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Jack Bordnick's sculptures and photography incorporate surrealistic, mythological and magical imagery often with whimsical overtones — aimed at provoking our experiences and self reflections. Aiming to unbalance our rational minds, the predominant imagery deals mostly with facial expressions of both living and “non-living” beings, and things that speak to us in their own languages. They are mixed media assemblages that have been assembled, disassembled and reassembled, becoming abstractions unto themselves. I am an Industrial design graduate of Pratt Institute in New York.
Calendar Girl
P.A. Farrell
Marcus, navigating the whirring lathes in his machine shop, felt metal shavings biting into his boot soles. His hand traced a grease-stained work order in his pocket for a custom part for a Shelby Cobra. Yeah, his pride and joy. He’d get to it, but not when orders were piling up like snowflakes in winter.
The calendar hung between the bandsaw and a drill press; its pages curled at the edges from oil-stained fingers flipping through the months. Miss July's auburn hair caught invisible sunlight, each strand painted in copper and gold. Those green eyes locked onto his, and that smile—God, that smile—like she knew every secret he'd ever kept.
She was a fantasy, but the men in the shop loved her. Stepping off the page for Marcus, she reached out to him. He could feel her warmth, her smooth and silky skin, and her thick, slightly wavy hair falling down around her shoulders like a beautiful cape.
Her waist was so thin that his thick, muscled arm easily wrapped around it and pulled her close. Those eyes would then look up into his, and he felt utterly alone with her. The shop disappeared as they moved to silent music playing in his head. The woman was intoxicating.
How many days had he looked at the calendar and allowed himself to wander off with her? She had become part of his life, but he didn’t know her name or where she was. He had to find her.
His hand reached toward the glossy page, and his heartbeat drummed in his ears, drowning out the whir of machinery. Just for a few moments, he could imagine she was with him.
"Johnson." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Johnson!"
The grinder's whine died. Johnson lifted his safety glasses, revealing raccoon circles around his eyes. "What?"
Marcus jabbed his finger at the calendar. "Her. Who is she? Where is she?"
Johnson's wrinkled face twisted. He squinted at the calendar, then looked back at Marcus. "Midwest Tools sends them every December. They're free with the supplier package."
"No, I mean..." Marcus pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the calendar. "Her name. Where'd they find her?"
Johnson's response was lost in the screech of the grinder starting up again. “It’s a calendar, that’s all, a calendar.”
At home, Marcus hunched over his laptop. The screen's blue light carved shadows under his eyes as he fed the photo through reverse image search engines. Nothing. He zoomed in until individual pixels showed, searching for watermarks, photographer credits, and agency logos. Only "Midwest Tools, July 2025" in small text at the bottom. After a quick search, he found their contact number.
The next day, his finger jabbed at his phone, calling Midwest Tools.
"Marketing department, please... Yes, regarding your calendar. Specifically, Miss July... I understand your privacy policies, but maybe just the modeling agency's name?"
“Can’t help ya, ‘cause we just buy’em in batches. Never know where they come from." The phone call ended with no resolution.
His social media feeds filled with shared photos: "Seeking this model—an urgent business opportunity." Yeah, it was a lie, but who didn’t lie these days? Comments flooded in, but no solid leads.
Desperation sent him looking for a private investigator. The office smelled of stale coffee and cigarettes. A chunk of Marcus' savings disappeared into a manila envelope. He forked it over and waited.
Finally, his phone buzzed—the PI's number.
"It's computer-generated AI, artificial intelligence. Ran it through every recognition system available. She doesn’t exist.”
The line went dead. PIs know when a guy’s on a wild goose chase and who the ones are, without deep pockets, doing the chasing.
Back home, Marcus' laugh echoed hollowly in his kitchen. "Bullshit. Look at how the light catches her hair. Those eyes..."
Okay, then he’d have to do more of his own investigation. Going back, in the darkness, the shop was silent, with machines looming like sleeping giants. The calendar's pages rustled as Marcus yanked them free.
In the following days, his apartment walls disappeared behind printouts, photo comparisons, and agency portfolios. Unopened emails from his customers piled up, and voicemails from friends went unreturned. It was becoming an obsession. He had to find her.
At 3 AM, hunched over a high-resolution scan, something caught his eye. Behind her—there, in a window reflection. A studio. A photographer. A logo on their sleeve. The information he needed was there. He found her.
The sun painted the sky purple as Marcus' car pulled up to the converted warehouse. He could see the lights, screens, and cameras through the enormous windows. This had to be the place. A woman adjusted studio lights, her movements precise and practiced. Gray streaked her auburn hair. She wore a flannel shirt and faded jeans, and when she turned for an instant, he saw those sparkling green eyes.
Gathering up his courage, he hit the doorbell. She turned.
That smile.
"The calendar shoot," Marcus forced the words out. "Miss July."
She set down a camera lens. "1998, actually." Her hand rested on the edge of a nearby camera. "They scan it, feed it to their AI. New hair, new features, new girl every year. Five hundred dollars bought them endless perfect women."
Marcus's hand clenched the rolled-up calendar. "But you're..."
"Sarah." She gestured to the walls. It was all industrial pictures—the machines were like sculptures. "I shoot catalogs now. Equipment, parts, tools."
The calendar slipped from Marcus's fingers. Miss July smiled up from the floor, perfect and empty. Above her, Sarah's photographs captured beauty in chrome and steel, rust and resilience.
"My portfolio's over here," Sarah said. "The real one." The large folio held high-resolution photos of a young woman in seductive poses, always with that look that lured men. “That was me, then.”
Months later, Marcus attended Sarah's gallery opening, where a new series drew crowds. Machine parts cast shadows like flowing hair, and careful lighting softened steel. The centerpiece was a shop wall calendar photographed through weathered glass. There she was again, in all her AI-generated glory.
Marcus stood before it and turned away. Miss July still smiled from the wall in his shop, but now she looked lifeless—just ink and algorithms.