CHAPTER THREE
The ringing bells slowly faded on my train ride home to Crown Heights and disappeared entirely by the time I entered my apartment. My cat, Eliza, a champagne-colored Burmese, greeted me at the door. I’d found her at a shelter in Orlando ten years earlier, right before moving to New York. She had uncommon intelligence, sensitivity, and the ability to judge character. I considered her to be my closest friend. She circled the room, then leapt up to the back of the sofa, walked across it like a gymnast, and jumped back down. After hanging my coat and placing my camera equipment in its cubby, I filled Eliza’s personalized ceramic bowl (Eliza in a cursive font) with dry cat food and placed the bowl on the floor of my kitchen. While she was eating, I used a Swiffer to dust the bookcase, the coffee table, the small dining table, the end tables, and the kitchen counter.
My apartment faced north, into an interior courtyard. From the living room windows, I could see a sliver of sky above. Concrete dominated the courtyard below, with a few plants and flowers dotted around the perimeter, the ratio of planted to unplanted square feet being extremely low. A committee had been formed in an effort to spruce up the courtyard, but none of the penny-pinching residents in the building were willing to spend any money on it.
The five lamps in my living room provided moderate cheer at night, but during the day, they called attention to the absence of natural light and had the opposite effect. When I first moved into the apartment six years earlier, I’d painted the walls pale lavender, but had used a cheap paint. A full-spectrum paint, at three times the cost, would have reflected a broader range of light and brightened the atmosphere. As it was, the flat, low light lent the walls a muddy cast. I found it ironic that I didn’t have the money to realize my artistic vision, while so many ordinary people did.
I turned on the television, then crossed to the kitchen for a glass of wine. One of my clients had recently given me a brass-and-marble wine opener as a thank-you gift. My clients often give me high-end gifts that are not in keeping with my lifestyle. (I had little storage in my apartment, and no space for luxury items.) I had stopped drinking about a year earlier, but recently, because of the exquisite wine opener, I’d started drinking again. Just a glass or two once in a while.
I opened a new bottle of malbec. The weight of the wine opener in my hand gave me immense pleasure. I looked around the apartment for an appropriate display area for an in-home bar. The lowest shelf of the bookcase, which was also the top of the built-in cabinets, would most closely approximate counter height and was the only one that had clearance for a bar display. A second idea: I could use the peninsula of my kitchen counter for the bar. Finally I landed on the most sensible answer. In my office (the smaller section of my L-shaped living room), I’d been using a rattan table with a glass top for odds and ends. In its present capacity, it was underutilized, so I moved it to the living area relatively near the entry, so you would appreciate it when you walked through the door.
Other bar-related presents from clients included: an ice ball press kit, a handblown tortoise ice bucket with gold tongs, a brass squirrel bottle opener (you use the squirrel’s tail to open the bottle). I arranged the ice bucket, the tongs, and the bottle opener next to the wine opener on the rattan table (along with my set of six wineglasses and six double old-fashioned glasses). I’d never returned any of the gift items, because I believed that one day I would have parties and entertain. One day I’d be the host, not the guest. One day, friends would linger at my home until the wee hours of the morning, having meaningful conversations. The presents would all contribute to those future gatherings.
I craved a clearly defined role. I wanted to know where to place my body, where to step, where to sit down, where to lie down. I didn’t have many personal connections. The ones I had were soft with no teeth.
After changing into my most comfortable lounge outfit, silky pants and a satin camisole, I poured a glass of wine and brought it with me to the office, which was furnished with an IKEA desk and chair. On my monitor, I saw an open folder with thumbnails displayed, including the ones of Jasper and Robert that I’d shown Amelia and Fritz earlier that evening.
The prior night, I’d worked until 3 A.M. in an attempt to salvage the photos of Jasper’s disastrous birthday party. In several shots, he had been yelling, his mouth wide open. It hadn’t been difficult to combine the images of his small white teeth with separate images of his mouth. My Content-Aware Move Tool was useful in shifting the shape of the mouth and turning the corners up into a cheerful grin. Then I pulled the corners of his eyes and cheeks up to make crinkly laughing eyes and a variety of heartwarming smiles. I wanted at least one picture of Jasper and his father embracing, but unfortunately, I hadn’t witnessed a lot of affection. So I used Puppet Warp to move their limbs into the correct position. One shot with both of Jasper’s arms around his father’s neck. Another one with Jasper leaning his head on his father’s shoulder. And finally one with me and Jasper, my hand on his face.
Later on, just for my enjoyment, I’d layered my own image onto a photo of Robert, and adjusted my head so it appeared that I was sitting next to him and leaning my head onto his shoulder. The photo of me and Jasper unwrapping the present had posed an even greater challenge, but it actually came out quite well. I’d successfully fabricated an expression of hopeful anticipation on his face.
Before closing the folders from the night before, I set to work on one more version of Jasper—placing him at the beach in California. I felt the need to give his life more dimension. I printed an 8 x 10 of Jasper surfing, and hung the photo in my living room alcove. It was exquisite. It’s amazing what you can do with visualization. All you need to do is create memories. Memories are images that we play in our minds. If I purposefully played certain images in my mind, they would become memories. In fact, if I played them often enough, they might become stronger and more vivid than “real” memories.
I only edit photos when absolutely necessary. People remember events selectively. It’s a matter of self-preservation, and I don’t see anything wrong with it. Who’s to say that the memory I create is any less “true” than the original one?
Finished with Jasper’s folder, I uploaded the photos from Natalie’s party. As I scrolled through them, I could feel the tension in my shoulders dissipate. The photos of the Straubs provided me with terrific comfort. I clicked through several of Natalie and her friends and several of Natalie alone. Then I landed on one of Fritz, leaning against the library wall, laughing, his intense green eyes looking straight into the camera. It was his kindness and intelligence that made him handsome. I’d sensed those qualities in him the instant we met. I felt a tug of longing in my gut—some combination of emptiness and desire.
I pulled up some shots of myself that I’d used for my website and superimposed my body, in profile, next to an image of Fritz in profile. I moved his face close to mine, so it looked as though we were confiding in each other, in a close conversation that others couldn’t hear. And then, practically feeling his breath on my face, I closed the gap between the two mouths. His warm lips pressed against mine. Then his fingers were in my hair. A frisson of surprised delight surged through my body.
My first attempt wasn’t perfect. Fritz’s lips and mine were puckered in an awkward and artificial way. In my second attempt, I altered the shape of Fritz’s mouth in profile and the muscles around it. I brought his arm up so that his hand was caressing my face. It was an arresting photograph. I hadn’t kissed a handsome man for a few months, but the photo was almost as good as the real thing. It lifted me up. Previously, I hadn’t taken my photos in quite so personal a direction. Perhaps some ill-defined scruples had held me back. Or perhaps Fritz elicited a feeling in me I wasn’t able to ignore.
I imagined Amelia’s reaction if she were to see this picture. She would roll her eyes in an amused manner. I would laugh and say, “So ridiculous, right?”
Returning to the folder of Natalie’s birthday, I clicked through the photos until I
landed on one of Amelia embracing the mother of one of Natalie’s friends. It was clear from the nature of the embrace that the women were peers and that their relationship was one of mutual respect. I replaced that woman with a photo of myself. The woman’s stance was a challenging one to replicate, because I didn’t have a photo of myself from the same angle. After several failed attempts, I combined my face with the other woman’s body. The final product was barely satisfactory.
I scrolled through more pictures until I reached the end of the party, when everyone was singing “Happy Birthday” to Natalie. Amelia was kneeling by her daughter, looking up at her with pride. I replaced that image of Amelia with one of myself. Now it was me looking up at Natalie as she blew out the candles on her cake.
Finally I landed on the one I’d been thinking about all night. Amelia and Fritz were sharing a piece of birthday cake. Amelia was holding out her fork so Fritz could have a bite, and he was leaning toward her with his mouth around the fork. I replaced Fritz’s image with my own. I was eating cake off Amelia’s fork, chocolate frosting around the outside of my mouth. We were laughing at a private joke. We were intimates. I contemplated the picture, and optimism bubbled up in me.
It was fascinating to me that an image of a relationship accomplished much of what I was looking for, so that the relationship itself wasn’t altogether necessary. The efficiency of this pleased me.
I printed the picture of Fritz kissing me, and the one of Amelia feeding me cake. I placed each 8 x 10 in one of my large supply of clear acrylic frames and hung them side by side in the alcove next to the photo of Jasper and me.
It was already two in the morning, and I had a lot of work the following day. I labeled one folder Straub Family and one folder Straub, Alternates, the latter being photoshopped images for my personal use. Then, I closed down my computer, knowing that I could return to the project as often as I needed to, as an ongoing source of comfort.
* * *
The following morning I received a text from Amelia: Natalie adores you. You made such an impression!
When I saw the text, I realized that I’d almost been holding my breath. Had I not received her note, I might have attempted to reestablish contact myself.
I wrote back. Natalie’s a special girl. I’d love to babysit anytime.
Do you mean it?? How about Friday?
They wanted me to return. They wanted my involvement in their family. I had proof of that now. Oddly, I dreaded Friday as much as I longed for it. I dreaded the moment when I would no longer have the evening to look forward to, because I already knew how deflated I would feel when it was over.
I stayed up late Sunday night, looking at photos of the Straubs’ work online, beginning with their own website. I’d glanced at it before Natalie’s party, but now I studied it with renewed interest. I later found an illuminating interview in Architectural Digest from ten years earlier in which the Straubs were discussing the success of their partnership. “‘Fritz is big picture and I follow up on all the details,’ Amelia Straub says with a self-deprecating laugh. ‘He’s the most talented architect I’ve ever met. That’s why I married him!’ Fritz Straub interrupts: ‘Yeah, right, we all know who’s running the show.’”
A recent interview in Metropolis had a strikingly different tone. “‘Fritz has his projects and I have mine,’ Amelia Straub explains, ‘and we don’t actually have much overlap.’” Fritz was not quoted at all.
Before going to sleep, I ordered a copy of Defining Light: Twenty-First–Century Architecture from the Straub Group for sixty-five dollars on Amazon.
For the next couple of days, I was occupied with photo shoots, while my evenings were devoted to editing and album layouts. On Wednesday, when I arrived home and saw a package from Amazon, I felt like it was Christmas. I stayed up late, studying the Straubs’ book from cover to cover. The graphic design was exquisite. The images were strong and forceful. I found fault with very few of the photos.
I took my time with each page, analyzing each picture and reading every word. I was growing to understand how much I had in common with the Straubs. Quantity and quality of light drove the majority of their architectural choices. The same was true for my photographic choices. The Straubs used natural light to create the spaces in their homes, as much or more than they used structures and walls.
The first five chapters of their book focused on country houses in Long Island, Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, the Hudson Valley, and Connecticut, respectively. The next five were dedicated to urban residences, culminating in the Straubs’ own Brooklyn residence, the pièce de résistance. The book had a more comprehensive selection of photos than those I’d found online. Included were three spreads of the Straubs’ parlor floor, showcasing the sculptural staircase, the library, the majestic great room, the glass-and-steel bifold doors leading to the expansive deck outdoors.
The next two spreads revealed the master suite seen from several angles, including two shots of an otherworldly bathroom with a rain showerhead and a Spoon bathtub. An intense desire to immerse myself in the master suite radiated through my body. Just studying the photos and imagining myself there afforded me some visceral pleasure, but I wanted more. I felt compelled to penetrate their space, as if it ought to belong to me.
The very last photo spread in their book surprised me the most: pictures of a one-bedroom apartment on the garden floor of their building—as captivating as the rest of the house, with the same aesthetic and flawless execution.
I hadn’t known such an apartment existed.
* * *
Friday arrived. I had a nervous stomach and couldn’t eat breakfast or lunch. At 4 P.M., I allowed myself to begin preparations for the evening. My outfit for babysitting Natalie had a specific set of demands, distinct from what was required as a photographer. My clothing needed to say “responsible, mature, ebullient, and charming.” These parents were leaving their child alone in my care. I was required to be a reliable adult, but one that connected to children, an adult with a sense of fun and vivacity. I chose a pair of dark jeans, my leather boots, a thin sweater, and a sparkly necklace—one I felt certain that Natalie would like.
I maintained a decent wardrobe because I’d always considered my clothing a business expense. I recognized that my appearance mattered, especially when photographing at the home of an affluent family. I didn’t want to attract too much attention. However, I needed to look like I belonged in the home and was comfortable in the setting. In a service role, yes. But a level above the people who were preparing and serving the food. Two levels above the people who were cleaning and washing dishes. The parents liked to view me as an almost peer. Most of them would never choose to socialize with me. Nevertheless, if we ended up in conversation, I could hold my own, and they would find the conversation pleasant enough.
My clients probably assumed that my education and breeding were not up to theirs. And was that true? It depends on how such things are defined. Yes, I attended college, but a mediocre one. Not to say that I wasn’t educated. An autodidact, I read incessantly and processed images incessantly. In one image, I could extract more information than many people could extract from an entire book. I could look at a photograph of a group of people and, with surprising accuracy, detail the relationships among the various parties.
I had always been aware of my deficits and had worked hard to shore them up. To be frank, I resembled the proverbial English butler who learns all the rules, who lives and breathes the rules, without necessarily internalizing what is underneath them. I learned the rules for the sole purpose of serving the ruling class, making them comfortable, and fitting in. (The idea of a “ruling class” had never bothered me. It was only if you acknowledged the existing hierarchy that you could use it to your advantage.) I paid attention to every intonation in people’s sentences. How they tied their shoes or didn’t tie them. I paid attention to the minutiae until it became second nature. I didn’t want to appear to be striving for something that I wasn’t inherently g
iven at birth. Yes, I’d been born into white trash. But I, myself, had a drastically superior mind and sensibilities.
My clients felt relaxed enough to discuss their finances in front of me. They couldn’t talk about money with someone who was poor. They could only talk about money with someone who understood money. I considered that my job—to convey to them that I understood their world. And that I understood their children’s worlds. And because I understood their children’s worlds so well, I was the artist who could translate all of that into a photograph.
* * *
As I approached the entrance to the Straubs’ home, I took a slight detour to glance down the exterior stone steps that led to the garden apartment. The shades were down. The lights were out. It appeared no one was there.
I returned to the main steps of the front entrance, noting the lanterns on either side, which looked to be original nineteenth century. Amelia greeted me at the door in slacks and bare feet with a fresh pedicure. Her glossy brown hair was pulled up loosely in a clip. She wore gold Aztec coin earrings and a matching necklace. It was expensive jewelry, but unconventional and effortless. If you didn’t know anything about jewelry, it might seem understated.
She shone her smile on me, and I experienced the same sensation of warmth and light that I’d experienced upon meeting her. It was as though she saw something extraordinary in me.
“Natalie thinks she’s too old to have a babysitter.” Amelia spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “But she feels like you’re her friend.” She led me into the kitchen and offered me a blue reactive-glaze mug filled with hot lemon water. She sank down onto one of the counter stools, and as she did, her smile faded. “All our evenings out. It’s the nature of our work. Relationships.
“Most of our clients are lovely people,” she said, “but once in a while we end up in a relationship with someone who can’t be pleased. And then we’ve got to work through the project and get to the other side. I’m probably preaching to the choir, right?” She took a sip of her lemon water.
The Photographer Page 3