by Amy Cross
"It's beautiful," I say, taking a deep breath.
"It's got all those fancy numbers on the lens," my mother says. "The guy in the shop told me they're all about focusing and things like that."
"F-numbers," I reply, lost in thought. "I've read about all this stuff, but I've never actually been able to try it out. I'm gonna have to get a book from the library and start learning all the different techniques."
"There's a manual in the box," my mother says, reaching in and pulling out a thick little book. "See?"
"It's gonna take me years to learn how to use this properly," I reply, turning to her. "I mean, if you guys are expecting, like, amazing photos from the start, that's not gonna happen. I'm gonna make a lot of mistakes. This is a real piece of equipment, and I have to master it properly. It's not, like, a point and click kinda deal."
"We know," my mother says with a grin. "We just want you to be happy."
"But you can take some photos at your uncle Steve's barbecue next Sunday, right?" my father adds. "You'll have mastered it enough by then, yeah? Just a few action shots, try to avoid too much red-eye."
"Sure," I reply, even though my mind is already filling with thoughts of all the projects I can finally get off the ground. "I'll need to get another part-time job, though," I add, "just to pay for all the film." I pause. "Would it be okay if I turn my bedroom into a darkroom?"
"Isn't it already?" my father asks with a snort. "You never open the damn drapes."
"You know what I mean," I continue. "It'll take a while, but eventually I'd like to develop my own photos once I've taken them. That's half the art. I mean, you have to time everything just right, and you can really affect how the picture looks if you get it wrong. A photographer who gets someone else to develop her images is really only half a photographer."
"Doesn't that require a lot of chemicals?" my mother asks, looking concerned. "I'm not sure it's safe, honey. Wouldn't it be flammable? We don't want a lot of chemicals in the house."
"I'll be careful," I reply, "and anyway, this is all totally a long way off. I'm just thinking about cutting processing times in the medium and long term, that's all, and taking control of my work."
"We'll see," my mother says evasively, "but for now, you've got two whole rolls of film, and you can get them developed down at the pharmacy. Aren't you dying to get started?"
"Save one roll for the barbecue," my father mutters.
"Ignore him," my mother says with a smile.
"Ignore me," my father sighs. "Good advice. Works for most people."
"Go on," my mother adds, "take your new camera and go have fun."
"Thank you so much," I reply, giving her another hug. "This is the best gift ever! I swear to God, I won't let you down!"
"Just enjoy it," she replies, with tears in her eyes. "After everything you went through this year, you deserve it. I can't imagine how anyone could have been braver or stronger, and you beat that damn cancer. Now it's time to really let your hair down and catch up on all those things you couldn't do while you were in hospital, okay? Get some happiness back into those eyes."
"Okay," I reply, heading over to the table and picking up the camera. "I need to go to my room," I add after a moment, "and figure out how it works."
And with that I'm off, carrying the camera and the box through to my dark little bedroom, before pulling the drapes open to let sunlight stream through and then sitting on the bed so I can start getting ready. For the next couple of hours, I read every page of the manual twice over, while gradually starting to learn about all the buttons and dials on the camera. I load the film and check the viewfinder, and finally I realize that I'm ready to get started. I turn and look over at the window, and my mind races with all the possibilities. I'm scared, sure, but in a good way. I've spent so long dreaming of having a proper camera, and now I have no more excuses.
Finally, hanging the camera around my neck, I hurry out of her room, shout at her parents not to expect me home for dinner, and race out the front door, ready to face the world and capture its images. For the first time in ages, I'm not scared of anything.
Today
Leaning over the toilet, I stare down at the water and wait for the next wave of nausea to hit. As soon as I walked through the door of my apartment, it hit again: that stomach-churning feeling that there's something that needs to come up. I haven't eaten much for the past few days, other than a few bowls of rice and beans, so I really don't think I've done anything to inflame my stomach. Instead, it's probably just another phantom sickness. Still, phantom or not, it's a sensation I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, and I know that there's still a chance I'll throw up.
Still, at least there's no blood this time. Just yellow, foamy bile.
After half an hour or so, the feeling seems to have died down and I allow myself to relax a little. Sitting back and leaning against the bathroom wall, I take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. These little attacks are happening more and more frequently: at first they came a couple of times a week, then it was almost one a day, and now it's usually one around lunchtime and another in the evening. I wouldn't say they're as regular as clockwork, but I definitely notice if they don't happen.
This is all horribly familiar. The pain, the nausea... I've been here before, and the thought of going through all of that misery again is almost impossible to bear. I learned a long time ago to seal that part of my life up and forget about it, so why is my body apparently determined to keep delivering reminder after reminder?
Reaching out and flushing the toilet, I get to my feet, check myself in the mirror, and turn to go back through to the dark room. I haven't had the sharp, stabbing pain yet. Every time I get a nausea attack, it's always followed by a little twinge in my belly. It's agony, but at the same time it serves to let me know that the attack is over, so it's kind of comforting. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see that I'm looking slightly pale. I take a deep breath, and then - as I turn to go out the door - I feel the pain as it briefly slices into my gut. I pause for a moment, letting it pass, and finally I clear my throat before going through to get on with my work.
Twenty-five years ago
As soon as I press the button, there's a brief whirring sound, followed by a click, and then another whirring sound.
Done.
My first picture with a proper camera.
Lowering the camera, I stare at the bush. It's not exactly an inspiring subject, but I have to start somewhere. I'm sure the photo I just took is going to turn out to be totally blurry, since I've yet to master even the most basic elements of photography, but I figure the best approach is to just shoot of a roll, take notes of each photo's settings, and then get the film developed. That way, I should have a better idea of what works and what doesn't.
Getting to my feet, I stroll along the street, looking for other things to use for practice. Although there's a part of me that wants to immediately start taking Pulitzer-winning pictures, I know deep down that I need to learn how to crawl before I start running. Besides, there's plenty of time for me to learn; Diane Arbus didn't really get her career started until her early twenties, and Cindy Sherman started out as a painter before switching to photography, so it's not like I have to shoot off straight as an arrow right away.
I've got all the time in the world.
Stopping on the sidewalk, I watch as Mr. Hermann from the end house carries a bucket of water over to his car. He's an overweight, hulking man whose face goes bright red when he has to do even the slightest exercise, and I can't help but feel amused by the sight of him struggling to wash his car. Smiling, I raise my camera and take a photo, and then another as he starts dipping a sponge into the water. I know I shouldn't waste too many shots on one subject, but there's something kind of fascinating about the situation, so I take a couple more, until suddenly he turns and stares straight at me.
"What are you doing?" he calls out breathlessly.
I stare at him through the viewfinder.
"
You think this is funny?" he asks. "Go fuck yourself!"
Slowly, I lower the camera.
"Did you hear me?" he shouts. "Fuck off!" With that, he pulls a gun from the holster around his waist and holds it up for me to see. "You're shooting pictures? I shoot this. Now fuck off!"
Feeling intensely embarrassed, I turn and hurry away. I thought he wouldn't mind having his photo taken, but I guess he's sensitive about his appearance. When I get a few meters away, I glance over my shoulder and see that he's still watching me. It never occurred to me that anyone wouldn't want to be photographed, but I guess some people are just a bit weird. Next time, I'll have to be more sneaky.
Today
"A presence on the steps". That's what the priest said. "A presence on the steps". It's not much of a hint, but it's a lot more than I've ever had before. It's a step forward.
Once I've poured the developer into the tank, I start the timer and hit the push-cap. I stand in complete silence, bathed in red light, and once a minute has passed I give the tank a shake for a few seconds. This is always my favorite part of the process: I've done it all so many times, I can switch my mind off completely and just get on with the whole process via auto-pilot. I don't need to remind myself what to do; instead, my hands just get on with the job, and my brain falls silent. At first, I used to get scared when I'd realize I hadn't been thinking for a few minutes, but later I learned to embrace this part of the process as a welcome relief. For almost ten minutes, I'm able to just work mechanically, and the only thought that crosses my mind is the vague awareness that at some point I'm going to have to come out of this trance and start thinking again. In a perfect world, though, everything would be like this. All the time.
"A presence on the steps". That voice keeps going around and around in my head.
Once I've set up the fixer and the wetting agent, I find myself approaching the crucial moment. All that's left now is for the thirty-two images to be dried, which means that the main part of my job is done and I can only wait. The initial images will appear fairly quickly, but it's not the initial images that interest me. I'm waiting for something else; something that only appears a few hours later. Of course, the odds of it appearing at all are pretty slim. Over the past year, I've taken between thirty-two and ninety-six photos every single day, which makes a total of almost thirty thousand; out of that huge collection, only eleven images have revealed what I'm looking for, which means my strike rate is a little under 0.05%. Still, it's that 0.05% that makes the other 99.95% worthwhile.
The waiting is hard enough on a normal day, but this afternoon it's excruciating. I usually have no idea whether I've managed to capture his image, but this time I can't help interpreting the priest's words as a gentle hint. That phrase, "a presence on the steps," seems like a perfect description of the figure that appears in a small selection of my photos. As I wait for the latest photos to develop, I head over to the portfolio where I keep the previous images. It's strange, but while this started out as a kind of crazy chase from church to church, it's grown to become an all-consuming project that devours my every waking moment. Opening the portfolio, I take a deep breath as I contemplate the possibility that this entire situation might eventually lead to something. At first, I thought I was losing my mind; it's only in recent months that I've begun to accept that it's all true.
And there they are. Eleven photos, taken over the course of a year at various churches around New York. Each of them shows a distant figure, standing next to the church and staring up at its walls, as if he wants to enter but can't get through the door. He looks like a late-middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and shoulder-length, straggly dark hair. He's always wearing a dark coat, with a black scarf around his neck, and while he's got his back to me in some of the images, in others I can see the side of his face: his eyes have dark rings under them, and there's thick stubble on his chin. It's not the most unusual thing in the world, until you take into account the fact that the man wasn't there when I took the photo; he wasn't even there when the photos was initially developed. On each occasion, he only appeared a few hours later. The first time, I assumed I just hadn't noticed him. The second time, my interest was piqued but I assumed there was a rational explanation. By the third time, I was starting to wonder what it meant. By the tenth and eleventh times, I knew something else was happening. I still don't understand what, but every time he appears on another photo, I feel as if I'm getting closer to an answer.
Putting the portfolio away, I take a deep breath, reminding myself not to get too excited. I develop new pictures every day, and nine times out of ten I don't find what I'm looking for. But those days when he appears... those days are worth waiting for. Those are the days that make everything else worthwhile.
Even though it's too early to really see anything, I head over to the other side of the room and check the first picture. An image of St. Abraham's has already developed, but there's nothing of interest. It's just an image of the front of the church, with nothing to see on the steps at all. I move on to the second picture, and then the third, and then the fourth and the fifth and the sixth, but there's still nothing. Once again, I'm in an almost trance-like state as my eyes dart across the images, desperately searching for any sign of his face. As I reach the fifteenth image, I start to get a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. What if he's not here? What if I allowed myself to be fooled by a rambling old priest? Finally, just as I'm on the verge of accepting that I won't find anything, I reach the final picture.
And there it is.
To the untrained eye, it would probably seem like nothing at all. Just a smudge at the top of the steps. I know better, though. It looks like a smudge, but it's not a smudge; I'm too careful, too exact and precise, to allow my images to smudge. I taught myself long ago to complete this process over and over again, without a single mistake. When a smudge appears, it's not because of some imperfection in my technique. It's him. After fifty-four days of failure, I've caught him again. I know it's him, or at least it will be, once the image has matured properly.
Heading over to the diary I keep for these occasions, I grab a pen and write today's date, followed by the name of the church and finally the number one. I don't need to keep these records, of course, since all the information is burned into my memory; still, there might come a time when I have trouble remembering everything, so it's good to have a back-up. Besides, the diary helps me keep track of things I might not otherwise notice. It's been thirty-eight days since the last time I found the man in one of my photos, which is a little longer than the average gap. I'd begun to develop this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, as if maybe I'd lost the trail. But that was needless worry; he's still out there, and my work can continue.
I swear to God, I'm not crazy.
Stepping out of the dark room, I take a deep breath once I'm in the hallway. I tend not to notice it when I'm working on images, but the chemicals can really linger in the air. As I wander through to the brightly-lit kitchen at the rear of the apartment, I remind myself that it'd probably be wise to take a few more breaks here and there, just to make sure that I don't breathe in too many fumes. Then again, I've been doing this long enough, so if anything bad was going to happen, I'm pretty sure it would've manifested itself by now. There was a brief time when I wondered if my nausea and cramping was possibly caused by the chemicals I use for developing the images, but a little research has suggested that this can't be the case. I pour myself a glass of water and make a mental note to do some more reading on the subject when I get time. If I get time. Unfortunately, it's starting to look as if time is something that's going to run out sooner rather than later. I know that. He knows that. It's fated.
"Hey," I say, after I've grabbed my phone and brought up Robert's number. "Are you free later today?" I wait as he checks his diary. "Cool," I continue, once he's confirmed he's got an open slot. "About three? That's fine. I'll see you at the Godolphin, but I have to be done by four 'cause I need to get across town, so I
really need you not to be late". I wait for him to offer all the usual promises about how he won't be late and how he'll be there bang on three. "Please try to be on time," I add, before disconnecting the call. It bugs me when Robert's late, but I really need to see him today. To be blunt, I'm horny and I need to clear my mind of distractions. Without a clear mind, I'm useless.
Wandering back through to the dark room, I slip through the door and head over to take a look at the images as they dry. As I'd hoped, the picture of the top of the steps is definitely showing evidence of something unusual, although this particular 'something' is clearly developing at a much slower rate than the rest of the image. Smiling, I realize that once again I'm dragging him kicking and screaming into the light. Every time I find a smudge on a newly-developed image, I feel myself becoming more and more confident that I'm onto something. It's a tantalizing prospect, slowly reeling this mystery in so that I can get a better look at what's happening. By tonight, though, I'll be able to see his face again, and I can't help thinking that I must be getting closer and closer to the truth. Taking a deep breath, I set the timer before heading out of the dark room. By the time I get back later today, I'm confident that the smudge will have become a full image of the man. After fifty-four days, I've finally found him again.
Twenty-five years ago
Slowly, and with great difficulty, Mr. Hermann lifts the bucket and pours the rest of the water over his car. He lets out a couple of obscenities as the water splashes down and soaks his feet, and finally he steps back and admires his work.
From my hidden vantage point in the bushes, I take another picture.
Wiping his brow, he turns and starts lumbering back toward his front door. I take yet another picture, until finally he's disappeared inside his house. Lowering the camera, I can't help feeling that I might have just completed my first proper photographic study. I got fifteen images of him during the various stages of washing the car, and even if they're technically not very good, I'm convinced they'll at least be interesting.