But what does it mean? The question rolls through my mind all week, like a polished pearl, though I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll ever know the answer.
After I finish my homework one night, I spend an hour working on my Winsome Swift drawings and paintings. My father bought me an inexpensive drafting table after I got out of the institution—I assume in the hopes that creative pursuits would keep me away from the darkness. I suppose it worked in some way, since I’ve spent more time with Winsome in the past few years than I have with anyone else.
I sketch out a few panels that I’m coloring with both ink and watercolors. I’m already looking forward to returning to Comic Castle and talking to Fern about graphic novels.
I finish inking a panel and stand up to stretch. The Patrick O’Hare book is on my bedside table, and I leaf through the pages again. There’s a section on self-portraiture, which I find both interesting and somewhat self-indulgent—a precursor to the selfie phenomenon.
Without a phone, I’ve never taken a selfie. And until Darius’s photo of me in the quad, I can’t even remember the last time anyone else took a picture of me either.
According to the book’s essay, every photographer can learn something from self-portraiture, whether it’s a technical aspect about lighting, angles, and setting or a deeper insight into your own psyche.
Putting the book aside, I get out my camera and position it on the shelf underneath the print of The Starry Night. Though I feel a little ridiculous, I adjust the settings, point the lens toward the chair beside my window, and set the self-timer. Without bothering to look in the mirror, I press the shutter release button and hurry to sit in the chair. The shutter snaps.
I’m not sure why I’m doing this, but after seeing Darius’s picture of me, I’m curious to know what my own pictures of me might reveal. Maybe I really do look different than I think. Maybe I’m interesting or even pretty.
The next day after school, I ask Ms. Meadows if I can use the darkroom. I wait until I’m sure Darius is gone before going in and developing the roll. I’d taken twelve pictures of myself. Aside from subtle shifts in my expression, they’re all similar—me in the chair, unsmiling, a faint light coming through the window and shining on the heavy, unkempt mass of my hair. I don’t look any different from the girl I see in the mirror every morning.
After the prints dry, I slip them into a folder and take them home. Before bed, I spend a couple of hours enhancing the self-portrait photographs with ink and watercolors. I paint a hedgehog on my shoulder. I color my hair purple. I put an aura of cartoonish flowers and birds around my head.
The results are silly, but also kind of fun. Though I’m no Winsome Swift, I like adjusting, enhancing, and changing my own image. I like turning the ordinary girl by the window into anything or anyone I want.
CHAPTER 12
Nell
At school, it’s easy to become immersed in all that Darius is teaching us. I notice him, of course, just like all the other students do. He has an extraordinary presence—not only because of his looks or because he’s the only teacher who wears beautifully tailored suits, but because he knows so much. And while he’s dedicated to teaching us how to improve our technique, he’s far more determined to teach us how to look at the world differently and capture our vision on film.
He and Ms. Meadows also tell us that Patrick O’Hare has agreed to drive up from San Francisco next month to talk to the photography students and maybe even accompany us on a field trip. Their announcement is met with cheers and applause.
As October continues, we become increasingly adept at manipulating the controls and adjusting for different conditions. I love the concept of creating an image with light, all these little molecules that come together to form not just a photo, but a statement, a vision, a thought. Like drawing and writing, it’s a way of speaking without using your voice. It’s a way of taking control.
Ms. Meadows lets us check out our cameras to bring home to practice, and I start to look at our shabby old house differently. I see curves, lines, proportions. I take close-ups of our ancient clock, the crown molding, my father’s bookshelves. The newel cap at the bottom of the stairs has a polished, worn sheen that I’ve never noticed before.
The downside is having to wait to develop my photos. Given the class enthusiasm for what we’re doing, Ms. Meadows allows us to use the darkroom after school. I make numerous prints of my “house photos.” They’re totally different from my drawings, which are usually of storms, wild, turbulent landscapes, or Winsome Swift battling an evil force. By contrast, my house photos show the elegant, unique details of ordinary things.
“You might enjoy experimenting with a macro lens.” Darius studies my close-up photo of the ancient typewriter my mother once bought for display. “I haven’t done much macro photography, but you have an eye for it.”
Pleased by the compliment, I leaf through the array of close-up photos I’ve taken. “Do we have macro lenses in class?”
“No, but I’ll find out about getting some. You’ll need a tripod too.”
Though I’m tempted to ask him about self-portraiture—in addition to close-up photography, I’ve done a few more “selfies” of myself in the chair by the window—I don’t want him to know I was inspired by the picture he took of me.
By the time Friday arrives, I’ve entirely forgotten that I’d sort of agreed to join him on a run before school. A knock on my bedroom door startles me awake from a blissfully deep sleep.
“Nell?” His voice echoes through the solid wood door. “Still want to run with me?”
“Oh my god.” I groan and shove my head under the pillow. “Is it still dark outside?”
“Sun’s rising as we speak. I’m leaving in three minutes.”
“Have fun.”
“Come on. Just a couple of miles to the railroad bridge and back.”
“Okay, okay. Go away. I’ll be down in a sec.”
His footsteps thump back down the stairs. I drag myself out of bed to brush my teeth and wash my face. I didn’t think to get any actual running clothes, so I pull on stretchy capris, a T-shirt, and my sneakers. Fastening my hair into a ponytail, I head downstairs.
Darius is waiting in the foyer, looking energetic and charged with adrenaline. He opens the door and indicates for me to precede him. “Let’s do a few stretches first.”
I follow his lead, though I’m a bit distracted by the sight of his powerful muscles flexing so effortlessly. After stretching out, we start jogging down the hill and turn toward the bridge.
Within five minutes, I’m cursing myself for having agreed to this because clearly my body has forgotten how to run. I’m already puffing, and we’ve barely gotten started. Darius, on the other hand, is running with the tireless stamina of an Olympian.
Determined not to appear weak, I push myself to keep going. We run along a path bordering the dirt road, which is rutted with potholes. The morning air is crisp and cool, but I soon start to sweat.
Darius has to be running slower for my sake because he exhibits no signs of exertion. I might even have liked the masculine strength of him beside me, if my calf muscles weren’t burning and my lungs aching.