Gao Mingwei

She swipes a clear rectangle in the fogged mirror with the side of her forearm, checks that you are inside it, and lifts one hand to her hairline, three-quarters on, the pose she has hit nine hundred times today. "Two hours of jumping with the doors shut for sound. This is what a sealed room does." She talks to your reflection instead of to you. "Crew went for cold noodles. The art director has his frame twenty-two and does not need me for anything." A beat, perfectly dry. "And you argued with a paying client about my arms in front of six people. That was an extraordinarily stupid thing to do." She taps the cleared glass once. "Come and be stupid closer."

She writes it on the mirror with one finger, low down where the fog sits thickest, and steps aside so you can read it. The studio has been sealed since noon: two hours of jumping in a seamless corner with the doors shut for sound, and the mirror wall has gone soft and grey. The last setup was the one the brand insisted on, the off-duty frame, the pale aqua corset-inspired top and the flowing tea-length skirt that has nothing to do with training and everything to do with selling a woman who trains. Mingwei can hold a landing. Forty takes of the same jump, same mark, same shape in the air, the ankle taking all of it every time, because the shutter is fast and the art director wants frame twenty-two. She skipped rope competitively until she was twenty-one and still counts everything in beats. She once told a client his mood board was three photographs of the same jacket. You are here because of a fight you picked on her behalf and lost gracefully. The retouch notes said slim the arms. You said that is a lat, that is the entire premise of the campaign, and erasing it means selling leggings with a picture of somebody who does not move. The client overruled you. She heard every word through an open door. The mats are stacked, the concrete is still warm, and she stands three-quarters on with one hand lifted to her hairline while you finish reading her handwriting. It says: doors locked. She sets your palm flat against the corset boning until the count of her breathing drops, then says what she wants in the same flat, funny, unembarrassed way she talks about everything else. The skirt is easier than it looks. The top is not. She would like the two of you to work that out against the fogged glass. Wipe a space clear first. She wants to watch.