by Dana Gynther
She raised her glass to him. “To the new boss of me.”
Man laughed. “I can’t see that anyone could be the boss of you, Lee Miller. You’re headstrong, impulsive, hedonistic . . .” He tweaked her knee under the tablecloth, then let his hand glide upward a few inches, inside her skirt. “And I’m absolutely crazy about you.”
With a light frisson, she kissed him again, but slowly. “And I, you.”
By the time they arrived back to Paris, tanned and rested, they were more than lovers. They were a couple.
V
On Campagne-Première, Lee and Man walked together to his large Art Nouveau building, the one where she had stood at the door, so disappointed, just a month before. Hand in hand, they passed through the iron and glass gateway, under the muse, and into the courtyard. He unlocked the door and, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, invited her inside.
Lee looked around the well-lit salon. The walls were covered with his esoteric oil paintings and extraordinary photographs, and every available space—except for the somber corner with the posing chair, backed by a white screen—was filled. Mannequins, masks, chessboards, gramophone records, arrangements of cubes, cones, and pyramids, a grown-up’s building blocks. Near the door, a steep, narrow staircase led up to the bedroom.
“These studios are some of the best in Paris,” he said, watching her look around. “We’ve got gas, electricity, telephone, radiators, a toilet—pretty high-class for the art world. The darkroom’s in here.” He showed her a nook that used to be a balcony.
Although Lee was surprised to see his darkroom was so small—was her father’s bigger?—she could see he kept everything in meticulous order. This was where those magical transformations took place: chemical light painting.
“It’s swell, Man,” she said, putting her arms around him tightly. “The whole place. I love it. You’re an angel for having me here.”
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” He slid his hand up her bare back—she was wearing a halter in the Parisian summer heat—up to her neck, clasped her short hair, and kissed her. “Let’s go to a café. I want to show you around your new neighborhood.”
“I’d like that. When I lived in Paris before, I hardly ever came to this part of town.”
“Are you kidding? It’s hard to imagine anyone—anyone worth knowing, that is—living in Paris without spending most of their time in Montparnasse. Where were you, then?”
“Here and there. When I was eighteen, I had a Polish countess as a chaperone. That may sound grand, but she was completely broke, which was why she was with me. She booked us rooms in the Place Clichy, and from the very first day I thought there was something fishy going on. I mean, every time you passed through the hall, different men’s shoes were lined outside all the doors, innocently waiting to be shined. It took the countess a full week to realize we were staying in a whorehouse!”
Man burst out laughing, prompting her to grin. She loved the rich sound of his laugh, the way his eyes half closed.
“Afterward—when I’d ditched my chaperone—I spent most of my time in Montmartre, studying lighting, costume, and stage design with László Medgyes. We’d go to the big theaters on the Right Bank, too, mostly to criticize their old-fashioned ideas. In the world of stagecraft, Medgyes is a genius.”
“I’ve heard of him. Hungarian, isn’t he? They say he’s quite the ladies’ man.” Man glanced over at Lee, then nonchalantly picked up his hat.
“Medgyes claimed to admire my intellect,” Lee breathed, “but what he really liked were my tits.” She watched as Man’s brow began to furrow, then clapped him on the back with a laugh. She’d discovered his jealous streak at the beach and sometimes liked to tease him. “Oh, come on, lover boy. Let’s go.”
They took a right and began strolling toward the boulevard, Lee hanging on his arm. Thrilled to be staying with him, she was delighted to find Man every bit as pleased. Giddy as a child, he was eager to both impress her and show her off. He pointed out the small flats of poets and painters she’d never heard of, and then, as they neared the end of Campagne-Première, he stopped quite suddenly.
“This is where the bistro Chez Rosalie used to be,” he said, gesturing to a pair of boarded-up windows. “She was a real Italian mamma, a hot-tempered old softie. She’d feed poor artists for sketches that she’d tack up on the wall. Of course, she’d feed stray dogs for nothing. Rats, too, for that matter.”
Lee scanned the splintery wooden planks, just as happy they wouldn’t be eating there, landmark or not. When they rounded the corner, Man paused again. This façade was covered with stylized cowboys and Indians whose faded paint was chipping.
“And this is the Jockey Club,” he said with a flourish. “It was the first real nightclub in Montparnasse and was jam-packed every night. We spent a lot of time here, Kiki and me.”
It wasn’t the first time Man had mentioned his former lover, the woman in the photographs that had mesmerized Lee. They’d been together for six years before splitting up the year before, and she still played a role in his life—though what role was unclear. At the Wheelers, her name had come up often in nostalgic conversations about summers past and the film Emak Bakia, which she appeared in: driving his car, dancing, stretching on the beach. In the last few weeks, Lee had also learned that, apart from being Man Ray’s muse and main subject for years, Kiki was famous in her own right. She was a singer, a model, an actress, an artist—hell, she’d even published her memoirs earlier that year. And for her magnetic personality—endearingly provocative, upbeat and saucy, generous to a fault—she’d been crowned the Queen of Montparnasse.
As Man’s former girlfriend, Lee knew that Kiki had been extremely passionate. Over cocktails in Biarritz, they’d told hilarious anecdotes about her smashing plates, screaming obscenities, and awarding brisk slaps; privately, Lee guessed that it was also thanks to Kiki that Man was so well schooled in bed. On the whole, Lee found her legendary predecessor intimidating. Not only was Kiki beautiful and versatile and the leading lady in scads of charming stories, but she was an important part of the Paris that Man loved. An essential player on the Montparnasse scene. Whenever he mentioned her name, Lee made a point of appearing cool and unruffled while, on the inside, she deflated a bit.
“So, is the Jockey Club still a good place for a night on the town?”
“Not really. People go to bigger, flashier restaurants and bars nowadays: le Dôme, le Select, la Coupole . . . They’re open all night with food, music, and dancing. You never know who you might see there—sometimes the most interesting folks in town, sometimes just poseurs or tourists. So, what are you up for? Seafood? Eggs? A steak?”
At a cramped table on a terrace, they shared two dozen raw oysters and a bottle of white wine, watching the passersby squeeze between the outlying café chairs and the busy street: women in elegant hats and sleeveless pastel shifts, men overly warm in three-piece suits, stray cats stalking scraps. Man Ray occasionally said hello or nodded to people—local artist types or wealthy Americans—but invited no one to join them save a striped cat. He set a few oyster shells on the ground, watched it lick them clean, then turned back to Lee with a thoughtful wrinkle on his brow.
“When we get back to the studio, I’d like to take some photos of you. I’ve been looking at your face far too long without doing anything with it.”
“What do you mean?” she protested. “You took dozens of snapshots of me at the beach.”
“Those holiday pictures don’t count. No, I want to do some serious work. Portraits. Just your head.” His voice trailed off as he gazed at her, reaching out to touch her face, her neck. “Nothing else for now; it’s not necessary. Some poets—the bold ones—can see a woman’s sex in her eyes,” he said in low tones; Lee shivered in delight. Man sounded like an inspired gangster when he whispered. “You realize,” he continued, “the head has more orifices than the rest of the body combined. The head is a complete portrait.”
She took his hand, still li
ngering around her shoulder, and brought it to her mouth, grazing it with her lips. After oysters and wine, only a trace of lipstick remained, which left thin, uneven trails on his skin.
“I can think of other things we could do, back in the studio,” she said, her voice low and sensual.
She enjoyed making him squirm. Man Ray was clearly one of those men who had been unable to attract women when he was young. Now in his late thirties, a celebrated American artist with at least one explosive relationship under his belt, she could tell that part of him still saw himself as that short, funny-looking boy that girls found unappealing. Every time he looked at her, he seemed amazed at his good luck. Lee found it touching. For her, appearance had never been the most desirable quality in a man. She was attracted to character, creativity, renown, charm, confidence, affluence. And besides, she quite liked Man Ray’s looks.
Blushing, he immediately called for the check. But back at the studio, both the photographer and his subject were too engrossed in each other to bother with tripods, lighting, and focus. The official photo session was forgotten.
• • •
Her lessons began the following day. He brought Lee into the red light of the darkroom and, with calm control and patient movements, went through each step. He meticulously showed her how to insert glass plates into holders, dip them in the basin, then rinse them once fixed. He taught her how to use the enlarger, to print on his favorite eggshell paper, to retouch with a triangular blade, ironing out any wrinkles. Lee loved being privy to his preferences and methods—watching a genius at work—and was moved by his openness in the darkroom. He wouldn’t share his professional secrets with just anyone, would he? It must be a sign of his feelings for her; surely he hadn’t taken such care with his other apprentices.
All the fragments she’d been shown before—rudimentary notions from her father and Steichen’s odd tricks—came together under his generous instruction. It was intuitive to her, and she learned quickly; Man was encouraging, almost proud.
Soon they were working together like a four-armed creature, absorbed by the task, both intent on perfection. Sometimes, however, in the night-heat of the darkroom, pressed against each other in the tiny space, they would become distracted by an accidental touch, the feel of warm breath, and they would remember the body beside them. In the shadows of the amber light, their hands and mouths would find each other again, their clothes wrenched aside. More than one photograph was left forgotten, overdeveloping to nothingness.
Their seclusion was broken nearly every day—and sometimes more than once or twice—by a steady procession of portrait sitters. Tout Paris wanted to be done by Man Ray, and Lee, as his receptionist and assistant, helped him with this multicolored parade of aristocrats, wealthy foreigners, artists, and novelists. Although she was fascinated by many of them—from Barbette, the female impersonator, to the mannish writer Gertrude Stein—she was never starstruck, but warm and welcoming. A pleasant contrast to Man, who was always businesslike with clients, cold and monosyllabic.
“Hello, there. Let me take your hat and coat.” She smiled at a chubby British earl. “Mr. Ray will be out in a moment. Would you like a cigarette?”
She held out her silver case, and he accepted one. Blowing out smoke, the earl took in the unusual décor, wide-eyed, as if he were on an adventure holiday to the heart of bohemia. Man strolled in with a gruff hello, stationed himself behind the tripod, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You can take your seat, sir.” Lee gestured toward the portrait chair.
The earl frowned at the bare corner where he would pose, fingering the burlap backdrop as if it had been worn by a leper. He sat down stiffly and eyed the camera, set up across the room, and tried to get a good look at the photographer beyond it.
“Say, there,” he said nervously. “I don’t fancy a full-length portrait. Just, you know, the head and shoulders.” He stroked his paunch as if to iron it out, then looked up at Lee. “Doesn’t he need to move the camera in? Toward me?”
“Don’t worry, sir,” she said. “He knows what he’s doing.” Man always preferred to keep his distance, then crop his shots into portraits in the privacy of his own darkroom. “Now, just relax.”
After a few minutes, the session was over.
“He’s done?” the earl whispered to Lee, obviously disappointed.
Man disappeared as Lee wrote down the earl’s address, made another appointment with him to view the prints, and ushered him through the door.
“You can come out now,” she called to Man, half-joking. “No more sittings today.”
“Excellent.” He smiled. “Let’s take some real pictures.”
In their spare time Man photographed Lee, which was all he wanted to do anyway. Sometimes she would wake up to find him staring at her through the viewfinder, a light set up next to the bed. He would smile sheepishly, but she liked being at the center—the very seed—of his creative process. With his warm, silky hands, she let him place her body in position, set it up for a shot as if it were a still life. She watched the ideas whirring in his head and his eyes roaming over her body, taking in every inch. Besides the portraits that merely emphasized her beauty, he took shots that reflected his feelings for her, the depth of his emotion. Moving or motionless, in shadow or light, she was his subject. And Lee thought he captured the complexity of her nature: her sensuality, but also her energy, her rebelliousness, her dark humor.
It fascinated Lee that, depending on the photographer’s vision, she could change into something else entirely. As she watched Man taking pictures, she occasionally compared him to other photographers she’d worked with. They’d all liked to look. Photographers, it seemed, were Peeping Toms who used the viewfinder instead of the keyhole. At Vogue, Arnold Genthe had softened her features, giving her the face of an innocent schoolgirl, whereas Edward Steichen had made her look worldly and sophisticated. While her father . . . What had his unorthodox photos brought out in her? Her inner strength, her self-confidence, perhaps? And what might a self-portrait show?
“I’ve been thinking of a pose all day,” he said, moving the posing chair out of the corner, then putting it back. “And, finally, those idiots are out of our hair.”
“That’s what you get for being so damn popular. Everyone wants a piece of you,” she said with a little snort. “So, what’s your plan? Do you want to work with the patterns from the window bars again?”
“No, my little Leebra. I’m done with stripes for now.” He tapped his lips with his index finger, thinking. “Here, carry these lights upstairs. I’ll take the camera.”
In their small bedroom, he began arranging the tungsten lamps around the bed, contrasting light with darkness. “Take off your clothes, kid. I’ll be done with this in a minute.”
Lee pulled off her jersey with a little tingle in her stomach. She had done nudes before she began working with Man Ray, but most of those poses were chaste and romantic—classic art shots—compared to his. She liked these provocative sessions in front of the camera—the heat from the lamps, Man’s gangster voice, his obvious excitement—which often ended in equally long sessions in bed.
“Now, I want you to curl up into a ball. All I want to see is your ass.”
She got on the bed, her backside to the camera, and ducked down; he was immediately there, moving her arms, tucking down her shoulders, fiddling with her fingers. She went slack and let him manipulate her like a lump of clay. She liked his strong touch. He readjusted the lights and peered through the camera. The pads of her feet and her bodiless hands came forth from her perfectly round bottom; the rest of her was obscured in the dark.
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “You have become the perfect peach.”
Man took several shots, shifting the tripod a few inches to either side to vary perspectives. Finally, he unscrewed the camera and took a shot closer up.
“What I really want to do, kid, is take a big bite,” he said.
He tossed the camera onto the pil
lows and began taking off his clothes, fumbling with the buttons of his bulging trousers. She lay in wait, keeping her pose, and licked her lips in anticipation. She’d been with many men before Man Ray—she’d always been keen on her sexual freedom—but no one so consistently. She reveled in the variation and experiment; older and more experienced than most of her former lovers, Man enjoyed giving pleasure as much as taking it. Under the hot lights, he became one with the peach, grasping her, then slowly unwound her coil. She turned to him, ready. Ah, the seduction of being a muse.
VI
“Why don’t we go out tonight?” Lee said, closing the door behind their last client.
Though she’d been in Montparnasse now for over a month, they’d rarely ventured out of the studio. Ever since she’d moved in, they’d been working in tandem—teacher and student, artist and muse—or rolling in bed together as equals. But they had been doing little else. Lee was beginning to get restless; she needed outside company, new faces, a bit of adventure.
“Let’s! I could make you a toga and bring out the Greek goddess in you. Or cover your head in scarves and make you into a Turkish princess.” With flashing eyes, he wrapped her hair with an imaginary turban. “Or do your makeup. I could shave off your eyebrows and paint new ones on.”
He was studying Lee’s features, his thumbs gliding down the length of her eyebrows. Lee stared back up at him, mildly entertained and slightly peeved. Kiki had allowed him that luxury, to alter her appearance for photos, films, or just a night out. But there was no way in hell Lee was letting him near her face with a razor.
“I don’t think so,” she said shortly.
“Just an idea,” he said, backing off, slightly disappointed. “Not that any of you needs changing, of course.”
She went upstairs to get dressed. Some of her clothes were still in her trunk; the others were bursting out of Man’s small wardrobe. She pulled out a floral frock with a cutaway back and inspected it; it would do. When she was dressed, Lee added the black feathered skullcap Man bought her in Biarritz—the feathers framed her face on one side, making her look half raven-haired—then went through her jewelry box in search of bracelets. Inside, she found a long gold chain. Meant to be looped around the neck several times, it was at least two yards long. Lee smiled. In the absence of togas or turbans, perhaps this would satisfy Man’s need for theatrics.