Learning to See

by Elise Hooper

  I blew out a long stream of smoke. Brown splotches from developer fluid stained my fingers holding the cigarette, evidence of my long days. Spending eighteen, maybe twenty hours at my studio had become a daily standard. “I can’t. I’m too busy.”

  “It’s amazing what you’ve built here, but you should give yourself some time to play around, find beautiful things. My work gets pretty stale if I just do the same stuff all the time. And portrait work, well, you know, you’re always working with clients, trying to meet their expectations. It can get a little confining, right? Sometimes you’ve got to connect with that artist inside you again.”

  I almost snorted aloud. Stale? Work was anything but stale. A short article had run in the San Francisco Examiner a month earlier declaring me the most sought-after portrait photographer in the city. Since then, Ah-yee could barely keep up with all of the scheduling requests flooding the studio. Connie was probably making peanuts at the newspaper, so taking time off to connect with some sort of inner artist wasn’t much of a trade-off, but it all sounded like something I could ill afford. I was making money hand over fist.

  “Suit yourself. But you never know where you’ll find inspiration.”

  I nodded, feigning agreement. But when I turned to snuff out my cigarette in an abandoned glass, my hand trembled. When was the last time I’d felt truly inspired?

  LATER THAT EVENING, long after everyone had departed, I sat downstairs in the basement developing some work. As I rinsed fixer from one of the images, I heard tap, tap, tap overhead, but it wasn’t the normal sound of a woman’s high heels on the floor of my reception room. Tap, tap, tap. My hands hovered over the rinse bath in front of me. I looked toward the ceiling into the darkness. I tugged the paper out of the water, stood, and clipped it to the drying line behind me, still straining to hear the strange sound overhead as I scurried to climb the stairs. I pushed the door open only to find my reception and studio areas empty. I circled through the rooms, studying the floors as if expecting to see animal tracks. Finding nothing, I stepped outside into the courtyard and blinked my eyes to adjust to the darkness, listening to the sound of water burbling in the fountain while I pondered what I’d heard moments earlier.

  “Dorrie?”

  Startled, I jumped. Roi materialized near the art gallery next door.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Were you just in my studio?”

  “What?” He looked confused. “No, I just dropped off some prints at a nearby gallery and thought I’d come by to see you.”

  I shivered and folded my arms across my chest, making some silver bangles I’d taken to wearing clatter as they slid up my arm. “Huh, the strangest thing just happened while I was working downstairs. There was an odd tapping sound, like someone walking across the floor, but on peg legs or something. Anyway, by the time I got upstairs to investigate, no one was there.”

  Roi drew nearer, looking around the courtyard. “Ha, bet that was Maynard Dixon in his cowboy boots. I’m surprised I didn’t pass him on my way here.”

  I blinked, trying to place everything I knew about Maynard Dixon, one of the city’s celebrated artists. His prints and paintings were everywhere. From Sunset Magazine to Jack London novels to Standard Oil ads, all kinds of outfits hired him for his illustrations. He was known for his depictions of the American West of everyone’s imagination. Noble Indians, rugged cowboys, galloping stallions, all of that. According to rumors, he’d stopped doing ad work to focus on his paintings, big canvases with cumulus clouds hovering over mesas and mountains and craggy landscapes glowing in bold colors. He had real vision and distinct artistry. I’d seen the man once at a gallery opening on Post Street but kept my distance, intimidated by the way his light blue eyes roved the crowd intently, belying the boredom his tall, droopy stance implied. “Why in the world would Maynard Dixon come to see me?”

  Roi chuckled. “I can think of a few reasons.” He shook his head. “Oh boy, Imogen will give you an earful about him.”

  He continued to tell me about some of the work he was doing at the agency, but I barely heard a word. All I could think about was Maynard Dixon and the way the tanned skin at his throat glowed when he threw back his head for a deep laugh, the kind of laugh that made me smile even though I hadn’t heard the joke. Something awakened inside me that I hadn’t even known was sleeping. Would he come back? I hoped so.

  Chapter 7

  The next afternoon, I was reviewing several invoices when Imogen stopped by my studio. She studied some of my recent portraits tacked up to my board and glanced at the clock on Ah-yee’s desk. “You’ve forgotten about the Camera Club meeting tonight, haven’t you?”

  “Oh horsefeathers, I did. I’m afraid I can’t go,” I mumbled, running my index finger down the following day’s list of appointments. I smacked my palm against my forehead. “Good grief, I meant to grab something for Sophie’s birthday tomorrow. She’s coming in to have her portrait done.”

  “You’re giving her a gift?”

  “Well sure, we’ve become friends over the last year.”

  Imogen sniffed before walking over to the samovar to fix herself some tea. As a little liquid spilled from her cup to the floor, she let out a string of curses. Ah-yee swooped in with a rag to soak up the small puddle while Imogen moved aside, shifting from foot to foot. “You’re always too busy for Camera Club these days.”

  It was true. I hadn’t been to a meeting in months. Business was keeping me hopping. And furthermore, I didn’t enjoy the meetings. I could tell my commercial success put off some of the men who had been working for a long time. They viewed me as a hack. After all, what did I know? I was just taking pictures for rich people. All of their talk about artistic philosophy and technique made me feel inferior and bored me to tears. The people who I liked from the group, Connie and a few of the fellows who had initially invested in me, often visited my studio, so there didn’t seem to be a need for me to go to Camera Club anymore. “I’ve been tied up lately.”

  “These days it seems you’re a businesswoman more than anything else.”

  Despite her criticism, I didn’t want to see her go. She could be tetchy, but I knew if I was patient, we could have an enjoyable afternoon together. “Do you want to stick around? I can make more tea, turn on the Victrola?”

  Surprised, her expression softened. She reached out to let her fingers graze my cheek. “I don’t mean to be such a wet blanket. Keep doing what you want to do, but I should go.”

  We smiled at each other. She patted my shoulder and said, “If I get there and that Ansel Adams is yammering on about Yosemite, I’m likely to go plum crazy. Really, it’s all he can talk about.”

  “You can always come back here.”

  “Thank you, I just might. You’re a dear,” she said, pulling her portfolio off the floor and waving goodbye.

  LATER THAT EVENING, Ah-yee wished me a good night as she gathered her handbag. She paused, framed in the wide doorway of the reception room, and giggled at the sight of me, sitting on the floor of my studio surrounded by photos. I called goodbye before turning my attention back to the pile of prints I was organizing into stacks around me. Good, bad, and maybe piles. The bad pile grew frustratingly high. Perhaps an hour passed before I heard tap, tap, tap coming from the courtyard in front of my studio. The front door opened, revealing a tall, lanky man with a silver-handled cane wearing black cowboy boots, a black ten-gallon hat, and a black cape—a black cape! Who on earth would wear such a thing? Maynard Dixon, that’s who. On anyone else, his getup would have looked downright crazy, but somehow he pulled it off. It must have been his confidence: the way he hung his thumbs on his belt, how he draped himself against the doorjamb, the crooked grin that spread across his face as he held my gaze.

  “Evenin’. I’m Maynard Dixon.”

  I said nothing but raised my eyebrows. He scratched his chin before saying, “You Dorothea Lange?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not an easy lady to
find.”

  “I’m always here. Maybe your tracking skills need work.”

  “That so?”

  “I heard you stopped by for a visit last night.” I made my voice cool, as if celebrated male painters visited my studio every day. “I was downstairs, working in my darkroom.”

  He nodded slowly, left his post by the door, and circled around the reception area before pausing in front of the Russian samovar. “What in the devil’s this contraption?”

  “It’s for serving tea. Want some?”

  He cocked his head from side to side, taking it in, and gave a low chuckle. “I’m not much of a tea kinda fella. Got anything stronger?”

  “There’s probably something with a little more firepower in the sideboard over there.”

  When he saw me starting to rise, he raised a hand. “Stay put, I didn’t mean to interrupt you from working. Want something to drink?”

  “No, thanks, but please help yourself.”

  At my refusal, he stopped and glanced at me before veering away from Ah-yee’s desk to enter my studio and appraise the portraits spread around me. He dropped to the ground and leaned against the wall with long, slender legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. He picked up a few of my photos and studied them.

  “Are you interested in having your portrait taken?” I asked.

  He raised his gaze from my work, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Nope.”

  “So, this is a social call?”

  “Something like that,” he said. Though it was November, the skin of his face still glowed with color from the sun. White crinkle lines etched around his eyes, giving him a weathered finish. “Do you always grill visitors like this?”

  “Not always,” I said, my heart hammering in my chest. We held each other’s gazes straight on for a moment, before he waved back at the entry.

  “Doesn’t seem safe to leave your door unlocked with you in here all by yourself.”

  I considered his point. “Until you showed up, it’s never been a problem.”

  With that, he leaned back his head and let out a deep rumble of laughter. His eyes closed, and his long dark mustache bobbed as his narrow chest heaved up and down. I laughed along with him. I wished my camera was within reach to capture the unself-conscious expression of pleasure dawning across his face, across his whole body. As he reached the end of his laughter, still smiling, he sighed with satisfaction and slapped his thigh. “Guess I had that coming,” he said, rising to his feet with the same fluid ease I imagined he could mount a horse or slide down beside a campfire.

  Still seated on the ground, I tucked some hair behind my ear, flustered at the disappointment I felt as he took a few steps toward the door. He paused and turned back to me.

  “I reckon you’re gonna start locking that door now?”

  I pretended to give thoughtful consideration to his question before shaking my head. “Nope.”

  “Atta girl.” He grinned, winked, tipped his cowboy hat at me, and was gone.

  MUCH TO MY relief, the following day was filled with portrait sessions, one after another, giving me little time to dwell on Maynard Dixon’s visit. Friends started arriving as evening fell. Our usual routine commenced: the carpet was rolled back, someone put a record on the Victrola, and Ah-yee appeared with a tray of little powdered lemon cakes. All evening, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the door, but Maynard’s tall, lean silhouette never appeared. Annoyance seeped through me. Why did I get my hopes up?

  Around nine o’clock, Fronsie and her handsome new beau, Jack, arrived. Her eyes glimmered with a spark. Something was up. We’d barely been talking for a minute before she thrust her pale hand out at me. “Look!” she said. On her finger, a diamond ring dazzled, catching the streetlights from the window, the rays refracting onto my shirt as I admired it. “I’m going to be Mrs. Stockton.” Jack looked pleased as punch as she nuzzled into his shoulder.

  “Isn’t that ducky?” If my voice sounded flat, the loud music covered it up and the darkness shadowed the stunned expression I knew to be written all over my face.

  Fron turned to the group and prattled on about how Jack had surprised her earlier that evening with a proposal. While everyone leaned in to admire her ring, I edged backward until I was against the wall. Had it even been a full month since she’d told me about going to a dance hall one evening after work and meeting a handsome fella who told funny jokes? Since then, stories of him peppered our recent conversations, but I must not have been paying attention. She had gotten serious about him and I’d missed it. Work had been consuming me. I waved my hands around to clear the cigarette smoke clouding the air and watched as they leaned into each other to kiss. The crowd cheered. Tears blurred my vision. After all of this time, she was going to leave me.

  Someone turned the music louder and people started dancing.

  “Hey, pal, you all right?” Jack came to lean against the wall beside me. I nodded. He looked back at Fronsie, who was dancing with a friend, and wonder widened his kind, dark eyes as he drank her in. “Can’t believe I found such a swell girl. I promise I’ll take good care of her.”

  At that, tears spilled from my eyes, but I brushed them away. Without looking at me, he held out his handkerchief. “Sometimes smoke makes my eyes water too.”

  I chuckled, taking it gratefully, and said, “She’s lucky to have you.”

  TUCKED IN OUR little side-by-side twin beds later that night, Fronsie sighed. “I think it was my destiny to meet Jack.”

  “Really?”

  She propped her cheek on her palm and looked at me. Her fair hair gleamed silver in the moonlight reflecting through the crack between our Swiss dot curtains. “Oh, absolutely, he is the one.”

  I raised my eyebrows, both intrigued and skeptical. Bunching the pillow up under my head, I gazed back at her. “You’ve had a line of beaus behind you like ants trailing a piece of cherry pie for as long as I can remember. Do you honestly think there’s just one man out there for you?”

  “Oh yes, I just know it in my gut. It sounds corny, but everything about Jack feels right.” When I remained quiet, she asked, “Don’t you think there’s someone out there just for you?”

  I made a noncommittal sound, glad for the dark as I pondered this idea. The thought of one person out there for me felt terrifying. It was too specific. Too limiting. What if we failed to cross paths? What if something happened to that one?

  “Oh, there’s someone out there for you. I know it.” Fronsie rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling as if her sense of resolution settled everything.

  I tipped away from her and squeezed my eyes shut. Destiny didn’t sit well with me. I hated to think anything about my future was fixed. The idea of a master plan lurking beyond my control, beyond my reach, alarmed me. I wanted to be able to change. I wanted options, a measure of control. But at the same time, I wanted mystery. Was that too much to ask? Life needed to stay interesting and keep me on my toes or otherwise what was the point?

  Chapter 8

  About a week later, after the room cleared from another one of my parties, I sent Ah-yee home. I wanted to have the studio to myself for a bit. Ever since Fron had announced her engagement, I’d felt out of sorts. Looping around the reception area picking up stray cigarette butts and straggling jars of liquor, I stooped over for an abandoned pocket watch and straightened to find Maynard standing in front of me.

  “Goodness,” I said, raising my hand to my heart. “You frightened me.”

  “Did I? You don’t seem like one who frightens easily.” He reached for an abandoned highball glass. Half moons of rose-colored lipstick stained the rim. He placed it on a tray resting on my velvet couch. “So, you had a party and didn’t invite me, huh?”

  “You don’t seem like one who waits for invitations.”

  Chuckling, he turned to the Victrola, flipped through the records, placed one upon the turntable, wound the crank, and let it start playing. He extended a hand out to me. “Let’s dance.”


  “Sorry, I can’t . . . I don’t dance.” I looked away as if searching for more debris.

  “I find that tough to believe. Come on.”

  He reached for me, took my hand in his, and slid his other hand along the small of my back. I averted my gaze from his, but gently he pulled me closer until my head was almost resting against his chest. From the Victrola, Charles Harrison’s voice crooned “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows,” and I found myself leaning into Maynard and his smell of smoke and dried leaves. We swayed. In his embrace, I loosened like a flower blooming in the warmth of indoors. With my head only reaching his chest, my limbs short and his long, we didn’t fit together easily, but somehow I nestled against him. His breath warmed my scalp. Could he feel my heart pounding? He hummed along to the music, seemingly without a care in the world, so I exhaled, trying to follow his lead. The sharp edges of his callouses scratched against my palm as he shifted and tightened his grip on me. Slowly we circled the room, unspeaking, sinking deeper and deeper into each other. The music seemed to fill my body and it felt like I was drifting gracefully in his arms. Was this what Fron felt when she was with Jack? In all of my fervor for work, maybe I’d been overlooking something important. Just when I reached a point of hoping our dance would never end, a scratching sound filled the room. The record had ended. We stayed in place, pressed against each other for a moment longer before separating.

  “Hey, kid, you done for the night?” Up close, the dazzle of blue eyes against his straight dark hair left me breathless. He certainly wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense. He was bull-legged and too skinny, his nose too long, but there was a ruggedness, an energy that produced a sizzle inside me. My vision seemed to blur a bit when I got up close. Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nodded before stepping back and pretending to frown at the overflowing ashtrays surrounding us.

  As if reading my mind, he said, “Your girl can straighten things up in the morning. Come on.” And with that, it was all I could do to grab my sweater off a peg by the door as he propelled me out of the room.