by Dana Gynther
Drinks in hand, they made themselves comfortable. Lee sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning slightly on Man.
“Gentlemen,” Breton spoke importantly, getting down to business. “I think it’s time to write a second manifesto. We need to assess the degree of moral competence among our members and excommunicate those uninterested in collective action. Surrealism needs to be at the service of the revolution.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We need to formalize our support of communism and the Soviet Union.”
There were murmurs of assent—“hear, hear”—and raised glasses.
Lee suddenly spoke. “Sometimes I wonder, though. If the Soviet Union is so great, why is Paris filled with Russians?”
They all turned from Lee to Breton in silence. He raised an eyebrow and looked down his nose at her.
“I congratulate you, Man. What a catch this woman is. All this”—he pointed to her with an outstretched hand, sweeping it from her head to her foot—“and beautiful, too.”
Lee realized she’d been slighted as their guests began to snicker. She opened her mouth, a retort ready, when Man squeezed her hand.
“Why don’t you get us some snacks?” His eyes begged her to be quiet. “Thanks, kid.”
“And I could use some coffee, if you’ve got some,” added Péret.
Flushed, she stood up and smiled at them stiffly. “Of course.”
From the small kitchen, she could still hear Breton’s loud voice. “Most women are so much more delightful with their mouths closed.”
“Or wide open!” cried one.
She heard the guffaws and could imagine the obscene gesture. Lee bit her lip, bitterly disappointed. They obviously thought her an idiot, nothing more than a pretty face. Sometimes she regretted her halfhearted attempt at a formal education. She’d always hated rules and authority figures and, after being expelled from a half-dozen institutions, barely finished secondary school. She’d never had the discipline for theoretical lessons—her intelligence was more intuitive, more fluid—and was easily bored. Lee liked hands-on projects, much like Man Ray. He knew she was smart; he understood her. Why hadn’t he stood up for her in front of his snooty friends?
She set the coffeepot on the stove, then automatically arranged crackers around a block of pâté and poured nuts and olives into bowls. Man had put a jazz record on the gramophone, but the odd word still drifted in from the salon. All talk of politics was stalled as they continued to talk about women. She was straining to catch the gist of their conversation, when Breton’s voice rose above the music. “But, mes amis,” he pronounced with authority, “the female orgasm is of no importance!” She rolled her eyes, incredulous. Jesus! At least Man didn’t agree with him on that point. Or was he in there nodding just the same? What contradictions these men were: avant-garde yet antiquated, sternly judgmental yet boyish and silly. Lee was sure that, as soon as she walked back into the room, they would resume their stuffy talk of communism and allegiances, thinking themselves superior.
She took a full tray out to the living room, then slipped on her coat.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but I’m afraid I have a few errands to do. If you’ll excuse me.”
She swept out of the room, without even looking at Man. It embarrassed her that he’d let his friend insult her right there, in their very home. She blinked back tears. It seemed his studio wasn’t her home anyway. She had no presence there, no respect. Lee knew that, at her parents’ house, her father would have never stood for such a thing.
Lee walked briskly up the boulevard. At le Dôme, she ordered a brandy, then quickly scanned the room for someone to talk to. The place was nearly empty except for one large table of artsy types, presided over by Kiki. Giggling with another model, she peeked up and saw Lee on her own, but didn’t call her over; she puffed on a cigarette and pretended not to see her. When two girls—teenage sisters—walked in, the group scrunched together to make room at the table, and their loud chatter redoubled. Love affairs, tragedies, the latest exhibitions. Lee watched their reflection in the mirror behind the bar, telling herself how ridiculous they were. Their outrageous makeup, their thin voices and vulgar laughter. One girl with flowers in her hair sat sucking her thumb while a shirtless man in top hat and tails stroked a Siamese cat. Lee rolled her eyes.
Alone at the swanky bar, however, she felt rejection radiating from her, their laughter bouncing on her back. This was new. Usually, Lee was sought after, a coveted conversation partner at any gathering. What was wrong here? She finished her drink and walked out, her head high.
Ten minutes later, she found herself at the Montparnasse cemetery. Winding through the crowded gravestones, she decided she preferred the company of the dead to that of Man Ray’s friends.
VIII
Lee stood before the mirror in the hallway, nearly ready to go out. She slipped on a black velvet hat, then the matching jacket. After cinching the belt, she pinched a lily from the vaseful Man had photographed the day before. Large and white, she set it at an angle on her lapel. She smiled at her reflection and grabbed her bag.
“I’m going to French Vogue today,” she announced. “To see if they have any work. I know the summer collection won’t be out until February, but they might have something for me to do.”
“You don’t want me to go with you?” Man asked. “I’d be happy to—”
“Thanks, sweetie, but I’m sure you have better things to do.”
He gave her a long kiss at the door, then she was free, out in the autumn sun. Lifting her face toward the chill blue sky, she breathed out, glad to be in the street. She’d been feeling claustrophobic; they’d barely seen anyone since the Surrealists visited two weeks earlier. Between the November rains and their lack of sitters, Man’s worry and watchful eyes, it was all getting under her skin. She needed time away from the studio, more independence, her own work. And though Lee longed to focus solely on photography, she’d come to realize that, during these times of skinny cows, she’d need to return to modeling.
Even though the Vogue offices were on the Right Bank, she decided against taking the metro and headed toward the Seine, down the long boulevard Raspail. Passing florists and fruit stands, Lee eyed the other strollers and peeked into shop windows. After coffee at a café terrace, serenaded by a street violinist, she started across the Pont Royale, the Louvre large on the other side of the river.
She paused on the bridge, watching a seagull bobbing alone on the steel-gray Seine, like the commander of a vast vessel. Rivers make cities, she thought. Especially here, where the current cut the city in half and formed islands in the middle. She leaned against the coarse stone. Upriver, she could see the clunky Notre Dame without a proper spire and the haughty dome of the Academie Française. The buildings were solid and timeless; the water flowed clumsily beside them, constantly changing.
But it wasn’t just the Seine or the old stones that Lee loved about Paris. It was its energy and rhythm. The church bells and car horns, the click-clack of high heels on cobblestones, the French language itself, in which the worst insults managed to sound delightful. It was its streets, littered with smells: black tobacco, fresh bread, mop water, frying onion, the cacophony of perfumes. The Parisians, who looked at each other unabashedly with heavy-lidded eyes. There was poetry on every corner, dance on every hip. History—be it fleeting or rock-solid—was the present. Paris, now. Lee belonged here, despite her misgivings about Man Ray’s friends. Who cared? She unpinned the white lily, tossed it into the languid water, and watched it amble under the bridge. Why would she be anywhere else?
She continued through the Tuileries gardens. Walking slowly, she passed uniformed nannies with well-dressed babies, and a quiet group of veterans from the Great War sunning themselves in wicker wheelchairs. Paris was much more conservative outside of Montparnasse. With her Vogue looks—the chic suit, the tasteful lipstick, the new pumps—Lee felt like an undercover spy; she could fit in anywhere. One of the veterans doffed his cap at her as she passe
d by; she winked at him like a fellow conspirator.
When she finally arrived at the offices on the Champs-Élysées, a river away from Man’s cluttered, cramped studio, she felt energized and refreshed. Alive.
“I’d like to see the see the editor in chief,” she told the secretary, with a self-assured smile. Even at the French offices, she was in her element at Vogue. “My name is Lee Miller.”
After just a few minutes, she was shown into his office. A portly man rose from behind an orderly desk. “Lee Miller? Michel de Brunhoff.” He switched his pipe into his left hand to shake with her. “I’ve heard of you. You’re Condé Nast’s protégée, am I right? I remember some of Edward Steichen’s photos of you,” he said, taking in her features, glancing over her limbs. “We’d be delighted to have you here with us. But, um, no posing for feminine products, eh?”
His eyes twinkled. In New York the year before, there’d been a scandal when one of Steichen’s elegant fashion shots of Lee had been used in an advertisement for a distasteful new product, a sanitary pad called Kotex.
“Of course not,” she said with a faint blush. “And if you need a photographer, I have quite a bit of experience. Steichen taught me some of his techniques back in New York, and here in Paris I’ve been training with Man Ray.”
“Possibly, possibly,” he said, relighting his pipe. “Our head photographer here is George Hoyningen-Huene. A fascinating character! His father was a Baltic nobleman—chief equerry to the tsar, if I’m not mistaken—and his mother the daughter of the American ambassador to Russia. Needless to say, they fled after the revolution”—he took another puff—“and came here. He’s a moody sort—and a baron!—but an excellent photographer. We’ll get you settled in as a model first. Then we can talk about photography.”
“Fabulous,” she said.
Lee had been confident that de Brunhoff would hire her on as a model, but was pleasantly surprised that he was open-minded enough to even consider the idea of her working on the other side of the camera. Man had needed more convincing.
“Why don’t you come in tomorrow around ten? You should visit our coiffeur first—you could use some marcel waves—then be fitted for some evening dresses. Oh, Miss Miller,” he added. “As far as Vogue is concerned, there has been no Crash. Luxury, money, and good times—that’s what we sell.”
• • •
The next day, Lee sat comfortably in hair clips, waiting for the hair lotion to dry, while a chatty young woman painted her nails a bright red. A tiny barrel-chested woman with stick legs poked her head into the dressing room. “Vous êtes l’américaine?”
“Oui, c’est moi.”
“I’m Jeanne. I’ll be doing your makeup.” Standing, she was face-to-face with a seated Lee; she stared at her with a professional’s gaze. “My goodness, child, you’ve let your eyebrows grow wild.”
“Please don’t pluck them too much,” Lee said, thinking of Kiki and her absurd penciled brows. “I like a more natural look.”
“Natural for evening wear?” Jeanne gave the manicurist a knowing smile. “It doesn’t exist. But I can try.”
An hour later, with dramatic eye shadow, dark lipstick, and perfect finger waves, Lee went through the rack and chose a jeweled gown, which glittered like sapphires. Finally ready, she crossed the hall and waited at the door of Vogue’s studio. Unlike Man’s corner chair, it was big enough to make a motion picture in.
She watched the photographer, a tall, slim man in his late twenties with a long face and a receding hairline. Elegant in shirtsleeves, he stood behind a large camera aimed at a black-haired woman in a backless dress posing on a brilliantly lit pedestal. His beautiful hands made impatient gestures: he came out to adjust her chin, toss her hair, tilt her shoulder, then twisted his fingers like an angry spider. His high forehead looked down at her in disdain. This had to be the Russian aristocrat.
“Are you ill?” he snapped at the model, moving the camera even closer. “You’re supposed to be seductive, yet you stare at me like you’re going to be sick. I can’t take this picture.” He looked up to implore the heavens.
Lee smiled to herself. She couldn’t help comparing his way of working with that of Man Ray. Not only did Man keep his distance and rarely speak to sitters, this photographer’s gaze was absolutely devoid of desire.
Man had once told her that, as a young artist, if a woman was modeling for his life-drawing class, he’d become too nervous and excited to work. That emotion—that longing in his large, round eyes—could still be read on his face whenever he photographed attractive women. The exasperated man before her did not look at this model as a sexual being; there was no hint of seduction, no tension. He could have been shooting photos of livestock. This could be a refreshing change.
When the photographer’s gaze fell back to earth, he saw Lee in the doorway. “Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there.”
She strode in with an unabashed smile. “You must be the Baron Hoyningen-Huene,” she said, stretching out her hand. “Delighted to meet you. I’m Lee Miller.”
“Ah, the New Yorker,” he said in American English, a legacy from his mother. He shook her hand while sizing her up. “You’re Man Ray’s lover.”
“Well, to my face, I’m usually called his assistant,” she said, “but yes.”
“He taught me the basics of photography when I first arrived to Paris. He’s a good man with a good eye. But, to my mind, he can’t really compare to Edward Steichen. You worked with him, too, didn’t you?” The envy in his voice was genuine, but good-natured.
“The Colonel?” she asked, deliberately using his pet name. “I modeled for him at Vogue, but he also showed me some darkroom techniques. ‘Faking,’ he calls it. Hopefully, I’ll have a chance to show you one day.”
“That’s a date! But today you seem to be dressed for other things. Here, let’s take a few shots. You,” he said, pointing to the dark-haired model sulking on her pedestal. “You can go.”
Hoyningen-Huene took a dozen photos of Lee in various poses: looking over her shoulder, half-reclined, perched on a classical column, looking serious, innocent, haughty or sensual, but none with smiles. Lee had never been too keen on her teeth; slightly crooked, a bit too big, they were her worst feature. When posing, she kept her mouth closed, emphasizing her full lips, perfectly shaped and painted red. And besides, she liked to exude power when modeling, not sweetness. There was no reason to smile at the camera like a tourist on holiday.
“What depth,” the photographer exclaimed. “Depending on just a look, you can be a vamp or a virgin.”
“A virgin? Looks can be deceiving, can’t they?” She jumped down from the pedestal.
“Well, your talents are sorely needed here. Welcome to Frogue.”
“Frogue?”
“That’s what all us staffers call French Vogue. A Brit probably thought that up, wouldn’t you say? Hey, and call me George.”
Lee looked at her watch. “Do you fancy going out to lunch, George?” she asked him.
“If that includes a gin fizz or two, you’re on.”
“Ah, a man after my own heart.”
• • •
After the new year, Michel de Brunhoff called Lee into his office. George Hoyningen-Huene was already there, seated comfortably with a cigarette in his hand.
“Lee, George told me about your session in the darkroom yesterday. He says you’re competent, organized—and that you were even able to give him a few pointers.”
“Tricks of the trade,” Lee said breezily, but was delighted with the praise.
“We’ve decided that you’ll be his new assistant.” Her mouth fell open. “You’ll help with the shoots and in the darkroom, but if he needs you to model, you’ll do that, too. Questions?”
“So, I get to take pictures?” she asked.
“Soon enough,” George said, smiling at her wide-eyed surprise.
She hugged them both. Although she was still a man’s assistant, it was her first real photography job. Lee
was chosen not because of looks or romance, but because they thought she would do a good job. She was on her way to becoming a professional.
That evening, Lee threw open the door to the studio and found Man in front of the easel, his brow rumpled in frustration.
“Guess what, darling?” she said, her face glowing with excitement. “They’ve made me a photographer at Vogue! I’m an assistant for George Hoyningen-Huene. Jeanne and the models were teasing me, calling me the Baron’s slave. And you should hear him shouting out orders!” She put on a deep voice and began pointing in all directions. “ ‘Wheel this camera here, raise that one there, readjust those lights, and please dab that model’s face, she’s sweating like a pig!’ ”
Man was unamused. He rose from his stool and grabbed his cigarettes. Pacing the track from the door to the easel, he filled his chest with smoke, then snapped his lighter shut and looked at Lee. His dark eyes glowered.
“I can’t believe you took a job with another photographer without asking me first. I need you here, with me. George can find his own slave.”
“Are you crazy?” She shook her head in disgust. “I’m not going to quit. It’s a real job, Man. They pay me.”
“I pay you, too! Rent, food, clothes, drinks, everything you want, I pay for. And I don’t like the idea of sharing you with a fucking baron.”
“Being a kept woman isn’t really what I’m after, Man.” She spoke slowly in an effort to keep calm. “And it’s a chance for me to learn from someone else. To expand my knowledge. Don’t you think that’s a good thing?”
“What can you learn from him that you can’t learn from me? For God’s sake, I was his teacher, too.” He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it. “I want you here, Lee. If you need wages on top of everything else, hell, I guess I can do that, too.”