The crew PA rescued me from the expense and 50 minute wait for an Uber ride back to New Orleans.
There would be no celebratory cocktail at my local bar, not even a nightcap in my living room. I had to be up at 6am. It was already 10pm.
It wasn’t until I was in bed before it registered. I had just worked with a member of Hollywood royalty, with an established European stylist, and had lunch, al fresco, at a picnic table with the creative director of GQ magazine.
At that exact moment, the sound and then smell of a cat litter box that needed emptying brought me back to reality. “Laura Shrewsbury: cat maid,” I grumbled out loud, emptying the litter box contents while my cats circled my ankles. Thankfully, my feline overlords never let me get too impressed with myself.
