Depth of Field

by Chantel Guertin

  The light’s red for us, but people step out in front of cars coming from the right anyway, hurrying across between cars. Ramona and I stay put on the curb, and I look up, still in awe at just how tall the buildings are and just how many of them there are. Wherever you’re standing, you get a different view of the city.

  When the light turns green, we hurry across the street. “Ooh,” Ramona says, pointing to one of those vendor tables that’s set up on the corner. “Let’s check out the scarves.” A bright rainbow of faux silk streams from a black wire rack that sits atop the table. Knockoff designer handbags hang from hooks around the outside of the table, and on top are rows of sunglasses, braided leather bracelets, silver rings and earrings.

  “You need sunglasses? Sunglasses?” The guy standing behind the table says as I pick up a pair of big, black Chanel-like glasses. He’s wearing one of those oversized fisherman’s sweaters and holds out a blue plastic mirror with a huge crack down the middle for me to see my reflection.

  Ramona wraps an orange and purple scarf around her neck, then turns to me, lips pursed. “What do you think? Those are great on you, you should get them.”

  “You like the scarf?” The guy says. “That and that,” he points at the scarf and my sunglasses, “twenty-five dollars.”

  “Fifteen,” Ramona says.

  He shakes his head. “Twenty.”

  “Done. You have ten dollars?” she asks me. I pull out my wallet, feeling guilty that I’m spending part of my Vantage Point winnings on sunglasses. Even though I won $1,500 at Vantage Point I told myself I should save as much as I could for college, and that I’d only spend some of it while here if it was something quintessentially New York or photo-related and really enhanced my New York experience. Do sunglasses really count? I pull them off to inspect them.

  “You need those sunglasses,” Ramona says. “They’re awesome, and whenever you wear them you’ll remember you got them in New York,” she adds, as though hearing my thoughts.

  I hand over a tenner and pop the sunglasses back on, and then we head down Waverly to the next intersection. “There it is.” Brad’s is kitty-corner to us, the white square sign sticking out of the side of the building, the head of some guy—Brad, I guess?—in the middle of a roulette wheel–like black and white striped circle. We walk around to the front door. Ramona pulls it open and I follow her in. Arcade Fire’s pumping through the speakers and the place is packed. “There’s apparently a super-cute guy working the sandwich bar. Ooh, grab that table,” she says, pointing to the last free table by the wall of windows. “What do you want?”

  “Whatever you’re getting,” I say and she nods. I reach into my wallet to give her another ten and she heads over to join the order line.

  I put my new sunglasses on the table, my coat on the back of the chair and sit down, looking around the place, taking it all in: a girl bent over a textbook, a group of four girls laughing over their sandwiches, a guy intent on his laptop screen. All students. And even though it’s probably a super stressful time of year—most students are handing in their end of term projects or writing exams—there’s an energy in the air, like everyone’s happy about how stressed out they are, because they’re creating and doing what they love. Or so I imagine.

  “I got you a chicken club,” Ramona says as she places a red plastic tray on our table. “And me a phone number.” She holds up her phone and does a little dance on the spot. She checks over her shoulder to see if the guy’s watching, then sits down, laughing. “Are you pumped about the Seventeen photographer?” she asks, taking a sip of her Coke.

  “I guess,” I say, then take a bite of sandwich.

  “Why’d you want Westerly?”

  I tell her about David. How he was Dad’s best friend in college. How they met right here in New York, at Tisch in first year, and were friends throughout school, but then lost touch after Dad and Mom moved back to Spalding and David stayed in New York. How David’s exhibit, when it came to Spalding, was the last photo exhibit—the last real event Dad and I shared together before … I shake off the thought. I don’t want to think about Dad being dead. Being here in New York, it’s a chance for me to find out more about Dad when he was alive, in his twenties, at Tisch, like I hope to be soon enough.

  Ramona’s listening intently while scarfing her sandwich. She wipes her mouth with a brown paper napkin and takes a long sip of her drink.

  “Wow, that sucks that you didn’t get him. Maybe you can trade with Ben?”

  I shake my head. “Let me tell you about Ben.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “What makes a good photographer?” Mikael Fournier asks after we get back from lunch. He was another one of the judges at Vantage Point and is going to be one of our instructors too. He’s wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck that has what looks like silver reflective tape running down the sleeves.

  “This,” Connor says, holding up the new Nikon D7100. “It kicks serious ass.”

  “Does it?” Mikael challenges. “Consider this. You go to dinner at a world-famous chef’s house. Say … Gordon Ramsay. After the meal, what do you say? You tell him he must have a great oven? Slick pots? Nice pans?”

  “Not if you don’t want to get kicked out of his crib,” Julian says, snapping his fingers for effect.

  “Exactly.” Mikael points at him. Nods and murmurs abound.

  “So is it the camera or is it the photographer? There are some days I’m tired of lugging around my Nikon 8560, as much as I love it. So I don’t. But I always have a camera with me. Even if it’s this.” He holds up his iPhone. “And a lot of the time, you can’t tell the difference.” He hits a switch on the computer at the front and the projector lights up. Two images appear, side by side on the screen. “Which one did I shoot with the traditional camera?” On the left is a guy running over a bridge—maybe the Brooklyn bridge? I can’t be sure. On the right are two guys playing chess on one of those stone tables in a park.

  There are some shouts for right, some for left.

  “I’m not going to tell you,” Mikael says. “The point is this: if it’s shot by a good photographer, you can’t always tell.”

  “So … this was a waste of money,” Ramona whispers, lightly tapping her massive camera bag on the floor with her toe. She has every kind of lens and filter imaginable in it. I feel a bit amateur. Sure, I’ve got two cameras—my Canon Rebel DSLR and Dad’s film Nikon—but only one lens on each. I don’t even bother with a camera bag.

  “Tonight we’ll do an experiment. You choose your camera, and we see who’s the best photographer here. Three bands—mostly students who came out of Tisch—are playing a fundraising show at XYZ. This is not only a test of your skills, but it’s also your first test to see how serious you really are about photography. I say this every year and no one believes me but some of you are actually here to be photographers. Some of you think you are but will soon lose interest. And some of you—about 10%—are destined to fail. That’s right. One in ten. That’s two of you. Look around. Two of you won’t even make it to the end of the two weeks.”

  I wonder how you could care enough about photography to win Vantage Point and make it to Photo Camp at Tisch, only to get here and drop out, and I decide Mikael’s just doing one of those things you see in college movies—that whole scare tactic to get us to freak out and pay attention.

  He hands out plastic-covered press passes, and I slip my lanyard around my neck proudly. Then I realize that’s kind of a dork move, take it off and slip it in my bag.

  Graydon Hall is this hive of energy and activity. There’s a moment around 8:00 where I’m on my bed, blue Sabres blanket wrapped around me, staring at my phone and wondering why I ever made the promise not to text Dylan during these two weeks, when this towel monster bursts through the door. It sheds approximately 57 pounds of wet terrycloth and reveals itself to be Ramona, who stares at me incredulously. “What are you doing? We have to go in 20 minutes! Get up!” She slams the door shut behind her, and the huge or
ange cutout of Greenland that Ramona made and stuck to our door disappears.

  Savida comes in, looking to borrow a hairdryer, and the next knock on the door is from Julian. “Why is there a werewolf head on your door?” he asks, but before either Ramona or I can explain that it’s actually supposed to be Greenland, he’s moved on, wanting to know whether we want to do a shot of Jäger in his room and Ramona quells that one: “No time!”

  Which is pretty much the exact point I realize I haven’t given any thought to what I’m going to wear. On my first night out in New York City.

  What do people wear in New York City?

  “Well, what are your options?” Ramona asks.

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  “What out loud? You were staring into the closet. Which is what people do when they can’t figure out what to wear.”

  Ramona styles me: tights under my wrinkled black dress, which looks too plain and conservative until Ramona hands me her black leather jacket with about a million zippered pockets and a scarf, and then I pull on my distressed black leather Frye ankle boots that thankfully make every outfit look punk rock. I hand Ramona a stack of my bangles to complete her outfit. And then Ramona pulls me toward the elevator and Julian and Savida both end up in there with us, and then we’re dashing out to the sidewalk to meet Tilly and Todd—two seniors who’ve been put in charge of us for the week. They’re rounding everyone up and ushering them into cabs, and a minute later we’re piling into one.

  XYZ is this huge warehouse on the Hudson River where tons of bands have played, and there’s a lineup of people at least a hundred long waiting to get inside by the time our cab pulls up to the curb outside the club. “How are we ever going to get in?” Savida asks and I giggle. “Media passes, silly,” I say, twirling the red lanyard around my finger as we hurry across the parking lot.

  I pull my camera out of my bag and snap a few pics of the lineup, then hurry to catch up to my new friends. Ramona and Julian are up ahead, Savida and me following, and it feels like everybody in the line is not-so-silently hating us. Then there’s a split-second of panic, like what if our passes don’t work, but Ramona goes first, stands on tiptoe to shout into the ear of the ’roided up Mr. Universe moonlighting as a bouncer, and he glances at her pass and nods. And we’re in.

  We pass through a main entrance where another round of security guards pat us down and make us open our bags. We stand in the line for coat check and then we’re through another set of black metal doors and inside the venue. The place is colossal, with ceilings that shoot up into darkness, far past the rafters that have bright neon tube lights—orange and green and red and blue—running across them, like huge Star Wars–esque light sabers. Disco balls drop from intersecting rafters every few feet. Music pumps from the 20-foot speakers that line the walls—the first band’s already playing up on a stage that’s as deep as it is wide, with blood-red velvet curtains framing the opening, giving it a strangely intimate feeling given that there’s got to be at least three hundred people packed inside. Ramona grabs my hand and I grab Savida’s and Savida grabs Julian’s and we snake our way through the crowd until we’re at the bar.

  It’s too loud to ask her what she’s doing, so instead I snap some pics of the bar, and then the glasses on the bar, and then there’s a glass with some sort of yellowish drink really close to my lens and I lower my camera and Ramona is pushing the glass into my face.

  “Drink this!” she screams. I take a sip and realize it’s definitely not soda. Red Bull, I think, plus something else. Vodka? Rum? Who knows. It’s sweet and goes down easy. Too easy, I think as Savida whoops, laughs, downs her drink and disappears into the crowd. Ramona slams her drink back on the counter and holds up two fingers.

  I snap more photos of our drinks, of Ramona, a few selfies of Ramona and me, and then lean over to get closer to Ramona’s ear. “We should go shoot the band,” I say, but she shakes her head and points at the stage. “The band disappeared!”

  She laughs and hands me another drink. “Drink up!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Everything’s foggy, like I’m looking at my room through a plastic shower curtain. I sit up, but it feels as if an elastic band is pulling my head back to the pillow. I squeeze my eyes shut, open them and focus on the clock beside my bed. Which says 8:20. At night? No, that can’t be right. We didn’t get to the concert until after 8:20 last night. Ohhhhhhh …

  The concert.

  Ten minutes to get to class.

  I yelp, then sit straight up. “Ramona! Get up. We’re gonna be late!”

  Ramona moans and rolls over. I throw my pillow at her head. She swats at it, then sits up, and I can’t help but crack up. Her curls stick out from her head like an orange tumbleweed. Plus, her eye makeup’s gone burglar mask.

  “You should see yourself.”

  Ramona glances at the clock. “You’re one to talk.”

  I stand up and instantly feel like I’m on a gravity ride at the amusement park—the kind that spins you around, pushing you back into the padded wall. Sitting down feels slightly better. “Ten minutes!” Ramona reminds me and I’m back up and wearing the same clothes I wore last night. I look in the mirror.

  “Let’s just go,” I say, and Ramona moans but puts her shoes on. A look in the mirror convinces me to pull an oversized knit hat over my matted hair. Ramona stuffs her curls under a wool cap. I grab a tissue to swipe under my eyes where my mascara’s smeared and snatch my keys and bag off the desk. It’s heavy—at least I didn’t lose my camera last night. Ramona follows me out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and we race down the hall to the elevator.

  “Come on come on come on,” I encourage it. Finally the doors open and we push our way into the empty car.

  Out onto West 3rd, we race up Thompson into Washington Square Park to the fountain in the middle, and then I yell, “Which way?” because yesterday we went the wrong way and so I’m not sure if left was wrong or right, but she points right and we run out through the park and down whatever street that is till the very end, which is Broadway, with the big Superdry store across the street and the American Apparel a few doors down from that, and I remember this is where we turn left, and then the building’s smack there, and then we’re back in an elevator, heading up to the eighth floor and flying down the hall to class. Ramona throws open the door and two dozen sets of eyes—including Mikael’s—are suddenly on us as we stop, surveying the room. There are only two seats left—one on the right of the semicircle, at the front next to the instructor’s podium, and one on the left, in the middle. Ramona tilts her head to the right, bugging her eyes out at me, indicating she’ll take the front-row hotspot, which I’m sure she thinks is the nice thing to do because she’s got to edge past six more seats than me, but the empty chair she’s left me with is actually worse: it’s beside Ben. I keep my eyes on the ground, and then in one continuous motion lift the writing tablet, slide into the seat, lower the writing tablet and drop my bag to the floor.

  And then Ben is putting one of two Styrofoam cups that were on his writing tablet onto mine, as Mikael clears his throat and continues talking, as though we haven’t totally interrupted the class.

  “Drink it,” Ben whispers.

  I shake my head vehemently.

  “It’s coffee,” he adds.

  I lean over and take a whiff.

  “Trust me, you’ll feel better. I saw you last night. Figured you’d need it.”

  Mikael claps his hands. “All right. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “Shit,” Ramona mouths at me from across the room. “I forgot my camera.”

  I’m glad I remembered mine, but when I press Play to see what my shots are like, I feel sicker than I already feel, if that’s possible.

  The first few pics aren’t terrible. For the lineup of show-goers outside the building, I employed the rule of thirds, my practiced technique. Inside, I captured the setting: the red velvet drapes that framed the stage, the disco ball hanging from the
center of the ceiling, streams of glittery light on the walls. But then what comes next is just plain awful: Ramona and Savida at the bar, the bartender, pics of our drinks, pics of our empty glasses, more glasses—full, empty, full, empty—selfies where we’re only half in the frame, and then a bunch of blurry photos of the band. I don’t even know which band it is, the pics are so fuzzy. I remember bumping up the ISO to 1600, opening up my aperture and lowering my shutter speed to compensate for the poor lighting, but I would’ve had to hold my camera dead still to ensure I got blur-free photos. Or better yet, had a GorillaPod tripod, which I do have. Only it’s lost, somewhere, in Greeneland.

  Now I vaguely remember seeing the headlining band play, dancing with Ramona, laughing and having so much fun, but taking pictures? That doesn’t ring a bell.

  “I can always tell the ones who had a good time.” Mikael looks around the room. “Ramona, why don’t you go first?”

  Ramona lifts her head from her arms, where she’s been resting them on top of the desk, shakes her head, sort of grunts out something incomprehensible, then slumps back down again. I quickly pop the memory card out of my camera and am about to tuck it in my bag, out of sight, so I can fib that I left it back at the dorm in my computer, after a morning of editing, but I’m not quick enough.

  “Pippa? I’ll take that.” He strides forward until he’s standing in front of me, on the other side of my desk, hand outstretched.

  I hand him the memory card. He walks briskly back to the front, pops the memory card in the computer and projects it onto the main screen. I grimace and shut my eyes.

  “So you did make it there,” Mikael says, and I open my eyes again. “Anything from say, inside?” He clicks through the images.

  “I forgot my tripod,” I offer up.

  “Clearly,” Mikael says. The snickers from around the room make it 10 times worse.

  “I know it’s not my best work,” I mumble.