The photo was stunning, quite possibly the best I’ve ever taken. I was perched at Summit One Vanderbilt, Manhattan’s new sky-high playground for social media enthusiasts. I’d somehow managed to capture my teenage son, Charlie, striking what he considered his most perfect pose. The light was magical, the backdrop spectacular, and Charlie looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Now, I’m no Annie Leibovitz, you understand. My photography skills typically hover somewhere between ’enthusiastic amateur’ and ‘dad with an iPhone’ – definitely leaning heavily towards the latter. But somehow, in that moment, with the sunset light streaming through the observation deck’s geometric glass panels and Charlie’s natural pose, it all just clicked.
Like everyone else at the observation deck, I immediately shared the photo. Within minutes, the likes started pouring in.
What I didn’t know then was that one particular viewer would turn my simple family photo into the opening act of an elaborate ‘performance.’
About an hour after posting, my phone buzzed with a direct message from someone named Angela. Her profile picture showed an attractive woman constantly surrounded by canvases and paintbrushes, and her portfolio looked well-curated with various art pieces.
“Your photo is absolutely stunning!” her message began. “I’m an artist who found your photo via the location tag. Would you be interested in being a ‘muse’ for an art project?”
As a writer and content creator, I’ve received my fair share of collaboration requests. This one felt a little different, but not entirely out of the question.
Charlie was immediately excited. For a kid his age, being someone’s ‘muse’ sounded as glamorous as being discovered by a Hollywood scout. He was convinced a career as an influencer was calling his name.
After several back-and-forths, we struck a deal: she could use my photo as inspiration for a painting, and in return, I’d receive a portion of her commission. It sounded like a win-win.
The conversation ended there, and like many social media exchanges, I quickly forgot about it.
Four months later, while scrolling through old Instagram messages, I stumbled upon my chat with Angela. Curious about the project’s progress, I messaged her. Angela’s reply was suspiciously quick, almost instantaneous. She explained that her painting was complete, and the client was ready to pay. A check would be sent directly to me.
This struck me as odd. Four months of silence, then an instant ‘funds are ready’ when I messaged? But the allure of easy money has a way of silencing rational doubt. I was already planning a new side hustle, selling my photos to artists in need of inspiration. Maybe I did have an Annie Leibovitz streak after all.
Angela’s next message boosted my expectations even further: the client would pay a total of $3,000. I could keep $500, and the remaining $2,500 was for Angela’s materials and labor.
The math was a bit strange, but my entrepreneurial excitement had completely overshadowed my skepticism.
Angela asked for my bank details, supposedly for sending the check. I suggested PayPal, but her response was curt, as if I’d offended her. She claimed her client only dealt with bank checks; PayPal was out of the question. I eventually compromised, providing only my name and email address, details readily available online anyway. Angela assured me the check would arrive within 24 hours.
Sure enough, the next morning, I received an email from someone named Isabella Wilson, with a $3,000 e-check attached. Staring at the digital document, reality slowly dawned on me. This was almost certainly a scam. I decided to test my theory, so I began playing the ’tech-illiterate’ card: “I have no idea how to deposit an e-check. I’ll have to take this to the bank.”
Her reply surprised me: “No problem. Just go to the bank, and they’ll handle it.” This threw me off. If the check was fake, wouldn’t she panic at the mention of the bank? Maybe I was wrong? I decided to deposit the check anyway and see what happened.
Playing the ’tech-illiterate’ was easier than I thought. My kids would probably say I’ve been in ‘method acting’ for that role for years. As I stalled and prevaricated, Angela’s messages grew increasingly urgent.
“Did you deposit the check?” “Can you send me a screenshot of your bank balance?” “When are you going to the bank?”
Every hour brought a new flurry of messages, each urging me for proof of deposited funds. Curiously, she never directly asked me to transfer the money to her. I continued my act, playing the technologically challenged amateur photographer. She wanted screenshots; I said I didn’t know how to take them. She asked for my phone number; I claimed I couldn’t even remember my own.
Meanwhile, the $3,000 in my bank account remained ‘pending,’ so I kept stalling.
By the next day, Angela’s patience had completely run out. “ARE THE FUNDS IN? I NEED YOU TO TRANSFER MY $2,500 IMMEDIATELY!” Okay, she used all caps, various misspellings, and exclamation points, but I’ll spare you the full, eye-watering rendition.
Finally, the scam’s true nature revealed itself. She was banking on me seeing the money hit my account and immediately transferring it to her before the bank discovered it was a fraudulent check.
Then, something unexpected happened: the bank actually cleared the check! I genuinely had $3,000 in my account. I was utterly shocked. This couldn’t be real, could it? Instead of guessing, I did what I should have done from the start: I Googled “Instagram art scam.”
And there it was, documented on various websites. The playbook was always the same: contact amateur photographers, claim inspiration from their work, send a fake check, demand immediate payment, then vanish once the check bounced. But I hadn’t transferred the money, the check had inexplicably cleared, and I happened to be stuck at an airport with hours to kill and a growing desire for payback.
A lightbulb went off in my head: if Angela wanted to waste my time with her ’elaborate performance,’ I’d give her a masterclass in return.
I messaged Angela, barely containing my glee: “Great news! Not only did the check clear, but I’ve found you an incredible opportunity!” I explained that I’d connected with a wealthy art patron who wanted to fund her career. This ‘benefactor’ would provide her with funds and materials, a steady stream of income, and the artistic recognition she deserved.
Angela’s response was noticeably less enthusiastic. She just wanted her money.
But I was just getting started. I began spinning elaborate fantasies about her potential ‘patron,’ asking for a detailed list of supplies, promising to procure everything she needed. Then I started planning her tour itinerary and exhibition schedule. Airport boredom, it turned out, was a wellspring of retaliatory creativity. Angela, however, just wanted a plain canvas and $2,500. I pressed for specifics – what size? What brand of paints? Hours went by in our back-and-forth.
Finally, I asked her to send photos of the supplies she needed. Her ‘Google-fu’ was clearly not as strong as mine; she sent a ridiculous, generic stock photo that looked like a whiteboard with the label ‘canvas board.’
As her frustration mounted, her spelling and grammar took a nosedive.
Sensing Angela’s increasing impatience, I decided to fan the flames even further. I confessed that during our exchanges, I’d developed feelings for her.
“I’m lonely, and I find you incredibly attractive. Could we perhaps have dinner sometime?”
This absolutely set her off, sending her into a rage. Perhaps I’d gone too far, so I retreated slightly, making a less provocative request: a photo of Angela painting. She complied, sending a photo that was, predictably, a Google image.
“That photo makes me want to marry you,” I replied.
Angela was furious, threatening to block me if I didn’t send the money immediately. But she didn’t block me, likely still hoping to ‘salvage’ her scam, so she kept dragging it out. I told her I was painting a portrait of her based on the photo she’d sent and asked if we could split the profits. She gave me five minutes to transfer the money.
Then another five minutes. And another.
Finally, I announced that I had sent her $2,500, plus a little extra for ‘our future.’ She demanded a screenshot as proof; I offered to ‘paint’ her one instead. She insisted on photographic proof within five minutes. I asked if she could first send me a ‘canvas board’ and $2,500 so I could ‘paint’ the screenshot.
This finally pushed her over the edge. Angela immediately blocked me.
Later that same day, my bank reversed the $3,000 deposit. The check had been fraudulent all along, just ‘clever’ enough to temporarily fool the system’s initial processing.
Looking back, Angela had inadvertently taught me a valuable lesson. Her greed and desperation had made her vulnerable to my ‘reverse performance,’ the very same qualities that almost trapped me in her scheme. When the opportunity for easy money presents itself, we’re all willing to suspend our disbelief, if only for a moment.
The irony, of course, isn’t lost on me. While she tried to exploit Charlie’s dreams of stardom and my own entrepreneurial fantasies, I turned her own tactics back on her. Sometimes, the best way to deal with someone trying to play you is to turn their own game against them and make them lose spectacularly.
Charlie didn’t become a supermodel, but we’ll still take great photos at observation decks. However, any ‘inspirational artists’ sending collaboration requests from now on will definitely be put through a rigorous screening process.