Blue Sun, Yellow Sky

by Hoang, Jamie

  “No,” I refused.

  Michael and I stood on the corner of Washington and Park Place in Marina Del Rey after yet another rejection to lease commercial space. My budget was only $750 and I needed a month-to-month lease because if my experiment failed I didn’t want to be stuck in a yearlong contract. This was our thirty-seventh appointment and out of pure frustration I made the mistake of mentioning Shawn’s basement.

  “I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore, I can’t now turn around and use him for his basement,” I said.

  “Yes. You can. It’s called reaching out to a friend when you’re in need. I remember Jeff from your opening, he’s a cowboy. Cowboys love to help to damsels in distress.” He couldn’t help the jab. “If anything is stopping you right now, it’s pride.”

  “You’re telling me that if you were in my situation you’d have no problem calling your ex and asking for help?”

  “He’s your ex now? I thought you just slept together.”

  “Same thing. We have a history—”

  “I’d do it. It’d be hard, but I’d do it,” he said, his tone finite and full of conviction. He wasn’t backing down.

  I hesitated for a long while, then decided to leave it to fate. “I’ll give you the address. We’ll drive there, if someone is home I’ll ask, if no one is home we’ll leave and never speak of this again.”

  “Deal.”

  I handed Michael my phone so he could navigate, and we headed to Hawthorne Heights.

  From the driveway, I could hear music blasting and the sounds of a party. When the door opened, loud laughter and chatter blasted us in a gust of drunken fury.

  “Hi,” I said, competing with Miley Cyrus’s song, “Wrecking Ball,” which reverberated in the background.

  “Aubs!” I heard a male voice shout from across the room. I was about to ask if it was Shawn when I felt myself being lifted off the ground in a giant bear hug.

  “Hi Shawn,” I smiled. One thing he and Jeff had in common was their larger than life hugging. “I never would’ve taken you for a Miley Cyrus type of guy,” I said.

  “She’s my best client!” Shawn laughed, as someone yelled his name from outside. “One sec!” he yelled back. I felt Michael’s gentle arms pull me backward a few steps before the door closed and the music dampened. “Sorry about that. Are you looking for Jeff? Because he moved out about a month ago.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised at how disappointed I was. “Well, actually, I kind of have a favor to ask of you?”

  “Me? Anything. What can I do you for?”

  “When I came here last I remembered there being an empty room in the basement. I was wondering if I could rent it out from you. I need a space that’s completely dark and basements are an anomaly here.”

  “Yeah. Absolutely. Of course, whatever you need,” he said. “Tell you what, I don’t have an extra key right now, but I’ll have it made and ready for you tomorrow morning.”

  “That would be great!” I said.

  “That’s fantastic, thanks so much for helping her out,” Michael added. In my mixed-up jumble of thoughts I had forgotten he was standing there.

  “Oh god. I’m sorry,” I said. “Michael, this is Shawn. Shawn, Michael. Michael is the owner of the gallery that showcases most of my work.”

  “Gotcha. Nice to meet you,” Shawn said. “You two want to come in for a drink? I didn’t mean to be rude and not welcome you in, but as you can tell it’s pretty hard to hear once you cross the threshold.”

  “Maybe next time,” I laughed. “I’m sure I’m underdressed.”

  “You know he’s been trying to reach you right?” Shawn said.

  “I know. It’s just…you know, been a rough transition. Maybe in a couple weeks,” I said. “Should I come by in the evening?” Suddenly I couldn’t get off his doorstep fast enough.

  “Whenever. I’m an early riser. Anytime after eight should be fine.”

  “Eight in the morning?” I asked, incredulous. “You did say tomorrow right?”

  He laughed. “I’m an old man now Aubs, this party started at noon, it’ll be over by midnight and if it isn’t, well, my bed is just upstairs.”

  I smiled, “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  In a single Sunday afternoon, Patrick, Rusty, and Michael arranged the room to my specifications. I asked that they hang black fabric everywhere to cover the white walls and then build a few tables in varying heights. Off to the side, they set up a playpen for Tig with a daybed and some toys.

  I remember thinking my first art class at NYU, Art Fundamentals II, couldn’t have been more of a cliché, but now, having come full circle with photography, I chose to use the same subject: a basket of fruit. For learning purposes, the basket was perfect because it utilized varying colors, lent itself to dark shadows depending on the angle of light, and didn’t move. Testing exposure times and different lighting techniques, I recorded all of the changes I made to each exposure so Patrick and I could discuss everything later. This repetition of trial and error helped make the process automatic and each subsequent exposure bore just a little more creativity than the last.

  Like a pianist who played the same song over and over again until the muscle memory of his fingers learned all of notes and chords, I repeated the process of photographing that basket of fruit using sound and touch. In my mind I held an image, in the dark I set the frame, and slowly, using the careful brushstrokes of light, I built an image for the camera. When I was ready for a real subject, I hired a ballerina to pose for me.

  “I’ve never worked with an artist,” Katrina rambled excitedly as Tig led us into the house and down to the basement. She hadn’t stopped talking since greeting me at the door and discovering I was blind. “It’s amazing how you get around with such ease. I mean really, kudos to you. I don’t know how I’d do it.”

  When we reached the room, I opened the door to let her in before undoing Tig’s harness, letting him know he was off duty. He scampered off toward his playpen and I heard the shake and squeak of a toy as he did whatever dogs do with their stuffed prey.

  “There’s an ‘X’ on the floor, do you see it?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s your mark. The bathroom is two doors down to your left, or you can change here if you’d like. When you’re ready I’d like for you to stand in Attitude, with your bent leg behind and en point.”

  “Okay,” she said, unzipping a bag. “The traffic getting here really wasn’t all that bad. I expected it to take way longer from Hollywood.”

  “That’s good,” I replied, only half-listening.

  Inspired by the Brazilian street dancers who created fleeting images in the air using glow sticks, I came up with a photographic concept involving the controlled use of light. I wrapped a blue gel around my flashlight and turned it on. Pressing my finger to the gel, I waited to feel the heat that would confirm the power was on.

  “Ready,” she said. The girl clearly wasn’t shy about her body considering she hadn’t even bothered to close the door before changing. This was a good sign because my fingers were about to get pretty personal.

  I moved toward her and ran my fingers along the silhouette of her frame. From her feet upward, I adjusted her body to be just slightly askew. In Attitude, she stood on one leg with the other lifted and bent at the knee. Her two arms were shaped like an “L” with one out to the side and the other stretched upward. Once I had it all set up, I shut off the lights and opened the shutter of the camera. Then, as she stood still, I used the flashlight to move around her figure, creating the dance.

  Katrina was a trooper. Because of the long exposure time, each photo took about ten minutes, and if her legs hurt, she never once complained. When we were done, she changed and waited while I packed up my things so we could walk out together.

  “Where are you headed? Do you need a ride?” she asked.

  “No thanks. I take the bus, but thank you for the offer,” I said, holding Tig’s harness in one hand and reachin
g into my bag with the other for the pre-filled-out check I’d stuck in the outermost pocket of my purse. “I’ll call you in a few weeks if you’re interested in seeing the final result.”

  “Absolutely. That would be great,” she said, taking the check from my hand. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” I said, opening the front door for her to exit.

  “I seriously don’t mind dropping you off. The bus system here is terrible,” she offered again.

  I smiled. “I’m okay, really. It’s good practice for Tig.”

  “Okay, well it was great meeting you, Aubrey,” she said, pulling me into a hug like we were old friends.

  “Yeah, you too,” I said.

  Getting to Hawthorne Heights from Venice required two buses and a combined twenty-minute walk, but Tracy mapped out the route with Tig and me during our training sessions and pretty soon, the bus drivers greeted me by name. Once I got over the initial fear of missing my stop and getting lost, the bus was actually a welcome commute. I was rarely ever in a hurry anymore and the time alone allowed me to reflect on and set goals for the work I intended to create. Tig loved coming to the house because Shawn let him run amok in the backyard and, surprise surprise, he loved to swim.

  As I unlocked the door to Patrick’s studio with the key he’d made for me, Tig and I were greeted warmly. “Aubs!” both Patrick and Rusty said, giving me hugs and Tig treats.

  “Good boy,” Patrick cooed, giving Tig a pat as he took his harness from me. I pulled out my walking stick.

  “Is the lab free?” I asked.

  “Yup, all yours,” Patrick replied from across the room.

  “Sweet. Try not to have too much fun without me out here,” I smiled.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rusty said. I laughed.

  I counted twenty-six steps and made a left using my walking stick to make sure I didn’t trip over anything. Once inside the darkroom, I closed the door behind myself. I double-checked the light switch to make sure it was off, and then I got to work. In a lightproof bag, I popped open the film reel and rolled it gently onto a spool, which fit snugly into a tin canister. Once the canister was sealed, I took it out of the bag and brought it to the sink, where I poured in pre-measured developer. I set a stopwatch and agitated the film every thirty seconds for three and a half minutes. Then, wearing gloves, I poured the developer back into its container, added the Blix solution, set a timer for six minutes and twenty seconds, and waited. The process for developing was full of timed-out steps, the last of which took the longest. Once the film was done developing, I opened the canister, carefully shook out any remaining water, separated the film reel, and then, using a clip, unrolled the film and let it hang dry.

  I had repeated this process thousands of times before, but this was different: This was my first creative roll. I imagined for a moment that I could see the filmstrip coming into focus, blurry images crystallizing into solid visuals of my dancer. The first exposure was done with a single blue gel, but the next had layers of orange, and the one after that had green, red, and yellow. How beautiful it must have been to see the progression, to watch the dance unfold on still squares of film?

  Thoughts like this occurred to me all the time—sometimes as keen observations and other times with an emotional gust that made me want to cry. I couldn’t deny that I missed my ability to see. On my best days, I accepted blindness with courage and grace; even if my sight returned, I would never look at the world the same way again. But anger was always just a shin-bump away, and I had to actively participate in the fight against my own negative thoughts. Usually, this was accomplished by focusing on a project, so I prepped my workstation. To adjust for my blindness, Patrick had containers of ambient temperature RA-4 chemicals pre-measured and labeled in braille. As a result, the words ‘color developer,’ ‘stop,’ and ‘fix,’ were the first words I learned to read.

  Using the enlarger was challenging, but we kept things simple by creating only 8x10 prints. This way, the focus knob could be preset. After that, I needed Patrick’s help. There was no way around having to ask him to cut the film negatives for me so that they would fit into the negative holder for enlarging.

  I opened the door and heard them laughing. “Hey Patrick, can you help me cut the negatives?” I asked.

  Rusty came along, and the three of us moved back into the darkroom.

  I listened as Patrick used an air bulb to clear off any dust from the negative. After several quick pumps, he slid the negative back between my fingers, moved across the room to close the door, and said, “Ready.”

  Pulling a sheet of 8x10 photo paper out of a black bag next to the enlarger, I carefully lined the paper with the edges of markers Patrick and I had pre-set. Then, moving my fingers along the upper ledge of the machine, I found the button for red and pressed it down for twelve seconds. I repeated the process for green for fourteen seconds and blue for twenty-four seconds. Sighted people created test strips to gauge proper color and density of contrast, but I didn’t have that option. Patrick started me off with concrete measurements of time and tested me on the resulting image, and once I became comfortable, I began timing things by feel.

  “How does it look?” I asked.

  “Uh-uh,” Patrick stopped me. “How do you think they look?”

  “Well, hopefully it’s in focus and there’s a dancer in the center. Again, hopefully she’s in frame. If I did this properly, she should be illuminated by streaks of blue light. Of course, if I pulled the wrong negative, it could just be a bowl of fruit.”

  I wasn’t looking to make something ‘cool because it was created by a blind person;’ I wanted to create something universally interesting and I knew Patrick wouldn’t lie to me. His opinion mattered most to me, not because he had become my mentor, but because he himself was a photographer.

  “It’s slightly out of focus, but I kind of like it like that,” he said with seriousness. “When did you come up with this?”

  “It’s out of focus?” I asked, disappointed.

  “Just a little,” Patrick assured me. “Aubs, I have an idea. I know you wanted this to be your process, so if you don’t like it I won’t bring it up again, but hear me out.”

  “Okay,” I smiled.

  “There’s this new printing process on metallic paper that I think would make these pieces look stunning. There’s a guy Peter Lik, who uses a similar method is his landscape photos and, because of the reflective nature of the paper, the image changes with the intensity of light.”

  “But that would mean someone else processing it for me?” I wanted this to be my process, something that I crafted and honed in the blind world.

  “It would mean a collaboration,” Patrick corrected. “Not unlike what we’ve been doing together. You’ll have total creative control. And, Rust and I will be with you.”

  “I know your style better than anyone, Aubs. I won’t let them change your vision,” Rusty said.

  I hesitated, but ultimately agreed. “Let’s give it a whirl.”

  “First, let’s celebrate this amazing milestone,” Rusty said, giving me a hug and kiss on the forehead.

  “My little apprentices. They grow up so fast,” Patrick choked.

  I laughed, “Oh, shut up.”

  “I have the perfect bottle of Dom Perignon for this,” Rusty said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Taking the print out into the main studio, Patrick and I sat on the couch. He hunched over the portrait, his voice echoing off the glass coffee table, and I sat back listening.

  “The color, the movement, and the way she pops out at you is really cool. She’s a static dancer and using your flashlight you created her movements. The eye travels across your strokes of light almost involuntarily. I find myself swaying back and forth to a visual rhythm,” Patrick said. “The more I look at this the more I like that it’s slightly out of focus.”

  “You’re not just saying that because I’m blind?” I asked. “I don’t want people cutting me slack because I can’t see.” />
  “It’s not cutting you slack. It’s acknowledging that that’s the detail that makes the portrait unique to you. I heard once that Pink, the singer, breathes extra hard into the microphone so people will know that she’s not lip-syncing and this slightly out of focus detail is proof that this photo was manifested fully in the blind world; yet, it’s an image clearly meant for the seeing one. This piece is transcendent.”

  Just then the door opened and Rusty walked back in, saying, “I have been waiting a long time for an occasion to open this.”

  “Isn’t that the really expensive stuff rappers spray all over the walls and the floor,” I asked.

  “It is,” he replied. “And because we’re middle class, we’re going to drink every last drop.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Foundation

  IT doesn’t matter what they say, I told myself over and over as Carmen removed a clip from my hair and quickly rolled a thin strand along a hot roller. From the moment she sat me down her hands moved like quick fire, and I could only guess what they were doing.

  “You have great hair,” she mused. “I know women who would kill to have natural hair like this.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “My dad was part Italian so I think I inherited it from his side.”

  “Close your eyes for me,” she said, powdering my face. “Are you excited about your opening tonight?” she asked.

  “I’m nervous,” I admitted.

  “Yeah. I could see that. My boyfriend designs skateboards and he’s been doing it for like fifteen years, but he says he still gets nervous when showing them. Look up for me?”

  I tilted my eyes upward and felt the cool brush of liquid eyeliner. “Will he be coming tonight?” I asked.

  “No, he’s in Atlanta visiting family, but he told me to tell you that he’s a big fan.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  When she was done with my make-up, she took down the rollers from my hair, tossed the curls, added a little hairspray, and squeezed my shoulders. “This might be one of my best looks yet. Do you mind if I take a photo for my portfolio?”