Stu Feinberg, Photographer

For nearly 25 years, I've photographed women from all over the world, from all types of backgrounds, in every conceivable setting. Never have I had so many problems—both personal and professional—as I did with Ms. Margo Atwater.

Dateline 1997. I sat on the high-backed leather chair behind the desk in my small office in Midtown Manhattan, when I received a phone call from a man calling himself "Charlie Reaver." I'd never heard of him, but he claimed to represent models of all caliber, and he requested my services to shoot several of his clients for possible magazine spreads. With a big name like mine, he felt confident that he'd have his girls in legitimate magazines in no time. I scheduled a week to spend in Los Angeles with his girls.

I didn't know what to expect when I arrived at the alleged headquarters of Reaver's Angels Inc. A dingy, two-story building in an area of Hollywood that I could describe charitably as an urban war zone, I felt very uncomfortable parking my rented car at one of the spaces outside. The meter was rusted beyond the point of usefulness, so I continued up the dusty sidewalk toward a brown-tinted glass door upon which "REAVER" had been etched in what looked like powder-blue street chalk. The vestibule matched the overall blight of the neighborhood outside. A noisy air conditioner buzzed and pounded above my head, near the ceiling. Greasy water slowly dripped along faded water-damage stains of similar color, dribbling down the poorly tiled wall to a gaping, black hole. The hole, I assume, once contained a row of steel mailboxes; in its place, an empty space looking out into a blackened room. I had no idea what I'd find in that room, and I didn't dare open the unnaturally tall green door that stood next to the hole. I pressed on, kicking around dust particles made intensely bright by the California sun blazing in through the tinted glass.

Through another glass door, at the other end of the vestibule, I found myself staring up an uneven staircase of wood painted black, with a narrow wall of imitation-oak paneling. I trembled slightly, wondering if my foot would plow right through what was undoubtedly little more than cheap pressboard. I made the first step, and it seemed hard enough—perhaps stacked up so that it wouldn't break through. I clutched the splintery railing with my right hand, almost pulling myself up. I could feel something, an invisible force trying to keep me from reaching that landing. I wish I had let it win, but a paycheck is a paycheck and I don't give up money for mere noncorporeal forces. I reached the top and found myself staring at a weathered, mole-ridden receptionist. Visible through a small gap between the ancient drawers that propped up her desk, the receptionist's legs wiggled furiously, as if she had chased a kilo of cocaine with eight shots of espresso. She grinned at me, exposing yellowed teeth dotted with her pastel-pink lipstick, a hideous sight if there ever was one. She said, "You must be Mr. Feinberg." As she stood and leaned forward, extending a leathery arm covered almost to the elbow in bracelets, I made the approach, shuddering internally—hopefully not externally—as my dry palm connected with her rough but clammy paw. I shook as quickly as possible, then dropped my arm to the side.

The receptionist gestured toward an uncomfortable looking plastic bench against a wall of cracked, undecorated drywall. "Please have a seat. Mr. Reaver will see you in a moment."

"Is there a place where I could perhaps set up and test out your equipment while I wait?" I asked as I sat.

I examined several magazines dated 1988 that sat slipshod atop a small wooden crate but glanced back at the disgusting receptionist in time to catch her staring at me as if I had just shit all over the lime-green bench. "What equipment?" she asked, sounding almost offended. "It's a camera and some lights."

It was around this time that I realized, perhaps, I would not be working under the best conditions. I nodded politely at the receptionist so she would stop looking at me with her beady, bloodshot gray eyes. I picked up a Time magazine with then-President Reagan on the cover. I smiled at the Gipper, missing his competent leadership and well-thought-out economic policies, before digging in to outdated news.

I had read the magazine cover to cover twice before the unsanded office door flipped open and a man, ostensibly Mr. Reaver, appeared in the door. He was a short, dumpy man—shorter than me, even, and I'm a scant 5'5"—balding at the temples, with greasy black hair slicked back. He wore a stained, gray t-shirt baring the name CASTLETON. I couldn't help wondering what, exactly, that meant. Was it a school? Town? Person? Who knew?

Reaver bore such a striking resemblance to the receptionist—same leathery, overtanned skin; same bumpy complexion; same beady, watery eyes—that I assumed the two were related. The only difference, aside from gender and apparel, was her red (obviously dyed) beehive, as opposed to his stringy black hair.

Reaver smiled at me, a sight almost as horrible as the receptionist. His teeth weren't yellowed so much as browned; a few were missing toward the back. As I approached to shake his greasy palm, his breath wafted toward me. It took a tremendous effort not to pass out from the stench. I tried to grin but failed.

"Heya, Mr. Feinberg," Reaver said. "We sure appreciate you coming out here to photograph our girls. Let's get down to the studio, okay?"

"Down?" I asked, my heart sinking, remembering the black void where the mail slots once were. Reaver gave me a puzzled look before clapping me on the back and showing me back downstairs. He pulled open the tall, green door and showed me in. As I surveyed the high-ceiling, dark room, my eyes got a bit of a shock when Reaver flipped the lightswitch behind me.

Two dozen overhead fluorescents jittered to life, revealing a reasonably professional (if poorly equipped) studio and, more importantly, thirty women who wore nothing resembling clothing. Unlike the Reavers, all of them were beautiful, glistening, nubile specimens of womanhood. Say what you will about Reaver's facilities, but his clients were gorgeous. The girls, artfully arranged in a studio setting that resembled heavenly clouds (with a blue sky backdrop), all stood behind their centerpiece, the raven-haired goddess I would soon learn is called Margo Atwater. She stood at least six feet in height, thin but not scrawny in the unattractive heroin chic way, muscular but not looking like an overbuilt steroid case, curves almost melting to the floor, pert breasts almost scooping up toward the heavens, the thick landing strip of her pubic bush shaved with an almost obsessive attention to detail. Every inch, every micrometer of her body absolute perfection. Her green eyes blazed, not with pure anger but with a primal intelligence, a fierceness of character that one rarely sees in the hollow shell of a self-esteem-free female model. Though I'm a gay man who happens to understand aesthetic perfection in the female form, I make this confession: I wanted her on that day. I wanted her all for me, I wanted me all in her.

Until she opened her mouth.

"You the photographer?" she asked in a nasal braying, a Jersey City-cum-N'Orleans accent.

My heart and loins still a-flutter, I approached her with a rapidity usually reserved for Orlando Bloom, took her French-cream hand in mine, and smiled. "I am Mr. Stu Feinberg of Manhattan," I announced to her softly.

Her cheery smile melted into a sneer. "Get over there!" she barked, aiming her thumb at the camera. "Start snapping!"

Feeling stirrings and throbbings inside—not just in my loins, either—like I've never felt before in my life, I stared slackjawed for a moment before finally deferring. Past the point of coherence, I shuffled over to the camera—an inferior 35mm Canon at least 15 years past obsolescence—and did as she said. Atypical of my behind-camera style (and I'll admit that, while easygoing in person, I am quite dictatorial during my shoots), I allowed Margo Atwater to call the shots. Did I do this because I didn't care? Because Reaver and his delapidated "office" rubbed me the wrong way? Because I was afraid of Reaver, or of Margo Atwater? No. I'll admit Margo had much to do with my attitude that day, but it wasn't fear. It was something else—lust, perhaps, or a certain comfort. She carries herself with such confidence, such intellect and cunning, that even somebody like me who believes nobody is even remotely on the same intellectual and artistic plane will accept her as a superior. Whatever the case, it was a sensation I had never felt before, haven't felt since, and probably will never feel again.

And yet, as the shoot progressed, I slowly began to realize something: Margo Atwater, that gorgeous and confident woman, was purest evil. The way she shrieked orders at me, the way she shoved the other girls around, the way she insisted—even after one of the newer models broke down sobbing—that everyone remain stark nude at all times, no matter how lascivious Reaver's leering became. Was it necessary? No, but some part of her clearly enjoyed a bevy of nude women surrounding her at all times. When other models tried to argue with her—I never did, because I knew the horror that would come from it—she became shrill and violent, often slapping the models. Hard. To such a degree that they could no longer be featured in the ensemble, because the redness or welts that had formed would look too unattractive. After three long hours, she sent all the girls to dressing rooms. I can't imagine the horrible quality of these rooms because I never set foot anywhere near them, but it was at this point that we went from group shots to individual shots. Margo herself redressed twice (in lingerie, followed by a green bikini), solely so she could create a set in which she stripped. When she finished with that, she came back near me. She set her hand on my shoulder, and I nearly melted. Slowly, very slowly, a tickling sensation following her every touch, she slipped her hand down to my throbbing unit and squeezed, hard, painfully hard. "These better fuckin' come out good," she said through gritted teeth, rage spittle spritzing my cheek.

After this, she stood with me, calling the names of the other models individually and dictating what they should do (much as I would have had I any semblance of control over my faculties). I continued to photograph, following Margo's commands as the models did. As the shoot progressed, I began to feel uncomfortable with her. She stood so close, always seemed to be penetrating me with her stare when we weren't shooting. This made me regain my confidence, slowly but surely. Once the fourteenth model came out to shoot, and I realized it had been nearly eight hours since we'd started—with no break—I announced, "I'm going to have dinner. We'll break for one hour." I clapped my hands and turned to Margo. Her jaw had almost hit the floor. I grinned mildly, nodded, and left the building.

To my surprise, the rental car hadn't been touched. I went to the In-N-Out on Sunset, and as I ate, I realized I was smiling. Further, I realized I couldn't stop. This woman had me in her thrall, but the spell had been broken. I had regained my sense and had put her in her place.

When I returned to the shabby building in its poor neighborhood, I found the door locked. The lights were off. I tried walking to the rear of the building and found no one—no cars, no people, no lights, no signs of life at all. I hadn't really a clue what happened. I thought perhaps Margo had come to her senses and had dismissed everybody. I didn't let it get to me; I was scheduled to be in town for a full week, so I had time to shoot everyone else. I spent the evening in a nice hotel in the valley, got a good night's sleep so that I'd be ready to go after such a grueling first day.

On Tuesday, Reaver's building was still empty. I thought perhaps there had been a miscommunication with my assistant (who scheduled this whole affair) and we wouldn't be shooting on Tuesday for some reason. I went back to the hotel and watched television. Wednesday, I finally accepted that something was wrong. Again, nobody was there. The doors were locked. That day, I sat and waited on the curb for three hours waiting for somebody to arrive, witnessing all manner of violence and chaos from the surrounding neighborhood. As soon as my watch hit noon, I flicked my cigarette—probably my twenty-third of the morning—into the gutter, leaped into my car, and spent the day shopping in Beverly Hills.

Since I had a nonrefundable ticket for Saturday morning, I decided to keep going back to Reaver's building. They owed me a little over $5000 for the work I had put in so far; for the completed work, which was contractually guaranteed, it would total a little more than $10,000. So far, I'd received not a dime—I had paid for my own hotel, plane ticket, and car rental. If I saw even an inkling of life anywhere near the building, I'd pounce and demand my money. This is what I told myself, but I don't think it's in my personality to be so forceful. It was a moot point since, I guess even subconsciously, I knew nobody would show up.

But on Thursday came the worst sign yet. The front door was actually unlocked this time, but the "REAVER" chalk mark that adorned the glass had been removed. I went inside and explored; the place was entirely empty. No photographic equipment, nothing resembling dressing rooms (I wondered, as I explored the rear edge of what now looked less like a studio and more like an abandoned warehouse, if perhaps the models' "dressing rooms" were actually the alley and parking lot behind the building), all of the office supplies and furniture had been removed.

No trace of Reaver's Angels Inc. remained.

Frustrated, I left the building. This was just shortly before the huge cell phone boom. The only contact I had for Charlie Reaver—or anybody else—was the number he had given me. A local operator traced the number to a phone booth on Cahuenga Boulevard, near De Longpre. I considered staking out the phone booth but decided first to check the phone book for the only two names I knew: "Reaver" and "Atwater." The latter turned up a few names, none of them relevant. The former turned up nothing, in neither the white nor the yellow pages. It was a dead end. I called my travel agent and tried to get my flight bumped to Thursday afternoon; he couldn't do it without a massive service charge, so I agreed to wait it out. It was time for Plan B: stake out the phone booth.

Few things are more boring than looking at a phone booth all day long, especially when (though cell phones weren't yet commonplace) we were living in an age of multiple phone lines in one house, call-waiting, call-forwarding, and the wealthy and important people who would need to rush immediately to a phone did have cell phones. Very few people used the phone that afternoon. Those that did didn't look familiar and either looked like scuzzy hobos or really dire, desperate people. Nobody went to the phone waiting for a call, however. It's possible the few that went to place calls were hired by Reaver, but it seemed doubtful.

I decided not to waste my time staring at a phone booth on Friday. Instead, I saw a movie, talked to some of my contacts in the area about Reaver's Angels Inc., Charlie Reaver, and Margo Atwater. Nobody had heard of Reaver or his company. Most of them had heard of Margo Atwater, having had similar disturbing but erotic experiences with her. This did nothing but disillusion me.

At five o'clock on Saturday morning, I left the dungeon on the West Coast and returned to my home in Manhattan. After that, it was mostly business as usual. A month passed, and I had nearly forgotten about the incident. It would enter my mind at random, and I'd get angry all over again. Then it would flit away. When two months had gone by, it was out of my mind completely.

Five months later, a photographer and confidante in Miami alerted me to something terrible. She next-day-aired me a Los Angeles magazine called Slut-Wrench, with several pages marked with Post-It notes. Within, I understood why this magazine had been sent to me: these were photographs I had taken of Margo Atwater and several of her friends. My friend in Miami had recognized my style off the bat; when she read the names and credits, she recognized Margo's name from my recollection of the incident.

I thumbed to the back. To whom had sole photographer credit been given? "Margo Atwater."

This model who claims she's an actress, a musician, and a photographer—she preys on the success of others! She and this Reaver character, whoever he is, stole $10,000 from me and stole credit (and royalties) from photographs I took. Now, according to my sources, she runs around with this McDürchstein character doing the same thing. "I'm a bass player in a band." Has anybody heard her play? "I'm the star of his movie and musical revue." Has anybody seen (or even heard of) either?

Margo Atwater is, for lack of a better phrase, evil incarnate. She must be stopped.

Margo Atwater, photographed by Stu Feinberg 4/3/97

Copyright © Margo Atwater & Slut-Wrench Publications LLC