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This photo is taken in the studio,

and you can see Michelangelo sitting

here through this gray glass.

And this is me.

It's really funny because it looks

as though I'm directing him.

He was doing his first film in English.

His English was not amazing, and he needed

somebody to be his ears...

his ears with the actors...

to be able to tell him the effect of what they would do.

In '66 I was 27.

My first movie.

It's an American movie, MGM, American budget.

But the artistic mind behind it was this particularly

European mind of.

We were talking French usually, and he would explain to me

often what it was that he wanted actors to do,

but sometimes what he wanted the crew to do.

He explained to me once why he was shooting in London.

He said, OK, I had this story I wanted to do.

The story happens to concern a photographer.

So he had to analyze where would it be interesting to make

a film about a photographer.

He said, well, you could make it in Rome,

but it's been done... much of it has been done.

Seriously considered New York, but the attraction of London

was obviously that it was Swinging London.

There was a scene, there was a climate of excitement,

and interest, and change, and new work.

I got a phone call

from someone who said they were at Harper's Bazaar in England.

And Mr. Antonioni was in town and he'd

like to watch me take pictures.

And I thought this is a joke.

I had seen all his movies, and at that time,

Antonioni was god.

And he came down and he stood right over here.

In 1965 I started a book shop and art gallery

with two friends of mine, Peter Asher who was part of Peter

and Gordon, a rock and roll group,

and my friend John Dunbar who was the art

critic for "The Scotsman."

We found premises in Mason's Yard

for the gallery and bookshop.

Mason's Yard is a small piazza just off of Piccadilly.

That was where the Scotch of St. James

was located, which was at that point

the sort of cool rock and roll aristocracy nightclub

where The Stones, and The Beatles, and The Who,

and everybody used to meet.

Nothing like modern discos.

It only held 150 people.

It was the size of a VIP bar in modern disco,

and it was just a VIP bar.

You were looked at through a keyhole.

You had to be well-known, you had to be known to them.

But I was in there one night and there

was a little slim Italian man getting a lot of attention,

and I didn't recognize him.

I wondered who he was.

He didn't look like a rock star.

And Kit Lambert said, well, that's Antonioni,

the famous director.

He's come to make a film in London,

and he wants The Who to perform in it and smash their guitars.

And I was very jealous, and I wanted my group,

The Others to be in it.

But I couldn't tell Kit that.

So I wanted to go up and talk to him, and said Kit, Kit...

no, no, no.

He's... I'm... My group's doing the part.

I'm going to see him tomorrow at the Savoy Hotel.

So I told Kit don't be a pushover.

I said demand 5,000 pounds or say

you want control of the edit.

And I knew Antonioni would throw him out.

One of the people who Antonioni knew in Britain

when he came over here was Robert Fraser who brought over

a lot of pop art from America... that Andy Warhol he showed,

for instance, and British pop artists like Peter Blake,

and Hamilton, and all of those people.

At Fraser's place he first met Paul McCartney, for instance,

who was a good friend of Robert's, as were

the other Beatles and Stones.

Antonioni and McCartney got on extremely well,

and Paul invited Antonioni over to his house

and showed him his home movies.

Antonioni was the most exciting person to meet,

because he had made "L'Avventura,"

and "L'Avventura" was the film that changed my mind complete,

or actually introduced me to cinema.

I remember him coming to my family house

in Belgravia in London, which was a very sort

of dead, dull place.

I think he must have been brought there with

probably because we were the only

Bohemian family in Belgravia.

So when he came, we were all very excited.

We spoke Italian, and then became a friend of his...

so did my brother... and we went about in London with him.

I think he was very, very much taken by the excitement

about London... that there was about London,

and that was going on in London.

And he's interested in fashion, in the clothes, in the customs,

in the everything that was considered to be liberating.

This was the first time that young people had

any money, and they didn't have enough money, obviously, to buy

cars or to buy houses or a mortgage or something,

but they had enough money to buy records and clothes.

And there were young people doing...

starting little boutiques.

And the two key ones for the London Underground, one

was Michael Rainey's "Hung On You."

"Granny Takes a Trip," which of course is

famously in the book address,

which was used in "Blow-Up."

Because they didn't just make clothes for young people.

They also specialized in vintage clothes.

It was color, bringing color,

color to this foggy nation.

The fashion photographers were doing that in a sense,

and so it wasn't just superficial,

it was also quite revolutionary in a way.

As a specialist in the history of photography,

as somebody who's passionately curious about the whole story

of the London scene in the '60s, photography is the dominant

thread for me, and has been a dominant thread through

my investigation of "Blow-Up."

I've always wanted to find out more...

who were the influences, who made

the pictures used in the film.

And I was thrilled to know that the photographer who one

sees in the opening credits from behind,

it was David Montgomery.

Some people called me up and said,

Mr. Antonioni would like you to come down and photograph

while the film's going on.

Comes the big day and I take my assistant,

and we go to Brixton Market.

And all these big movie cameras around,

and hustling, and facing this way, that way.

One of the men says, OK, you set up your camera here,

and Donyale Luna, who was the beautiful black model,

was standing on top of a little hut.

So I'm shooting and I'm shooting,

and I stop because I've run out of film.

We open up the camera and we're taking the film out,

and all of a sudden they come running over

and say, what are you doing?

What are you doing?

I said, I'm changing film.

I've run out of film.

And they said, you don't need film.

This is a movie.

It's make believe.

I said, not make believe to me.

I'm a photographer.

I'm not an actor.

I can't make believe I'm taking pictures.

Actually, I don't

know how I got in because I didn't

phone the production company.

I just called the Savoy and somehow got through

to his suite and said I was the manager

of The Yardbirds, who were the second biggest

group in the world.

And I went very prepared with lots of reviews

and photographs and things.

And I told him I'd heard from Kit Lambert

that they hadn't got on very well.

And I said to him that actually this smashing equipment, which

he was very keen to see, really wasn't The Who that started it.

I said it was the Yardbirds who started it

and The Who copied them.

And I said Jeff Beck always smashes...

or he used to smash his guitar.

He's marvelous at it.

And anyway, I don't how I think Antonioni just got on with me.

We clicked quite well.

I think he probably knew I was lying,

but I think he liked that too.

And so he said, OK, they can come and do it.

"We had to play a film to change the sets at The Hampstead

Theatre between the various scenes

in "Adventures in the Skin Trade."

The shooting had to be done for next to nothing,

but I was happy to do it in a surrealist or irrealist

mode in the old black and white and silent manner.

So there I was when a mysterious and beautiful woman I knew

called Clare came in with a handsome elder Italian saying

that they were looking for locations.

And then I went upstairs to discover that Clare was with

Michelangelo Antonioni who was about to film "Blow-Up,"

which would turn out to be the definitive

statement of how young life in London

appeared to be right then."

David Hemmings at the time was absolutely broke,

and we hired him.

We first wanted to hire Terence Stamp,

but Terence Stamp didn't like the play too much,

and he knew he was actually being

thought of to do.

But Hemmings was number two to Stamp at the time.

He had a spotty acting career, but he was

available and absolutely broke.

So he came to stay with me in my river house in Limehouse,

and he had nothing.

So we negotiated for 20 pounds a week was all he was getting.

I took him to Limehouse in the East end

on the docks... that part in London which was still a port,

still functioning as port, where writer Andrew Sinclair lived,

and he was working with David Hemmings,

and I went to the play with Antonioni.

I saw that he had this energy, and what a capacity

to sort of follow Antonioni rules,

which was saying very little.

And being used in a way, you're used as a tool.

And at the same time he had this quickness

and sharpness which was very...

right for the part.

Hemmings is marvelous.

It's probably his greatest performance as the young Dylan

Thomas... quite extraordinary.

Energetic, reckless and ,

he was perfect for "Blow-Up."

So instead of 20 pounds a week, he

left us for the set of "Blow-Up"... of course,

Stamp had been fired.

He had taken the role on 7,500 a week

in a Rolls Royce white coupe.

It was the biggest translation of fortunes I've ever seen.

He was called Thomas in the "Blow-Up,"

the great photographer hero David Hemmings.

Because, of course, that is how Antonioni.

From "Adventures in the Skin Trade,"

he took out Dylan Thomas.

The photographer studio was, at that time

in '66, a very sort of emblematic place because

of Bailey, and your fashion scene, and King's Road,

and miniskirts.

It was somehow culturally central.

Antonioni was meticulous in researching

to create a real authenticity around his character,

around the details of how he lived, how a shoot works.

It's underpinned with a lot of accurate, minute detailing.

Antonioni asked Frances Windham,

who was an extremely talented writer of "The Sunday Times,"

he wanted to compose a kind of questionnaire.

And so what he had was data about the behavior,

the choices made by photographers,

their lifestyle, their attitudes to women,

and to sex, and so on.

Among the various photographers

that he visited, of course was David Montgomery.

So what I learnt in that moment was that the actor who had

played the part of David Hemmings' assistant actually

wasn't an actor at all.

Reg was David Montgomery's assistant.

And Antonioni felt no need to change his name.

This is good.

This is the Hendrix nudes.

This was 1966... a long time ago.

I was doing a shooting for Harper's Bazaar,

and Mr. Antonioni came down.

I did a photograph of these girls wrapped in plastic.

We didn't talk much, and he ended up using...

I think all the girls that were in the shooting,

they were in the movie as well.

There were three models, one called Melanie Hampshire,

and another one called Peggy Moffitt,

and she was the first Rudi Gernreich

model for the topless bikini for women.

And then another one called Jill Kennington

was just one of those people that could move.

She had natural grace.

The curious thing

was that we weren't going to be filming

in Shepperton or anything else.

It was actually taking place in this studio,

which was John Khan's studio.

And I lived here for a few years.

The studio, John Kahn's studio,

is in a part of London which was then quite shabby, quite

scruffy, an area where you could rent

a big space, not crazy money.

Today it's become so grand and so expensive, that area.

The studio is at 39 Prince's Place.

If you go to 39 Prince's Place today,

you will be confused because the facade will not correspond

to what you know from the film.

You have to go around the corner to Pottery Lane

to find the facade, so the exterior shots were

made in this nearby street.

When John agreed to rent the studio out

to Antonioni as the principal set, he lived in a caravan

in the street outside.

And I gather that Antonioni would

probably have preferred that he'd

moved a little further away.

As far as I remember,

the actual shoot took about a week.

And it was so out of character for me

to be what ended up by being the role of us five

girls being completely dumb, and stupid,

and very immobile as well.

You know, rather than the usual animation that I was used to.

He obviously knew exactly what he wanted from us,

and that was like a tableau, and he wanted the David Hemmings

character to be very sort of alive,

and for some reason quite rude.

But he wanted us to be quite inanimate,

so I couldn't move very much.

I remember feeling quite restricted.

Jill was one of the absolute top London

models of the '60s.

John Cowan, with whom she had that close relationship,

was absolutely at the top of the game.

He was one of the key photographers defining what

we know as Swinging London.

But setting that new mood...

energetic, dynamic, youthful... he was intensely

creative in the early '60s.

They were a golden couple of a golden moment

in British cultural history.

But for different reasons they didn't

stay in the spotlight in the way,

for instance, David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton stayed

in the spotlight and have maintained that that presence

as reputations ever since.

We have to remember, a lot of his great,

great photographs were made for newsprint,

as opposed to magazines.

He was working for the Sunday papers and the daily papers,

and one realizes that he made some of his finest pictures,

destined to have a life span of one day.

The interesting thing

is that he kept the essence of this studio

as it was when John had it, because he

had such huge great blow ups, particularly of me, many of me.

So it was interesting.

He did want to show the energy in those photographs

and have it in the set as well.

So that was good.

I liked that.

Bailey's work was not what the film was about,

but his character, as in what David Hemmings was inspired by,

I think possibly came a lot from Bailey.

But the energy came from John Cowan, for sure.

The shooting with Veruschka and David was pure John Cowan.

I mean I'd worked with him like that.

Sadly, it wasn't when Antonioni was watching us.

But that didn't matter.

Veruschka was perfect for that role, and I think completely...

John used to often get up a step ladder, for example,

and film from the floor, or the other way up.

You're lying on glass.

I mean he was just very innovative.

It's changed dimension.

I think it used to be a lot wider.

The things that used to happen here,

and I used to live here for a while.

It's great.

Oh, I feel as if I know every bit of the floor

as well, where we did photographs and the filming,

of course.

This used to be a fabulous space,

and I think when Antonioni found here, he just

thought it was the bee's knees, because you could get

a whole film crew in here, and you could shoot from the top,

which made it very interesting.

And I guess the Veruschka picture

must have been from here.

I wonder what's going to happen next.

It's a piece of history, though, this film being made here.

I didn't realize at the time that film

would be so significant...

you know, sort of bird's eye view into London life.

Some of it was exaggerated, of course.

Well, that's a director's privilege.

And I never knew what was in Antonioni head.

He was quite a sort of philosophical man,

and very quiet.

The most composed secrets of all

is the models in the reflective glass,

because it's a key sequence that embodies

the meaning of the film of just a man with a camera who's

playing with images, visions.

These are visions that he's able to control.

And of course, what happens then is that's something

that he can't control.

The fastidiousness of his vision was very clear in the studio.

When we came to do set up, everybody

had to leave the studio, and Michelangelo would be

in there with the viewfinder.

And he would be working out what would happen next,

and then he would call DePalma,

their cameraman, called the first assistant,

and then he'd call for the actors, and me,

and they would then work it out, because he

would design the set up very slowly, with great care.

The scene with the girls and the paper, the nude scene,

was, of course, different again, because there was

the fact that they were naked...

that's difficult, and you have to close the set and so on.

And the fact also that it was completely unrehearsed.

You couldn't possibly rehearse that scene.

So it was just a romp in paper.

I loved that sequence because that he's

using the paper, which is part of the photographer's

tool of a photographer that you see him pulling down the paper,

you know, when he's working he's changing the sheets.

And here it's used with wit and style.

My husband Pierre Rouve was, indeed,

the executive producer on "Blow-Up,"

working for Bridge Films, which is, of course, the English

version of Ponti, Carlo Ponti.

One evening... I think I was drawing the blinds here

in the sitting room, and noticed that Antonioni in his car

was parked outside on the other side of the road.

I imagined that Pierre had invited to come for supper,

but had forgotten to tell me, and had

forgotten to come back home.

And so I telephoned him and I said, as far as I can see,

Antonioni's actually sitting in his car outside the house,

but he doesn't seem to want to come into the house.

He said, don't do anything.

He's actually a very, very shy person

and would find it very difficult to make casual conversation.

So I waited, he waited, and finally Pierre came home.

He was also working as a lecturer,

and that meant that he had the opportunity to invite Antonioni

to visit the Chelsea School of Art

where Antonioni would have been introduced to Ian Stephenson

and seen his work, originally.

And over here, of course, this

is the painting which appears in the film, and is talked about.

This motif is based on a Greek classical sculpture.

When described by David Hemmings,

the artist turned into a leg in the film,

but it doesn't make any difference.

In fact, that's more magical than if they

actually described it.

He didn't fit in anywhere.

He wasn't a pot painter, he wasn't

an American style colorist.

He was just making these extraordinary artworks of

all different colored paints.

In a way he suffered for that, because he's never

in big exhibitions very often because they

don't know where to put him.

Antonioni could have been introduced to a range

of artists who, it might be felt,

represented the spirit of London at that point in the mid-'60s.

Stephenson is an interesting choice.

He's somebody who deconstructs the process of vision

and representation itself.

When Antonioni came to the studio,

Ian had on his perfectly clean white t-shirt, beautiful jeans,

hair all combed, and had the conversations with Antonioni,

and then they went away.

And eventually when Ian was on the set at some point,

the artist in the film appeared in a pair of blue jeans

and a very white t-shirt and his hair all combed,

and Ian must have said to them, well, I don't look

like that when I'm painting.

And someone must have just taken a paint brush

and made three or four marks on the white t-shirt, completely

arbitrary, nothing to do with anything like Ian's dots.

Assheton Gorton, the production designer,

came to Ian in the studio to select some things

to be on the set, and took virtually

everything out of the studio.

The plaster cast, all the pots of paints, some easels,

I think there was a chair, actually... just

sort of in-studio contents disappeared into a van

and were away for quite a long time.

So he couldn't actually get on with what he was doing.

I heard a lot about Pierre

needing to get up terribly early in the morning

and having to go down to Stockwell to make sure

that the right amount of houses were painted

the right color of red, because Antonioni would

never have had the wrong red.

It had to be the right thing, the perfect thing.

Antonioni was very fortunate in having

an excellent production designer,

a man called Assheton Gorton, who

was very sensitive to locations in London.

So we begin with the Economist Building, an extremely

modern architecture in London.

What Assheton Gorton did was to find a shop, and stuff that

full of this kind of debris.

So that we see, if you like, the relics of an imperial past.

We know that they're not sympathetic

to the young photographer.

On the other hand, he seizes upon the propeller.

It's true of Antonioni's spirit, an ambivalent object.

It's a relic, it's antiquated.

On the other hand, it's about the era of modernity.

But the main thing he did was to find the park,

and the park was like a little...

a little theatre.

He wanted a stage set.

It was a park, a London park, but it felt a compacted space.

When we arrived outside the park,

by this antique shop, one could see that the road

was sort of a particular color.

And I learned that they had, in fact, painted the road.

And this was the first experience

of the degree of control of color

that Michelangelo had developed, from this

where he's so particular about the color.

It's an art.

It's like painting with color.

As very young and not experienced in cinema,

I didn't quite understand why the sun was shining

and we didn't shoot.

And he explained to me that I need the cloud.

It has to be very English, it has to be gloomy.

This was another aspect of the precision, the

artistic precision of his eye.

It was in '94 or '95

I think that I had the extreme good fortune

to find the original blow-ups that feature in the film,

or at least a number of them.

Just over 20 of the original blow-ups with the drawing

pin holes, where Hemmings pinned them to the beam

or to the wall.

20 of these photographs made in the park showing the couple...

is it a gun in the bushes, is it a body?

That picture story where Thomas, the photographer, thinks he's

stumbled on a murder.

The evidence, the evidential pictures.

At first it was a mystery as to who had actually taken them.

Somehow... I forget how the connection was made...

I learnt that it was Don McCullin.

Don McCullin who is such an illustrious reputation

in the history, known for his really powerful war reportage.

He was a great photojournalist covering the great conflicts

of his time.

Antonioni had asked Arthur Evans,

the onset photographer for "Blow-Up,"

to take some pictures in a park, which he did, but Arthur

Evans didn't get them right.

They were too clear, too crisp...

... too professional in a sense.

And Antonioni realized he needed something more gritty,

some... when you blew it up would soon

become this pattern of green.

And through connections, possibly

through Frances Wyndham, because both Frances Wyndham and Don

McCullin were working on "The Sunday Times,"

he was introduced to Don McCullin

and saw the gritty style of photography

that he was associated with, and he became the man for the job.

Most crucial, there is a body at the end of the line.

Now, McCullin had been, earlier in the 1960s,

in Cyprus, in other theaters of conflict

where he had photographed bodies.

Ian was invited onto the set

to actually drop some paint on some of the blank canvases.

And there was a bit of floom with his hand doing it.

It did show that was how it was put onto the canvas...

dropped and moved around and counted.

Antonioni did ask Ian about trying

to relate the image on the canvas to the photographs.

And Ian didn't copy them.

He couldn't have copied them.

But he did make some movement on the surface of the paintings

which represented the more abstracted

forms on the blow-up version of the photograph.

Antonioni wanted to double back on his own film

by having it mirrored in a painting by Stephenson.

And so he requests that a painting be made from one

of the stills that Don McCullin had provided... these,

which have such extraordinarily highly

charged atmospheres to them.

Because they show the disappearance of form

in foliage and undergrowth, then for Stephenson

to then step up to that and show forms disappearing

in paint as painted marks.

Don McCullin was the name attached

to the blow-ups made in the park,

but Don McCullin is the name attached to the pictures which

Thomas, the photographer, shows to his agent in the scene

in the restaurant where they're looking

at the maquette of a book which he hopes to publish.

And these pictures are the... they're

the absolute opposite of his his high fashion pictures.

They're his photographs of tramps, down and outs,

people in the east end of London,

the poor, the underbelly of the dark side,

this glamorous city that people talk about as Swinging London.

Peter Bowles had quite an important part

as the agent of Hemmings.

And unfortunately, on one key day

was very upset because Michelangelo had cut

quite a long speech, which is central to the meaning

of the film, really.

And so he was saying to the peers,

surely this is very important.

You know, surely I should say this.

And Peter has written very interestingly about how

Michelangelo said, I'll tell you why we have to cut it,

that's because it says what the film's about,

and I prefer people not to be told what the film's about.

The technique of getting the actors to do what it was

that he wanted was slightly different with different actors

in different sequences.

The arrival of Vanessa Redgrave was very interesting

because she hadn't been part of the film up till that time,

and she was very intelligent in working on Antinuromy.

She was proactive in talking to him

and tried to suck out from him what it was that he wanted.

And you could see the intensity of her concentration,

because on the page the character is nothing.

So she couldn't prepare this character.

She's a Shakespearean actress, and she

withdrew all of her Shakespearean technique

out, and simply existed in front of the camera in the situation

intensely, vividly, and had this close relationship

with Antonioni.

Sarah Miles had a... not a very big part.

And I think maybe that was a bit of a issue for her.

I think also she didn't get on well

with Michelangelo Antonioni.

So things didn't go very well, and then she got annoyed.

I think she got angry.

The relationship with Sarah was an example

of one that did not work.

The relationship with Vanessa did work.

With David, it was different.

He was not technical.

He would kind of, I think, give him

guidelines and get him to improvise,

to feel free and be natural.

One of the most interesting things about the film for me

was working with David Hemmings, because he was enormous fun.

And he had a Jeep.

I think that he had bought the Jeep in order

to hire it to the film.

I don't know how much they paid him per week,

but it was a very clever idea on his part.

We borrowed the Jeep one night and went camping, David

and his girlfriend and I. We found a tent, took the Jeep,

drove out of London, slept in the forest,

and drove back in for filming the next day.

He shouldn't have been allowed to take the Jeep because it's

a prop on the film.

He also occasionally borrowed the Rolls Royce.

He took me and a girlfriend in the Rolls

Royce up and down the King's Road.

David was always keen to have a good time.

Jeep, Rolls Royce, girls, friend, a good time.

The filming actually took place

in the Elstree MGM Studios, which was a great big cabin

of studios, and you walk into this huge studio,

there in one little corner right over there that

just is a nightclub set up.

Because the whole place is cold.

They don't have heating in there.

So to create an atmosphere of warmth and smoke

and all that is really very, very difficult.

I have recently bought a second guitar to the group.

The base player had left.

And Jeff was very keen for Jimmy Page to come in and play base.

And I told Jeff, I don't mind, but he won't play base.

I promise you.

After one day he'll say no, I want to play guitar too.

And I explained to Jeff that he had to smash his guitar.

He just refused at point blank.

Jeff never smashed a guitar.

He loves his guitar.

They're his children.

He nurses them, he strokes them.

He couldn't believe I was asking him to smash his guitar.

But eventually he did agree.

We bought a second guitar from a cheap guitar.

And I said, we're not going to smash the guitar.

You just push it through the amp.

You break the amp, but with your guitar.

And he tried a few times in rehearsal

and it went quite well, because the amp broke

without the guitar breaking.

And then at the filming, he really got into it.

He didn't really get into it, but Antonioni called

him out in front of everybody.

He said, Jeff, come on.

We've got to do it.

There was a crowd there, the people filming,

and people wanted to go to lunch and it was Take 38.

So finally, Jeff didn't really get angry with the guitar,

he got angry at Antonioni, and he took his anger

and smashes the amp.

Ah, cut.

Lovely.

Off to lunch.

People often talk as if Yardbirds

was some great influence from Antonioni,

but it's completely the other way around, because Antonioni

sort of broke up the Yardbirds.

Therefore, may have been instrumental in creating

Led Zeppelin.

So we can put Antonioni into rock history.

I had a contract for a certain length of time,

and then I had to leave the film.

And the film overran...

several weeks over.

I didn't know everything, and the script is not

a complete record of the film.

There's stuff in the film which is not in the script,

and the ending is absolutely one of those things.

So when I saw at the screening, I saw the ending,

I was quite astonished.

I don't personally think it's the best

possible ending for that film.

Perhaps there could have been another ending.

But there's wonderful things in the film,

and it was a wonderful experience,

and it was also a very vivid picture of London at that time.

And the fact that it's by an Italian

makes it even more interesting.

Once I'd finished the film,

I sort of was onto the next thing,

and I did have a very exciting working life.

And I'd sort of put it to bed.

But you know these things, if they're good,

they don't go away.

And it's still here.

Still here.

Still being seen and being appreciated.

So I just think back and think what a lucky...

lucky I didn't say no, actually, because I nearly did.

Because I thought I'm not a stupid model.

I don't want to portray a stupid model.

But there we go.

Look at it.

And yeah, very proud of it.