by Dana Gynther
When the photo session was over, they went into the darkroom, anxious to see how the shots had come out.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Man said, dipping the plates into the basin. “I got a call this morning from the Sorbonne. They need some photos made before the end of term. I’d like you to take the assignment.” He’d been sending her out on jobs: less prestigious projects, ones that didn’t interest him or those with a smaller budget. Work for clients who wanted Man Ray, but would accept the work of Madame. Lee suspected it was his way of keeping a watchful eye on her, but she didn’t mind. It was an opportunity to learn new things and hone her reputation as a photographer. “It’s for the medical school. Anatomy classes, operations. I hope you can handle it.”
“Sounds interesting.” The macabre had always tickled Lee. “Are you sure you don’t want to do it yourself?”
“I’ve got plenty to do without shooting blood and guts,” he said gruffly, then dropped his voice to an apologetic whisper. “Truth is, I’d probably faint.”
Lee kissed his cheek. The darkroom always made them less inhibited, more honest.
“There’s something I need to tell you, too.” Nervous, she twirled a tong in the tray, making a ripple in the chemicals. “I’ve been mooching off you way too long. I’ve seen a place near the Place Vendôme and—”
“What are you saying?” His body froze. “Are you moving out?”
“We never meant this to be permanent—”
For weeks now, Lee had been looking for TO RENT signs on her way to Vogue and examining her friends’ available rooms; his studio had always been small for the two of them, and lately it seemed to be shrinking. She needed somewhere she could do her own work, entertain her friends, smolder after an argument, or just sit in silence.
“I know, I know.” Surprise was quickly turning to anger. “But the Place Vendôme? Are you crazy? That’s on the other side of the river! Since when have you been looking at flats? You could have said something.”
“Look, we’re stepping on each other’s toes here. This new place is nice and not too—”
“Stop. I know living together in this shoebox was supposed to be a short-term thing, but before you go making up your mind, give me a couple of days to ask around. I’m sure we can find you something here in Montparnasse.”
“God, Man, you act like the rest of Paris doesn’t exist.” She glared at him.
“I’m just thinking of you, Lee,” he said, softening his tone. “You want to live near the studio, don’t you? So we can work together. Like today.”
They’d been collaborating more and more. And not just on outside assignments, but on his creative projects, too. Even though she had often helped set up shots when posing, she especially enjoyed working with him with other models. To see what he was seeing, to be able to alter the image before it was taken.
“All right, then. I’ll put the Place Vendôme on hold. See what you can do.”
• • •
Over the next few days, he made inquiries with all-knowing barmen and gossipy concierges; rejecting anything too far away, he inspected a handful of apartments.
“Lee?” He walked into the bedroom; she was reading a magazine with her back to the door. “Hey, baby, you want to see your new place?”
“You’ve made a decision? Without me?” She turned to him, piqued. “I can’t believe it.”
“Just come with me,” he said, taking her hand. “You’re going to love it.”
She put on her shoes, shaking her head in frustration. He was much more controlling than her father had ever been. Even as a small girl, he’d let her take decisions, make mistakes, do as she pleased.
They walked down the boulevard Raspail in silence, then turned down a side street; the ivied wall of the old cemetery ran its entire length. Since the disappointing Surrealist tea party, Lee had gone there exploring several times and had even left a lipsticked kiss on the tombstone of her favorite poet, Charles Baudelaire, the syphilitic opium addict who wrote of sex and death. She liked the quiet here, just a home-run hit from the busy, bar-filled center of Montparnasse. Opposite the graveyard, she noticed for the first time the row of artists’ studios.
“This is it,” said Man.
He stopped at the entrance of a white building with large windows cut in the Art Deco style. The small courtyard babbled with the song of the tiled fountain in the center. Inside, a tiny elevator was tucked into the stairwell.
Man led her into the elevator, yanked the accordion brass door closed, and pushed 2. She laughed as it rose with a jerk, then kissed Man. “You lucky bastard,” she said. “This may do.”
He handed her the key. She unlocked the door and swung it wide open. Light streamed into the apartment, more luxurious and larger than Man’s place. Lee examined every corner, then turned to kiss him again.
“It’s wonderful!” she cried. “The lines, the windows, the views. Look at the boneyard down there! It’s like a miniature city filled with marble houses. And look over here!” She pointed to a closet next to the bath. “It’s a perfect place to put a darkroom.”
“You can still use mine, Lee.” His mouth twitched. “I was thinking that we could work at my place and come here to sleep.”
“Sure.” She nodded. Lee wanted to set up her own studio, to have her own clientele, to be in business for herself, but she didn’t want to argue. Not today. She was delighted with this place, happy he’d found it. “I’ll still set up a work space here. For rainy days when I don’t want to get out of my pajamas.”
She spent the next week decorating. On one wall, she hung flea-market gramophone records on top of bright fabric, creating a chic wallpaper collage. On another wall, she put up silver paper to reflect the light. Pleased with its swanky look, she nonetheless kept one corner bare, reserving it for future sitters. Man brought over some of his handmade lamps, whose shades unwound in long spirals, and a Cocteau tapestry to hang behind the bed. When it was finally done, he went out for champagne.
Alone, Lee reinspected each room. With contented sighs, she smoothed the blanket on the bed, reorganized her lipsticks and powders, peeked into the half-empty cupboards, and straightened her hatboxes and shoes. How thrilling to have her own place—in Paris! Here she was neither accessory nor assistant. In this studio, she was queen.
They toasted the new apartment, again and again. When the bottle was empty, she led Man over to the bed and removed his tie. Staring him in the eye, she threw it over her shoulder, wetting her lips with her tongue. Then she began unbuttoning his shirt. She was going to take this slow, make it last. For the last month or so, she’d been so preoccupied and confused—about their relationship, the move, work—that her lovemaking had become quick and mechanical. Not tonight. Her newfound independence made her feel even closer to him, generous and happy.
• • •
Lee stood smiling in front of Man’s studio door, her portfolio under her arm. She was trying to decide whether to ring or use her key, wondering which would surprise him more. She’d been in her own place for two weeks now and, although they still saw each other every day, they were enjoying each other more than ever. It was like starting all over again.
Having her own space and a private darkroom had also boosted her creative energy and made her more experimental. Cityscapes or pretty postcard pictures didn’t interest her; Lee looked for unusual images, bizarre contrasts. Quietly taking everything in, she meandered around Paris neighborhoods with her camera, a dreamscape naturalist looking for unrecorded specimens; using her viewfinder as a microscope, she framed the shots to make new discoveries. A blob of tar seemingly crawling toward a man’s well-shod feet; a mysterious walkway shrinking into a tunnel. She loved playing with light, form, and technique, making her own mistakes, choices, and decisions. When she was pleased with an image, however, she would run to Man’s studio to show him, still keen on her mentor’s praise.
She turned the key and opened the door, calling, “Mr. Man Raaaay! Delivery!”
He poked his head out of the kitchen, trying not to smile. “Whatcha got, bub?”
“Fresh bearded clam! The best of the season.”
“Give me all you got.” He pulled her toward him and kissed her. “Hey, what’ve you really got here?” He slid the portfolio out from under her arm. “New pictures?”
“Just one.”
Snuggled together on the sofa, he opened the portfolio with playful ceremony. But when he looked down at the print, his mouth fell open. “Wow.” In it, a woman’s hand appeared to explode as it touched a doorknob. “Let me get my glasses.” He examined the photo carefully. “I see. That flash is caused by all the little scratches on the glass door. The lighting is just right.” He nodded at her. “I’m impressed, kid. It’s a fabulous shot of a Surrealist image. You’ve done your old man proud.”
“Thanks, honey,” said Lee, bubbling with self-satisfaction. “I took a whole roll of the windows at the parfumerie Guerlain. The Art Nouveau glasswork, the reflections of the street lamps and clouds on the perfume bottles. It was all shit. It wasn’t until a woman was leaving the shop that I saw the hand explode. She was pleased to pose.” Lee grinned at the shot. “Lucky for me she was wearing that bell-shaped sleeve. Makes it look like a witch’s hand. Like she’s casting a spell and sending out sparks.”
The doorbell buzzed; Lee looked at Man.
“That’s Breton.” He put the photo on the table and stood up. “I’m taking his portrait this morning. He wants a formal shot for the back cover of his new book.”
Lee lit a cigarette as Man disappeared into the hall. She was no longer intimidated by André Breton or the other Surrealists. After meeting them another time or two, she found them pleasant enough—and some quite charming, attentive, or flirtatious—but had long realized that none of them were interested in her opinions. To them, she was not one of their fellows, but Man Ray’s muse: his inspiration, his well from which to draw creativity, his. And these men generally preferred their muses to be quiet and submissive, not equals with whom to discuss their projects or exchange ideas. Lee was always intrigued by the new work they brought round the studio, the mysterious canvases, quirky poems, or funny drawings, but when they came by to see Man, to make plans, play chess, debate, or get their pictures made, after a half-hour or so—the time for a drink or a bit of playful banter—Lee usually left.
“Oh, hello, Lee,” said Breton as Man led him inside. He was dressed in a conventional double-breasted suit with a tie that matched his pocket handkerchief; as always, his hair was slicked back, an immobile military helmet, constantly ready for battle.
“André.” They exchanged halfhearted kisses. “Can I get you anything?” she asked, still the lady of the house.
“A glass of water, thanks.”
When she came back from the kitchen, Breton was holding her new picture.
“Bravo, Man! This is brilliant! It’s the most interesting shot you’ve taken this year.”
She handed him the glass and retrieved the photo. “Actually, it’s mine.” She popped it into her portfolio with a sweeping gesture. “All this, and beautiful, too.”
Lee kissed Man good-bye and walked out the door, relishing the moment. She had left André Breton speechless.
XI
Taking a deep breath, Lee tried to harden herself against the rancid pickling odor of formaldehyde, which crept onto her tongue and into her hair. As for the corpses, although they were gruesome—waxy, bloated, yellowed—she couldn’t turn away from them. It was her first day on assignment at the Sorbonne medical school.
She moved around the room to find the best angles of the young men in white robes skinning bodies to get to the discolored layers below. Over human remains, a few of the students tried to catch her eye, winking at her or whispering offers: cigarettes, drinks, outings. She wasn’t tempted by their rosy cheeks or boyish grins. They seemed impossibly young to her—far too young to be cutting cadavers—though she had just turned twenty-three.
The next week, a doctor reluctantly asked her if she could take photos inside the university’s operating theater—“Young lady, I’m afraid you may not be able to stomach it”—which only piqued her morbid curiosity. The first patient was wheeled into the center of the well-lit room. A full house of students gazed down from the galleries as a surgeon appeared and gave his audience a slight bow.
“Today we will be performing an appendectomy,” he said, with the projection and timbre of a Shakespearean actor. “The patient is a sixteen-year-old girl.”
From the side of the room, Lee took pictures: nurses handing over steel instruments, the intensity of the masked faces hunched over the girl, the tongs finally capturing the small, ragged organ and brandishing it to the crowd. Lee tried to make out the students’ expressions in the relative darkness of the gallery. Had some of them fallen asleep?
Engrossed, she documented the removal of various body parts that week, playing with the lighting and groupings of medical personnel. She liked the quiet intensity of the operations, their urgency and success, but was fascinated by the castaway parts—the hairy, detached limbs or graying organs—left on zinc trays, now useless and unwanted. Despite the blood, odors, and horror, from her place behind the camera, she managed to put herself at a distance and concentrate on picture-taking.
On her last day, as the students were pouring out of the galleries, Lee hesitated at the door. She looked back at the day’s remains lying motionless on the metal tray, and had an idea for an interesting photo shoot: a Surrealist meditation on beauty and desire. Putting on a formal expression and a professional tone of voice, she approached the surgeon who had just performed a radical mastectomy.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He looked up at her, almost startled, removed his mask, and gave her a seductive smile. During the operation he’d been too focused to notice the woman taking pictures.
“Yes, mademoiselle? How may I be of service?”
“Are those leavings to be discarded?” she asked, pointing at the orphaned breasts. “Might I take one?”
“Of course,” he said, not bothering to ask why. “Here, let me wrap it up for you.”
He absently picked up his mask and tucked one malignant breast inside. Still smiling, he handed the damp package to her, like a butcher at the market. She thanked him with a pat on the shoulder, then turned and left, the surgeon’s mask heavy and squishy in her hand. Keeping her bundle at arm’s length, she walked through the twisted streets of the Latin Quarter, heading toward the Right Bank. She had a modeling session at Vogue in an hour, but thought she’d have time to take some photos first. The mask soon began to leak, so she stopped at a restaurant to collect the necessary props.
Lee motioned to the first waiter she saw, who was wiping glasses by the side bar. He immediately forgot the wineglass, threw his towel jauntily over his shoulder, and hustled to the door.
“May I borrow a place setting?” Lee asked in an intimate whisper. “I could bring it back to you this afternoon. Just a plate, knife, fork, spoon, napkin. That’s right.” She nodded as she watched him collect the things from a table already set for lunch. “Oh, and could I have the salt and pepper shakers, too? Wonderful.”
The waiter’s moustache fluttered as his hand grazed hers. “Here you are, mademoiselle. Anything else?”
“No, but thank you,” she said, her words exuding warmth, gratitude, and a slight hint of siren song. She slipped the condiments and cutlery into her bag, put the surgeon’s mask on the plate, then covered it with the napkin. “I’ll be back later to return these things.”
“I’ll be waiting,” the waiter said, waving from the door.
At the river, she hailed a cab and, once inside, held on tight to the dinner plate. As they sped along, she was reminded of the grisly paintings of the saints she’d seen in cathedrals and at the Louvre: Francis of Assisi, stigmata bleeding onto the skull in his hand; Saint Lucy carrying her woeful eyes on silver dish; John the Baptist’s head, at rest, on a pl
atter; and the one that had captured her attention most of all, Saint Agatha, whose torturers had cut off her breasts. In paintings, she carried them before her on a plate, looking much more like wobbly custards or cherry-topped cakes than what Lee had here. Looking down at the napkin, she regretted not requesting the pair.
She struggled with the door at Frogue, anxious not to spill, then quickly made her way to the photography studio. On a side table, she laid out the napkin, pleased with its home-style checkered pattern. After carefully removing the breast from the bloodstained mask, she arranged it on the plate. She flattened the thick skin, which was already hardening, and tried to highlight the nipple, inverted from the cancer and no longer very recognizable.
Looking down at it—a human slice, a gelatinous mass—she wondered at how, when attached to a woman, this object could make a man red-hot. Man Ray had cropped photos of her to emphasize her breasts, decapitating her, making her a torso. What would he make of this bodiless breast? Would it entice him? She dragged over a light and cast its bright glare on the plate’s center. An operating table without a patient. Placing the cutlery around the plate, she decided on the French fashion, with the dessert spoon laid across the top of the plate. She was staring down at that spoon—an unlikely instrument to tackle this feast—when George walked in.
“What is that?” he asked. Reluctant to come closer, he pointed at the table, looking very suspicious. “Is it food? Something you made?”
She smiled at the idea. Lee was not a very good cook and generally preferred restaurants and bistros to the kitchen. In fact, the last time she had tried to roast a chicken for Man, she got distracted and burned it. That skinny black bird looked even scarier than what she had here.
“It’s a still life,” she said, “though really, the French term is much more appropriate: une nature morte. Come, look at it,” she said as she pulled her camera out of her bag. “See if you can tell what it is.”