Blind Side Page 2

  There wasn't anyone to come home to either, just a couple of disconnects on the answering machine, and my big view camera parked in the middle of the room. I stared at the lens opening and it stared back, one big reproachful eye. I splashed cold water on my face, then turned the camera to the wall. I didn't want it to see the way I felt. Jim didn't know it, but it hadn't been on principle that I'd turned him down. Three weeks' work for twenty grand-I'd have done almost anything for that. The truth was I had lost my nerve, though not the way he thought. It wasn't the madmen's bullets that scared me off Beirut, or the danger in the streets, or the possibility of being kidnapped, though all that was real enough. It was the certain knowledge that I couldn't carry out the assignment, because the assignment involved photographing people.

  You see: it had been three years since I'd shot a human face.

  The next morning I was still in bed, hung over, feeling bad, when the phone rang hard against my ear.

  "Hi! It's me-Kimberly. Getting you at a bad time?" And then, before I could answer: "I'm just downstairs and around the corner. I was wondering . . . could I pop up?"

  "What time is it?"

  "Quarter past ten. Didn't wake you, did I, Geoffrey?"

  "Where are you?"

  "Corner of Nassau and Ann."

  I wrapped a sheet around my waist, then carried the phone to the window. She was standing in the booth on the corner in front of the bronze plaque embedded in the building wall that says Edgar Allan Poe wrote "The Raven" on that very spot.

  what are you doing downtown so early?"

  "Early audition," she said.

  "Get the part?"

  "they turned me down. I didn't want it anyway."

  I didn't believe a word. There are no auditions, early or otherwise-not in my part of town. But she was looking pretty good down there in her New York actress model garb, chest straining against the fabric of her T-shirt, rear stretching the bottom of her tight and beltless jeans. She was sexy and she knew it, and it seemed she'd worked up some kind of crush on me too. Why else come around after the way I'd talked to her the day before? he actually seemed to be panting as she waited for me to speak. Yeah, she was looking good, full of life, and I needed something good just then. Something fresh, warm and alive. Maybe, I thought, somehow, there might be a way. . . .

  "Tell you what, Kimberly-why don't you go around the corner, get yourself some coffee. Give me about twenty-five minutes. Then come back and ring the bell."

  I recall my first thought when she came through the door, that she was even better-looking than I remembered. A little older to closer to twenty-five than twenty-one. There was an appealing sultry eagerness about her that made me sorry I'd been rude. to anyone. Ever. That's how attractive she was.

  "Hi!"

  "So this is where you live?"

  "Live and work," I said.

  She glanced at the walls.

  "Nice. Mind if I look around?"

  I shrugged.

  "Help yourself."

  I watched her then as she began to scan my pictures. She stopped before a print.

  "This one isn't yours."

  "No, it's by a friend. He shot it in New Mexico."

  "Nice," she said.

  "And this?"

  "That's by Edward Weston," I said.

  " 'Pepper No. 30,' isn't it? The print by Cole." I nodded. She knew her stuff.

  "You must like it. Tell me why?"

  "It reminds me of something," I said.

  "What?"

  "That it took Weston thirty tries before he was satisfied he'd seen a pepper right."

  She smiled.

  "Good reason." She pointed at my Piet@. "And this-?"

  "That one's mine," I said,

  She turned toward me.

  "You're kidding!" I shook my head. She looked confused.

  "You shot this! You have no idea! As a little girl … God! I was haunted by this." I stood silent. People had said things like that to me before, and I'd never figured out how to respond. The Vietnamese mother, face in torment, staring at my lens while embracing the bloodied naked body of her son-it touched some chord, spoke of love, despair and the total agony of war. And the men standing around her, the men who'd killed her boy, smiles twisted by shame at what they'd done-they too were victims. That was what the picture said.

  "Can't believe I'm standing here with a person who made something that . . . that changed my life. Course, I was only ten years old."

  "Changed mine too," I said.

  "And I was only twenty-five."

  "Didn't you win a prize or something?"

  "That was the good part," I said.

  She studied me, nodded and turned back to my wall.

  "What you're doing now-it's completely different. Like you're another person altogether."

  "Well, I hope I am."

  "I definitely think so. You're in a completely different place. But there're still times you'd like to become the person you were back then. Trouble is, you don't think you can." She nodded, as if to herself. "Actually, I think it's possible-if you really wanted to do it, you could. But you don't. Not really. You just tell yourself you do. And less and less as time goes on .

  "What are you?" I asked. "Some kind of witch?" She smiled.

  "Do I read you right?"

  "A lot better than some therapists I've been to see."

  "Maybe they tried too hard. See, I think the trick is not to try, just to feel and understand." She gazed again at my Piet.

  "You don't like to talk about it, but still I'd like to hear . – ."

  We sat down, and she began to talk. She told me about a friend of hers, a girl in her fourth-grade class, whose older brother had been killed in Vietnam. On account of that the girl hated all Vietnamese, and, Kim, being her friend, hated them too. Except one day her homeroom teacher showed the class my picture, and after that Kim changed her mind.

  "I realized they were people too, and that it was the war, not the people, that was bad. I lost my friend on account of that. She'd been hurt too badly. She couldn't change. But I could. So I'm grateful to you. to my teacher too, of course. But especially to you, for taking that incredible photograph."

  She asked me about the circumstances that had led up to my taking it. I told her the story, and even as I did I was amazed. I was exposing myself to a girl I didn't even know, some kid who'd wandered in, said a few sensitive things, and was now soliciting my intimate thoughts.

  it was a fine moment. Ugly. Brutal. In its way even superb. And I was there and lucky enough to have the right tool in my hands. Sol trapped it. Click!"

  "Then?"

  "A couple of days later it hit. Seen around the world. That's every photojournalist's dream. Made me famous for a while."

  "And now?"

  "I don't shoot events. It's light that moves me, Captured in long exposures."

  " 'Chunks of time."

  I nodded.

  "Now I'm looking at the silent undercurrents, not the violent waves."

  "How about people?"

  "Don't shoot them much."

  "Why not?" I shrugged.

  "Too difficult, I guess."

  "Too much trouble-isn't that what you mean?"

  I glanced at her.

  "Maybe something like that." I felt uneasy. Our conversation was taking an awkward turn.

  "So what do you shoot these days?"

  "Streets. Buildings. Walls. Night stuff mostly. Anything that's-"

  "Still?" she asked.

  "Yeah-still. But that wasn't what I was going to say."

  ':What were you going to say?"

  , Quiet," I said.

  "Anything that's quiet."

  "Right……… She nodded, stood up, and began to scan the walls.

  "You were very good with people. I can see you were. Know something? I've seen your stuff before."

  "The PietA."

  "Not just that. Other stuff too."

  "Like what?"

  "Portraits. Act
ors, writers, athletes. In magazines. Maybe three, four years ago, when I first came to New York. I saw them." She turned and faced me.

  "I thought they were pretty great."

  I thought they were pretty great too. Unfortunately I couldn't shoot them anymore.

  "Well," I said, "like I told you when you called, I no longer do that kind of work."

  "Maybe you should start again."

  "Think so?"

  She nodded.

  "See, I think maybe if you started shooting people, you wouldn't sound so sour the way you do."

  I stood up. She was right, of course. But still I wanted her to leave.

  "Do I really sound sour, Kim? I'm sorry. I wish I didn't."

  "Maybe if you went back to shooting people," she said, "you'd give up all this . . . boring malaise." She waved her hand at my most recent prints.

  I stared at her. She stared straight back. I expected her to apologize, but she stood her ground, and that made me mad.

  "Now, that's a clever little speech," I said.

  "And you're a clever little girl. Sashay your way in here, toss a few compliments, fake up a little profound analysis. Then, when you see that's not going to get you what you want, try some rude insults to see if maybe that'll turn me around."

  "What is it you think I want from you anyway?"

  "You want glamour head shots, right?"

  "It would be a privilege to have my portrait taken by you. But that wasn't why I said it."

  "So why did you say it?"

  "Because I felt it. I think it's true, and I think you need to hear the truth."

  Christ, I thought, just what I don't need: a girl who wants to level with me, straighten out my life.

  "Okay," I said. "You're very nice. You want to help. You're full of good advice. You'd even rechannel my career if I'd let you, steer me in the right direction, help me fulfill the promise of my talent. I really appreciate your sincerity, Kimberly." I paused, and then I lied.

  "Trouble is I like what I do. Believe it or not, I even like myself."

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Doesn't matter. I think now it's time for you to go." She stared at me, eyes perplexed.

  "The door's over there," I said.

  She stared awhile longer, then I saw her anger rise. I could actually see it come, roll slowly up her face, the way it sometimes does in a great actor at a crucial juncture in a play.

  "I know where the goddamn door is." She started toward it.

  "I don't know why I came down here anyway. After the way you talked to me yesterday, like you thought I was some kind of dumb club slut or something. But still I liked you. Thought we could be friends. I see now that was a mistake." She paused.

  "You really are a nasty jerk, you know. So-best of luck, Barnett, with all your turgid photographs of empty streets."

  She had the door open, was about to step out, when suddenly I changed my mind.

  "Shut it."

  "Don't worry. I don't slam doors."

  "Come back inside and shut it. Please."

  She glared at me, stepped back in, then stood with her back against the door@ "Okay," she said, "what do you want?"

  "You still want a portrait?"

  "Damn straight I do."

  "Then maybe I'll shoot one for you," I said.

  "Maybe then we'll find out who you really are."

  "I know who I am."

  "Do you? You're an actress, right?" She nodded.

  "That's why you want the head shots. Tell you something-I don't think much of actress photographs."

  "Neither do I," she said.

  "That's why I came to you."

  "So tell me-how you feel about acting?"

  She thought a moment.

  "It's the only thing on earth I really care about."

  "Gee whiz," I said, "I think I've heard that corny line before."

  She laughed.

  "Guess I deserve that. After what I said to you. "

  "Your manipulations were too transparent. But your angry moment at the door-I believed in that. The thing is, Kimberly, when I take a portrait, I don't let the person act, "

  "How do you stop them?"

  "There are ways."

  She smiled.

  "I know what you're trying to do."

  "What am I trying to do?"

  "Skate me off."

  She was right, but I wouldn't admit it.

  "Now, why would I want to do a thing like that?"

  "Maybe because you're afraid yourself,"

  "Of what "Taking my picture." And then, when I scoffed: "Well . .

  There was something taunting in her expression then, as if she were daring me to show her she was wrong. What she didn't know was that she was the second person in twenty four hours to accuse me of my- photographic cowardice, and I was getting pretty sick of hearing that and knowing it was true.

  "Come back this afternoon at three o'clock," I said, "But I warn you-it's no picnic modeling for me."

  "I'm willing to work for it."

  "You'll work, all right."

  "Anything special you want me to wear?"

  I shook my head.

  "No makeup either. Show up on time, bring your face and call if you change your mind.

  "A portrait session with The Great Photographer!" She smirked.

  "I wouldn't cancel that in a million years."

  it was after eleven when she finally left, which meant I had less than four hours to psych myself up One solution would be to shoot her without loading in any film. I could lie to her later, tell her the rolls got ruined at the lab.

  But that was too easy. The real answer, I knew, was to actually take her portrait. My ability to do that, however, was dependent on whether she was the angel I'd been waiting for-the saving angel with the secret key who could unlock the blocking door.

  I hoped desperately that she was, but I had little faith.

  At two-thirty my hands began to shake. By a quarter to three I started to shiver. Then I looked out the window at the public thermometer across the street and discovered to my shame that it was 82 degrees.

  What the hell was the matter with me? I was tired of panic attacks, tired of having to turn down beautiful women who begged me to take their pictures. I'd had it. today was the day. No matter what it cost me, today, I resolved, I would beat down the blocking door myself.

  At 3:00 sharp my downstairs buzzer rang. Okay, I thought, here we go. I left my front door open a crack, then retired into my loft to wait.

  She announced herself with a fanfare.

  "Ta da!" she said, striking a pose just inside,

  Against my instructions she'd dressed up. She was decked out in a kinky downtown outfit, short black skirt, leather jacket and top, textured stockings and exaggerated spike-heeled shoes.

  "Great entrance," I said.

  "Great outfit too. Now take it off . All of it.

  She stared at me.

  "Go on," I said.

  "Get undressed."

  "You're kidding!"

  "Uh-uh. Hurry up. Everything but your underwear."

  "Hey, Geoffrey! I'm here to get my portrait shot."

  "You'll get your portrait shot, but without any armor on."

  She plucked at her jacket.

  "You call this armor?"

  "Look, kid-don't waste time. We'll do it my way, or we won't do it at all." I paused.

  "Unless, of course, you're afraid to show yourself."

  She looked hard at me.

  "I'm not the one who's afraid.

  "Prove it." She hesitated, Then she smiled to herself. Then she obeyed. She undressed with marvelous nonchalance, taking off her garments piece by piece and dropping them into a heap on the floor.

  I'd told her to stop at her underwear. As I suspected, she didn't wear a bra. I never intended that she strip herself naked, but she surprised me-that was exactly what she did.

  She peeled off her stockings, gave me a smile, then stepped out of her panties. Then
she bunched them up and tossed them carelessly at my face.

  Just in case she thought that gesture was but a prelude to a screw, I made a point of quickly disabusing her. I turned off the air conditioner, pulled down a white background shade, placed her in front of it, then poured hot light on her-lots-of it-to make her sweat. I rolled up my big 8 x 10 Sinar to intimidate her. Then I grabbed my motor-driven Leica, stood before her and prayed for courage.

  "Well?" she asked, with the same taunting smile she'd showed me in the morning. I was annoyed, but I had to admire her. Even standing naked, she had incredible poise.

  "Let's see you move," I said.

  "Let's see you shoot."

  "I'll shoot when I'm ready to shoot. Do your stuff. Show me who you are." She placed her hand on her hip and struck a pose.

  "Phony," I said. "Try something else."

  She spread her legs, then wrapped her arms about herself as if to protect her breasts. I circled her, shook my head.

  "I'm not used to this," she said.

  "Forget you're nude. I'm only looking at your face."

  "Can I sit down?"

  "Not yet. Show me something real." "I don't know what you want exactly."

  "Speak to me with your body, Kimberly. Say: Here I am, with nothing to hide."

  She tried another stance, then shook her head.

  "I can't do it. Help me, Geoffrey. Please."

  "You said you were an actress." 'I am an actress!"

  "Then take direction."

  "I can't!"

  "What you're saying is you want to control the session, and if you can't control it, you aren't willing to work."

  When she looked to me again her expression was helpless.

  "Okay," she said.

  "I give you control."

  "You're sure?"

  She nodded. I raised my Leica. And then I started ordering her around.

  "Stand straight. Arms at your side." Whap! Whap! "Now put your hands behind your head." Whap! "Wider. Now spread your legs. No! Too much. There-stay like that." Whap! Whap! Whap! Six shots! A sixth of a roll! I'd started. At last!

  "What's with all this physical-obedience crap?" she asked.

  "I don't understand what you're doing at all."

  "Shut up! You don't have to understand. Now get down on the floor." She hesitated. Whap! "You heard me-I want you down." She got down.

  "Now look up." Whap! "That's it, but not so angry. Yes. That's better." Whap! Whap! Whap! Eleven shots! "See, Kimberly our face looks different now."