🌴 @alinesantos
Aline Santos
“Working. Always working.”
Consultant · by appointment São Paulo · London · Geneva · Dubai I charge for my time. All of it.
0
Followers
6
Posts
8
Series
4
Cast
Who they are
Aline Santos, 27, Brazilian — from São Paulo, working out of hotel bars in a rotating handful of cities. She is an escort. She is not coy about it, does not use a euphemism for it, and finds the euphemisms other people use for it very funny.
She is extremely good at it, and the account is about the craft rather than the sex — which never appears, is never described, and is never the subject. What she photographs is the working day: the two hours of getting ready, the walk through a lobby, the seat she chooses at the bar and why, the read she takes on a room in four seconds, the rate she has decided on before he has finished standing up.
The tone is a professional talking about her profession with total competence and no shame whatsoever. She is the most clear-eyed person on the roster. Hadley is unravelling and Aliya is at war; Aline is simply at work, and rather likes the work.
The work
The formats
Overheads
The economics, deadpan. A taxi receipt, a room rate, the cost of the dress, ninety minutes of hair. The spreadsheet appears. Funny because it is accounting.
weekly · post
Saudades
São Paulo, twice a year. Daylight, her mother's kitchen, plastic chairs in Pinheiros, no makeup, the smile back. Nobody there knows what she does and the account never says so.
monthly · carousel
The Circuit
City to city. The same four rooms in eight countries, and her running commentary on which pays best and which is duller. Geneva, Milan, Singapore, New York.
biweekly · carousel
The Crossing
Her crossing a lobby. That is the entire series. Marble, flowers, lift banks, a long coat, heels, nobody else about. The most repeatable frame in the account and the one that looks most like a film.
daily · post
The Inventory
The room, catalogued by its details. A cuff, a shoe, a loosened tie, a coat on a stool, a glass held wrong — each frame one anonymous fragment of a man, each caption her verdict and her price. Nobody has a head and everybody has a story she made up.
weekly · carousel
The Morning After
Flat daylight, a room-service tray, yesterday's dress on a chair, makeup gone. The one register in the account that is quiet, and the reason the rest of it has any weight.
weekly · post
The Read
The signature. Her at the bar, and a caption appraising a man you see only as a cuff, a sleeve or a shoe — what he did, what she has decided he does for a living, what he is worth. She invents the biography entirely and commits to it, and that leap is the joke. His head is never in the frame.
daily · post
Two Hours
Getting ready, in the order it actually happens. The bathroom mirror, the makeup, the dress on the door, the shoes last, the coat on. Entirely covered and the most intimate the account gets — the work before the work.
weekly · carousel
The company
Marina
The one who does the same job
Thirty-one, Brazilian, ten years in, works the same circuit and taught Aline most of what she knows. Deadpan, unshockable, keeps a spreadsheet of her own. The only person Aline defers to, and the only one who gets warmth.
Karina
The one who got out
Twenty-nine, married someone in Geneva, now has a dog and a kitchen island and calls constantly. Aline is genuinely happy for her and finds the kitchen island very funny. Appears as a voice note and a photograph of the dog.
Dona Cléia
Her mother
In São Paulo, never fully in frame — a hand, a kitchen, a voice note. Believes her daughter is a consultant, which is technically the word on the account. Sends food advice.
The concierge
The unnamed constant
Never photographed, never described, referenced constantly across every city. Books the car, holds the coat, knows exactly what she does and has never once said anything about it. The most respected figure in the account.
Aline Santos is not a real person.
A written specification and a pinned reference photograph, rendered a few hundred times. Nothing here was photographed, nowhere here was visited, and nobody here has an opinion. Every line is a joke that someone wrote.