Leap Before you Look: A Life in Pictures
Photo Finish invites you warmly to the inaugural viewing of her long-awaited exhibition, Leap Before You Look. Distilled from over 15,000 photographs, these images, drawn from across the seven exhibitions featuring Lightning Dust, follow their first, fortuitous meeting to their last, painting a compelling portrait of a mare in freefall: hounded by failure, chasing success to successively greater thrills. Photo Finish here steps off the stage of high society to reveal an intimate look at the life of her oldest and most controversial muse. This is the first time the collection has been seen together in its entirety.
Lightning Dust
Born 17 Jan 1409 to parents unknown, Lightning Dust was raised in the outskirts of Las Pegasus by café-owner Tango Sprite, and breeze factory engineer Windjet. She showed significant promise early, acrobatically adept, and setting records in junior speed tests. Like many young pegasi, she admired the Wonderbolts -- unlike many, she was accepted into their advanced entry Cadets program, soon graduating to the Wonderbolts Academy, where she continued to score highly, but proved an uncomfortable fit for their more military precision. After a short, depressive period following her dishonourable discharge, she founded Equestria’s first aerobatic stunt team, touring with the Washouts for several years. An infamous lawsuit for child endangerment, and the serious injury of fellow member Short Fuse during their fourth Fillydelphian tour, made them an easy target for the newly-formed S.C.A.R.S. regulatory committee, who closed them down with prejudice. Fallen out of favour with the media, Lightning Dust worked a number of lower-profile jobs, including brief stints as a stunt-double, experimental rocket tester, and hurricane herder, before her final reach for glory as leader of the Backburners, advanced aeronautics & entertainment wingshow, whose tagline ‘Speed! Power! Thirrrd thing!’ she made instantly iconic. A public altercation with an unfortunate sound engineer brought this era to an abrupt close, and subsequent attempts to restart her career failed to make headway. Low on money, and increasingly disillusioned with an industry that had abandoned her more times than she could count, her final public act was the announcement of a 14-city, self-funded show entitled ‘BURNOUT’. Sadly, this was not to be -- on opening night, 26 Oct 1467, Lightning Dust was caught in the jaws of her patented ‘Macerator-3500!’ and crushed. She died instantly.
Photo Finish
Born 02.02.1402 to Dame Late Finish, of an affair with a mystery stallion, Photo Finish studied journalism & art history at the prestigious Manehattan School, earning a Crystal Distinction for her dissertation exposing painter Double Dip’s ties to art smuggling. Finding herself constricted by the luxury of nobility, she struck out on her own in pursuit of the freedom her art required. Her first exhibition, Do You See What I See? was an immediate sensation, catching the eye of Mirage, then-editor for fashion powerhouse Vanity Mare. Refusing the path of least resistance, Photo Finish turned down the offer of in-house photographer and became instead a special contributor, working for a range of publications as diverse as Earth Pony Times and Canterlot Quarterly. Adjacent to, but never a denizen of the fashion world, she refused to let it consume her entirely, developing a style unique in its attention to model and personality. Her independent exhibitions brought this into even sharper relief, frequently focused around two or three muses, whose instant fame put proof to her ability to capture the essence of a pony in her lens. Never one to stick to the expected, after years of dancing on the periphery, Photo Finish set high society aspin by accepting the position of Vanity Mare’s editor upon Mirage’s retirement. Overseeing the magazine for seven exciting years, launching the career of many a designer (and many more a model), in 1450 she stepped away to refocus on her own art. The result has sent her to new heights of critical and commercial success -- though this has not been without its neighsayers. Famously short-tempered, she has always been a difficult target for reporters, whom she delights in baffling. Following accusations of exploitation by one former model, however, Photo Finish retreated ‘to allow her work speak better for itself’, cancelling her magazine columns and giving interviews only very rarely. Despite this recent controversy, her work enjoys persistent popularity -- perhaps the eloquence of her images really do speak for themselves. The Horstrian artist, editor, and photographer currently resides in Fillydelphia with her sister and three cats. This exhibition is the culmination of approximately 37 years of work.
Lightning Dust, in profile. Classic, inoffensive heroism, gazing off into the middle distance, eyes shining with excitement, bravery, third thing, all of the above.
Sunrise silhouette, black form against sky-high, striated. Cloudstreak horizon, wide and wide and top of the world. And her: wing-up, and press, and up, and press, and up, and up, and up.
Spreadeagle pegasus on green-painted cloud. Hooves behind head lazily, eyes closed, grin cocked. Hind hoof dangling 3,000hf above Equestria.
Sweat beads a bullish brow, greyscale throwing into sharp relief the tensions of a face, a cheek, each tiny muscle. The image almost vibrates, almost folds itself beneath the pressure of expression. The force of gravity in a hundred microscopic defiances.
Some pictures you can almost hear: mid-shout, wing jabbed upbraiding younger mare (unnamed, unspecified, unreached out to for response). Lip curling consonant quite violently. Caught candid, unaware.
A body every inch composed of muscle, sculpted steel. Fibrous, snakelike, springlike coiled in her chair. Primal being, tapping hooves. Stopped still by time. Clock 4:35. A tendon in her jaw. The fuzzy lamplight of the waiting room is blasphemy.
Older, Washouts poster peeling in periphery. Strapped-up flightsuit fit securely. Interior of transport: turquoise fur turned grey by violent lighting, lightning flashing in the background. Thunderclouds swarm beyond the door, rain dots the lens with so much blur you want to blink, clear it away. For what a sight, the mighty storm, glimpsed distantly in full abandon, proud and brutish weather scowl. And on that edge, in lighter laughter, the mare at perch, prepared to fly... A little, knowing smirk, a tilted head, a daring in her eyes. Goggles press down tufts of mane, pulled up atop her head. She leaps.
Young again. The flash of her suit is soothed by a crease, jagged green bolt somewhat limp in exhaustion. Visor upside-down, and grounded. Frizz of her hair all matted with sweat: bad case of helmet-mane, probably terminal. Tired. Alive. Worn.
Here she is: pride of the Bolts. Sunglasses. Smile. Flaming orange mane, yellow coat. Emblazoned: The legendary S P I T F I R E ! Beneath her glory, another mare, made mockery of her stern glare. Leaning against the wall that poster dominates, same pose, same shades. Lightning Dust. Cool as a cucumber.
In the bathroom mirror of a middling hotel she catches your eye. Unexpectedly. Both surprised and yet not surprised. Embarrassed and yet unembarrassed. Pleased and yet not exactly pleased. A towel lounges round her shoulders. Disposable toothbrush sticking out her mouth. Oops. Hello. And hold it...hold it...
The burnout watches steadily. The lines of her muzzle are defined in gentle black-and-white, lit softly by the window to the left, picking out creases, worn scowls, old expressions. It is impossible not to search her face, find clues. The curve of her mouth just so, about to speak -- the shadow round her nostrils, threatening snarl -- the sleeplessness beneath her eyes. It was mid-conversation. She, about to reply, when the photographer cried ‘No! Yes, like so:’ three photographs, then carried on, ignoring interruption. The arch of an eyebrow, lifting in suppressed exasperation. In expectation, knowing.
Filled with aliveness, the property of living. The kind of dare-or-die bravado possessed by only very few, only one. Puffed chest like songbird, easy confidence. Captured mid-fall, one hoof still tripping the mouth of the cannon as she tips over the gun. Lightly, with the precision of a dancer. Fluid in motion, missing death by a hair. Full of herself.
Hooves crossed and gripping too tightly. Bared teeth canine and furious. Dutiful shake turned almost hoof-wrestle. Rainbow Dash, Wonderbolt Captain, Element of Harmony, Councillor of Friendship: Lightning Dust, ex-Wonderbolt, ex-Washout, ex-winner. The buckball field stretched wide behind them.
In the sofa in the cloud-house inviting colours pull you in. Warmly welcoming, red-tinge plush. Almost velveteen. Across the cushions smirks a turquoise mare, hooves arranged all curves, concealment. Follow the form of her shoulder, swoop to her belly, deeper still... Your gaze is drawn inexorably, unblushingly. Sculpted muscle giving way to secret softnesses, pools and musings of desire. She is a reservoir, calm and serene, if not quite uncaring. Lines unarranged on her muzzle give the impression almost of peace. This was after several attempts. Photo Finish kept asking for retakes, redos, reshoots, to be reclined, held back, more restful. ‘Wrong! Wrong again!’ pushed up her glasses, stepped back. ‘No. We require more you. More of you. Relax.’
‘You try relaxing, being shoved about like a toy!’
‘Give me bedroom eyes. Big, beautiful bedroom eyes.’
She shot her a look of sarcasm, icy sarcasm.
‘Yes! Much better. Now, again. Sexy, sexy bedroom eyes!’
The caption informs you it had been for a calendar of some variety. That’s right. It had been for a calendar... Past popularity, but for a moment again she had been known. Had been wanted to be known.
Sharp grass encircles dirty bandage. Folded white on grey dropped carelessly, placed carefully. There are no signs of blood. You can’t guess what the bandage has been used for.
Behind the scenes, stage mare. Puffs of gunpowder into some sort of pipe contraption. It shot arrows high into the air, at intervals, to dodge and weave and wow around. Fwoot! That was the sound it made. That’s what she called it. Mare adding dash of extra powder to the mix, shooting higher. Terrible to breathe in, you remember. The sort of thing that would set you coughing for days. She’s surrounded by it, a big cloud. Show’s on in ten. Nine. Fwoot! Foam-tipped arrows, theoretically. It fired high, had to watch out. That was the skill of it, that was the thrill. Mare wading about the skeleton stage, have to make it on time, burst out, say the catchphrase. Gunpowder, loads and loads of it. Covered in it. Lightning Dust. Heh.
A glimmer, a speck. A streak in the centre, firing up, dividing in two the blue, the white, the image. Thin, thin line. Small, small mare. Fighting the swallow of the sky.
The filly’s smile, full of awe. Held close by wing to Lightning Dust, taken under it, enfolded. Dangerous green bolt on black. Speed! Taken just outside the show in Ponyville. You examine her grin, the kid’s wonder. Rainbow Dash’s kid. Sister, or something. Orange coat like flame.
‘Thisissocool thisissocool! Sorrysorry I’m justsoexcited!’
‘Hey, it’s, uh, it’s cool--’
‘Can,’ breath, ‘I,’ pant, ‘askyousomething? You’re probably tired of answering questions Iknow, but--’
‘Kid! Scoot. We’re friends! It’s okay, really, ask your question.’
‘Howdoyoudoit? It always looks so close, and the danger’s really real, and it must be so supercrazyscary! How do you do it and not be scared all the time?’
She stares out of the image with that stupid grin. Forward, always forward. Always forward.
Barrelling towards the camera at full blast. Power! Sky and set around her falling to abstraction, vague shapes and blurring lines. Large and large and larger than life. So close you’d swear she was about to tear through the wall and into the room itself. In crystal clarity: seven gravities pulling on her form, old face never getting any older. Swerving out the way last-second, spinning, slowing, pulling up beside Photo Finish.
‘Wow!’ red ring around her eye from pressing to the camera, Photo Finish stomped her hooves, excited cheer. ‘Amazing! Incredible!’
‘Did you get the shot?’
‘Yes -- I mean, I think so -- I mean, yes. But enough of that! What a performance! Wow.’
Cheeks cracked in worn smile. ‘Not bad for a final show?’
‘Not bad at all,’ said Photo Finish. ‘In fact. It may be your best yet.’
Frozen there, stopped there, hanging there. Flying ahead.
Lightning Dust looks up in surprise. She is young. Very young. Her office is a mess, barely more than a trestle table, cushion, and scattering of paperwork. There’s barely room for her in there, never mind anypony else. Never mind this photographer who’s just barged in, who did indeed have an appointment that she’d completely forgotten about, that has just raised a camera and filled the room with a blinding--! Her mane is a mess, her fur all tangles. Her eyes reflect the white dot of the flash. They are wide, and fierce, and full of something, ephemeral something, whatever that something is. Lightning Dust looks up. And...
As you search the final image, the stallion appears by your side. He is tall, well-dressed. Sort of an old-timey look about him, you think, though that could just be the waistcoat. He is staring at you. He has been this whole time, you realise, suddenly. Well, whatever. Old stallions being weird is nothing new, it’s practically their job description. You turn to leave, but as you pass him, you find yourself, despite yourself, turning to meet his gaze. To challenge it, you tell yourself. You lie. The force of it stops you, freezes you mid-step. Freezes your very blood, your bones, your heartbeat. You recognise him. Let out a sigh, relieved. He is the gallery owner, that’s all. Just the gallery owner.
He is saying something.
‘What?’ you say, rudely, ‘You want to repeat that?’
‘Lightning Dust,’ he says, again.
‘Yes?’
‘Would you do it all again?’ he asks. His voice is clipped, formal. Curious, but not much more. ‘If you had the chance? Would you change anything? Do anything differently?
‘Would you do it all again?’
Canterlot Quarterly presents a rare interview with the elusive Photo Finish.
This interview has been edited for clarity, and was conducted 03/01/1468 by Pipsqueak.
Canterlot Quarterly: Let me say, Ms. Finish, it’s a pleasure to be sitting here today before you.
Photo Finish: Yes. I’m sure it is.
CQ: In the past, you’ve said, rather famously, that you prefer to let your work speak for itself. Why speak now?
PF: To promote my exhibition, of course. Leap Before you Look: A Life in Pictures [link]. Go see it now! I want everypony seeing it. Don’t stay at home. Go, see it! Take the grandfoals.
CQ: You may forgive my scepticism at your response.
PF: I may. Then again, I may not.
CQ: You usually stay away from the promotional side of your art. I have a quote here that says you would, ahem, ‘rather stuff yourself into one of those ridiculous cannons’ than give another interview. What changed?
PF: Succinctly, this one’s special.
CQ: Your exhibition is based around your late muse Lightning Dust.
PF: Yes. A collation of much of my collaborative work with her.
CQ: You consider your work together a collaboration?
PF: Absolutely. Without Lightning Dust, without any of my muses, there is no work. They make the work. The work does not exist without them. I simply try to capture what they do.
CQ: Not all artists are so generous.
PF: There are many stupid artists.
CQ: Some of the ponies you’ve worked with consider themselves as having been exploited by your work.
PF: You are talking about Fluttershy. I consider her a special case. The trust that must be there between photographer and subject she was not comfortable giving. We did not work together long. Our collaboration was a failure.
CQ: Did Lightning Dust consider herself exploited by you?
PF: No.
CQ: She was not always happy with your pieces, though, was she?
PF: No.
CQ: What would she have made of this one, do you think?
PF: There are photographs in this collection going back 37 years. She’s seen most of it at one point or other. All together like this, I don’t know. I like to think she’d appreciate it.
CQ: What role did her death play in the creation of this project?
PF: Massive. Obviously. The thought of a collected project like this was not something that appealed to me at all before. But as soon as she died, it seemed like the clear route. Most ponies, when they lose someone, do not have 15,000-some images of that pony to return to. My goal with the photographs before had always been to try to capture some truth, some essence of the subject. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d succeeded.
CQ: This exhibition is your way of honouring her?
PF: Remembering her. Image and memory are very intimately connected. This is something all great artists understand. Each of my images is for me connected to a memory. Even becomes that memory. When I walk through this installation, I am surrounded by memories. Overwhelmed by them. It is an exquisite feeling. This is a very selfish reason to create an exhibition, I admit. Really most art is selfish. What other ponies will get from it, I cannot say.
CQ: Forgive me -- but safety violations, child endangerment, and more recently, assault. For many, Lightning Dust is a controversial figure. Why should she be remembered in this way?
PF: Ponies have a tendency to narrativise. Yes, there are those who see Lightning Dust as some sort of pony best forgotten. Even some sort of villain. You ask for apology -- she gave you none. I will not make one now. Neither will I forget her.
The gallery also has a tendency to narrativise. The events of her life are mostly very public events. The photographs I have chosen for this project, I chose because they are memories of the Lightning Dust that I have known. It is my hope that by visiting this exhibition, your memory of these events may be altered. That you may see an image of the pony I knew, also.
CQ: You knew Lightning Dust well. Did her death come as a shock to you? There are a few different narratives going around about what happened.
PF: I don’t pretend to know how or why these things happen. I know only the facts that everypony else knows. To me it was very sudden. I am one of the few ponies who was able to watch her rehearse ‘BURNOUT’. It was an amazing show. Lightning Dust had much, much more to give the world. It was dangerous, yes. More dangerous than most. Every show of hers was dangerous. She knew the risks.
CQ: But you don’t think she killed herself.
PF: No. Lightning Dust was an artist. You know artists! We can be obsessive. Lightning Dust was certainly obsessive. I don’t think she wanted to kill herself, but she was obsessive.
CQ: Tell us about your relationship to Lightning Dust.
PF: No.
CQ: Photo Finish, thank you for your time.
She’s perfect. Mix of confusion, bemusement, defiance. You chalk her surprise at your appearance up to your being 10 minutes late, until she asks you who you are. ‘Oh. Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, yeah, I remember. The Pegasisters Perenially piece.’ Stepping out behind her clutter, saying you can take the photograph outside. You take many photos, far more photos than you need -- she catches the light just right, thin scowl not armour enough, not quite, to hide the chip of her yearning. You will make her a star! She doesn’t want to be a star. Not a model, anyway, she’d quite like to be some aeronaut star. You are contractually obligated to take 5 minutes and 3 photographs; you take 3 hours and 77. You will see her again. She doesn’t seem delighted by the prospect. Your take an image of her in profile, generic, stoic.
‘Done?’ she asks you.
‘Not yet!’ you say, and take the photograph a second later. Heroism melting middle distance, just a hint of eyeroll.
The last time you had talked had been tense. Bad energy in the air. Anger. Now here at Backburners tour: Fillydelphia, the weather seems to match your mood. A storm is thundering, no doubt brewed for this occasion, and Lightning Dust has gone all-in on her name and set up a series of slender metal lightning rods, to which the dark clouds send lightning bright enough to crack the sky. It’s as if you’ve been struck yourself: the weather wrenches you back years. Sitting tied to your chair inside a transport chariot, wind tearing at the walls. Rain rattling the entire vehicle, stinging on your cheek, spattering the camera. You can’t see the picture that you’re taking, not really, can only hope it’s picking something up, your previously untested rainshield doing something to protect it.
The clouds split open, and a cheer goes up: a slower Lightning than the rest, but not by much. Streaking down into the stands, sound trailing far behind, darting and twisting between the blinding bolts as if one with the weather herself. Leaving everything behind, even light, even you.
Hanging on the edge of the transport in her protective suit, hovering above the hurricane, about to fall, about to fall, about to...
Fair and square, a friendly match. A little competition, old times’ sake. Easy back and forth, ball rolling through the air like banter. ‘How’s being Bolt Captain’ -- ‘Pretty awesome to be honest’ -- ‘Congrats, deserved, etcetera.’
‘Once upon a time,’ says Lightning Dust, dropping heavily down next to where you’re watching, ‘I swore that me and her would be rivals for life.’
‘Once upon a time?’ you give her a look. ‘Why, who won?’
Her smile might have melted butter. ‘I mean, she’s literally on the Council of Friendship, let’s not kid ourselves. Don’t worry, everything’s good between us now.’
Examining Rainbow Dash through your camera lens, all speed and preening arrogance. Zooming in. A toss of rainbow mane, a stare of above-this-worldly confidence.
‘Yes,’ you say, leaning down to catch her ear, ‘but does that make her a better flier? No!’
She snorts. ‘You’re just saying that cause she’s friends with Fluttershy.’
‘Maybe. You could beat her anyway, though.’
You watch her calculation. Speed against cunning against daring. When the next match begins, she leaps for the ball blindly, running on instinct -- catching -- scoring -- soaring -- disappearing beneath a rainbow crackle. The next goal is considerably rougher. Foul play is called three times. The ball is reset. Lightning Dust takes Rainbow’s hoof to shake... That’s your girl. Lighting. Click.
Tock. Tick. Like a heartbeat in the stagnant room. Your head feels heavy, you find yourself beginning to drift. No! You mustn’t. Have to be there for her when she’s there for you being there for your cat. Curled in the chair across from you, close to closing time at Fillydelphia Veterinary. Tock. Tick. She yawns, suddenly, dramatically. Is silent once again. You are strangely moved. Her gaze is somewhere far, she doesn’t even notice when you raise your camera.
She is saying something round the toothbrush, but you can’t really make it out and stopped paying full attention minutes ago. She carries on the conversation quite well by herself -- you help by interjecting a ‘Yes!’ or ‘Really?’ when appropriate -- but then you ‘Yes!’ when you should have ‘Really?’d, and you’re found out. She pokes her head out of the door, and you look up just in time to catch her look, just in time to be caught by it, surprised. There is something in her glance you cannot put your hoof on. It surprises you, delights you, thrills you. Scares you. In an instant you are filled with maybes. Futures and presents and possibilities that flutter to be grasped, held and nurtured in that gaze.
‘Whath?’
You say nothing. Click.
Instead she begins to explain her new plans. She is older. Minutes, decades. Explaining carefully ideas for tour 17. The retirement tour, she’s taken to calling it. Though how much retirement will be left, after all this is paid for, is anypony’s guess. You sit across from her and listen. You sense your mind drifting. No! Yes, like so: and you take up your camera, capture the image, lower it down. You seal the moment away. Quite safely.
A line from the past makes its way to your head: ‘You think you know me, but you don’t.’ Probably it was shouted, once, but you can’t be certain. Memory has leached it of all expression. You are no longer sure what connection, if any, it has to the image of a bandage white against grey grass.
Cannonflight dancing the edge of destruction.
Laughing at straight-backed S P I T F I R E ! sternness.
Aftershow striding across for a picture.
Lazing about above it all and further.
Sunrise workout wings spectacular.
Flying towards the camera, about to escape. Any minute, about to break free. One second longer...
After three months, the whole exhibition is packed up in days. Ponies come in with ladders and suction cups and screwdrivers, stripping the walls of image after image. Frames are packed in boxes, sent to storage. Photos sold to collectors, hanging on the walls of strangers, slowly forgotten. Ink fades. Paper, too. Photos turn to dust.
