I let Camille's head fall back, she didn't resist as anyone would, she let her head hang back, her body pulling her down, her legs slightly bent, all of her weight resting on her wrists. I panned up as if strolling slowly up her arm to her wrist, bloodied by now as the shackle holding her cut into her skin.

The red of the bloody wrist contrasted with the bluish, purple tone of her hand just above. I didn't let my concern distract me from the study.

She moved a little, as if trying to relieve the pressure on her wrist, but only a little, after that she was still, as if she had lost consciousness.

I strolled down again, the lens passing down her arm, her shoulder and down to her chest. Her breast rising slowly as she let some air in and out again. There was not a lot of oxygen up here, at 4000 meters above sea level, breathing was a task, a hard task sometimes, specially under duress. For a moment I wished she wasn't wearing a bra, but at the same time the fact that she was wearing it made her more desirable.

But it was not about sex, it was about beauty, about divine extasis, as the nuns in my jesuit grammar school would describe the death of a martyr. After much torture, beyond what any human being could endure, the martyr, the super human, would finally decide that she had enough and would allow her soul to leave her body at a moment of divine extasis.

The lens visited Camille's body, passing from one breast to the other and up her arm to her left hand, high above her head, attached to the beam, the cross beam above her head. Indeed, she was hanging from her cross, suffering unspeakable torture, for my art.

Again the fear climbed up my spine and into my brain. As turned on as I was, I didn't want to cheapen this moment. I didn't want to turn it into one of those super 8 s&m porn flicks from the house of milan that I saw in 42nd street in New York. The thought of doing that sent shivers up my spine. And yet I wanted, above a lot of things, to actually make a movie that would do justice to this passion, and I had such script and all I needed was Camille and 5 million dollars, at least.

Camille looked like that woman I fell in love with when I was 6 years old. My maid took me to the movies to a nighborhoud theatre. Because she didn't have enough money for 'Platea", downstais, she took me to the upstairs, Palco, where there were no seats but wooden planks as in a circus.

It was a war movie, one of those post war homages to WWII. I don't remember the title, I don't remember the plot. All I remember is one scene, when the Nazis capture a young woman from the French resistance, they drag her through the streets, she looses her shoes on the cobble stones as she taking into an alley where a large barrel full of water awaits

The nazis question the young woman, slapping her face and then dunking her head into the water, holding her for a few seconds, pulling her out to question her and dunking her in the water again, for longer this time. As the scene unraveled I was transfixed and in love with the young woman. It was not the first time I had this sensation but it was the first time it was happening in the dark of a room to a young woman in a black and white film.