Eight Girls Taking Pictures: A Novel by Whitney Otto

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    CONTENTS

    Cymbeline in Loeor, The Unmade Bed 1

    A Little Dog in Pearlsor, Machine Worker in Summer 43

    The Sentimental Problem of Clara Argentoor, Mellas Typewriter 75

    The Artist of Her Own Beautyor, Observatory TimeThe Lovers 115

    Such Are the Dreams of the Eeryday Housewifeor, Artculos elctricos para el hogar

    (Electrical Appliances for the Home) 169

    A World through My Windowor, Early Skyline 229

    Jessie Berlinor, Phoenix on Her Side 265

    Good Night Kissor, Crescent Moon #4 297

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    Contents

    vI

    Authors Note 335Select Bibliography 336

    Acknowledgments 339Photo Credits 341Text Permissions 342

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    CYMBELINE IN LOvE

    OR

    THE UNMADE BED

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    PART 1: AMERICA

    The Third Fire Lit by Mary Doyle, 1917

    The kitchen smelled like burnt wood and water. Cymbeline closed her

    eyes and imagined that she and Leroy were breaking camp on a coolmorning in the Olympics, the carried river water fooding the remains

    o the breakast re beore they set out or a day o photography and

    painting, and sometimes simply lying back in the sweetness o the grass,

    doing nothing. Their rst year o marriage had been marked by these

    small journeys into the empty beauty that surrounded early-twentieth-

    century Seattle; Cymbeline and Leroya naked husband modeling in

    nature or his pregnant wiemaking good on their promise to each

    other to not be like everyone else. In act, that was the very argument he

    had used to urge her into marriage when he rst wrote to her our years

    ago, in 1913, while he was still in Paris.

    Nineteen thirteen was the year Leroy began traveling and painting,

    alling so in love with his new lie in Europe that when a mutual riend

    put him in touch with Cymbelinea working Seattle photographer with

    her own rather well-received studio that allowed her to support hersel i

    she cut all luxury rom her liehe ell in love with her as well.

    The original purpose o Leroy and Cymbelines correspondence was

    the organization o a small American exhibition o his work, until their

    letters moved easily rom the logistics o the exhibition into something

    more personal. It was inevitable that the painter and the photographer

    who saw photography as a ne art would quickly nd common ground,

    each excited by an ongoing paper conversation that seemed so warm,

    so eortless. All those months o shared ideas and enthusiasms wereintoxicating; it was fattering to be told that she understood him so well.

    She was an artist, he said. He said, You are my kind.

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    She loved his paintings. He loved her pictures.

    Still, she was thrown when he wrote, Ever since the thrill that your

    rst letter gave me, you have continued to move me. Yes, I coness it, I setout months ago with the deliberate intention o winning your aections

    because I wanted them, oh, I wanted them so much!!! Underlying all this,

    however, is that want, that emptiness, that completeness.

    She remembered the heat o her studio as she read those words, one

    hand holding Leroys letter and the other a glass o iced tea, which she

    pressed to her orehead. It was as i Leroys conession o emptiness and

    want had amplied the heat in the room as it touched upon her ownhunger. It wasnt sae, she knew, to eel so much need.

    He wrote, You are the ideal woman or me, and earing no longer, in

    all hope, tranquillity, and happiness. I ask you i you will be my riend and

    companion or liei you will be my wieLove and time in Italy! She

    must come to him, he said, they would live in Italy and, he added, Lets

    not be like anyone else.

    A million images o Italy fipped though her mind: ruins and

    churches; olive trees, ountains, rolling hills, and the sea. Wading in

    wildfowers up to her waist. The country in shades o oyster white,

    smoke, dusty green, brilliant New World gold, blood red, and that blue,

    blue sea lazing beneath the azure sky. The whimsy o Venetian palaces,

    and Michelangelos slaves straining against the stone; the unrealized

    dream machines o Leonardo. Leroy wrote, There are such wondrous

    lands to explore

    Lets not be like anyone else.

    She weighed his proposal against her studio. She weighed it against

    her tiny oothold in American art, having recently had her rst exhibi-

    tion even though the patronizing tone o the male critics who said her

    pictures were pleasing cut her a little. She balanced her present against

    her uture; she thought about marriage (something she seldom thought

    about) and children (something she oten thought about). She weighed

    out her education (the rst in her amily with a university degree, inchemistry and German).

    She weighed out her physical aspect (she was small, with unruly

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    red curls, metal-ramed glasses, a good, i slightly pear-shaped gure),

    her looks enhanced by her intelligence and curiosity and willingness to

    accept the complexity in most things. But as to beauty, the best shecould claim was a kind o specialized beauty, the sort that someone may

    eel happy to have stumbled upon. She weighed out her proessional

    possibilities and the knowledge that America had not yet caught up with

    a womans ambition. She weighed out the act that she and Leroy had

    yet to meet, ace-to-ace.

    She was twenty-nine years old.

    Along with the doused campre scent, the kitchen carried the aroma o

    torched cotton and painta kind o nervy, toxic smell. The glass windows

    appeared slightly altered, as i the high temperature had sotened them.

    The damage to this room was nothing when compared to the room

    with which it shared a wall: Cymbelines darkroom and studio. The

    wooden foor and bits o debris crackled under her boots, though the

    place wasnt completely destroyed; the damage was sweeping yet selec-

    tive, the overall eect was o the rooms entire contents seeming unsal-

    vageable, until her eyes grew accustomed to its shocking appearance.

    The urge to slide to the foor in the middle o the mess while surrender-

    ing to tears had to be resisted since she knew she would have a hard time

    getting back up, both guratively and literallyshe was eight months

    into what had been, and still was, a dicult pregnancy.

    All this while Leroy was o painting in Yosemite, Cymbeline no

    longer able to comortably accompany him as she had in the rst year

    o their marriage. Even when she was pregnant with Bosco, their rst

    child, now a two-year-old, she could still keep up with Leroy. She could

    take nude pictures o him as he posed in the orest or near a lake (she

    was said to have invented the male nude in reerence to those honey-

    moon photographs). One o the most successul was o him as Narcis-

    sus, seduced by his beautiul refection. This was during her Pictorialphase, when she believed that photographs could be made to imitate

    paintings.

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    Her approach to photography eventually changed, but Leroy stayed

    the same. The sel-involvement that had masqueraded as charm when

    they were new was now just an accepted act o their marriage.When Bosco was a baby (she had gotten pregnant so quickly!), Leroy

    let on a monthlong trip in the spring, ollowed by a two-month trip in

    the summer, the only time to work in the San Juans, he insisted. She

    understood and complied, staying behind to manage Bosco, the house,

    her photography, and to pen love letters to Leroy.

    And so lie went on with Leroy needing to get away or his art (Leroy

    already talking about ten weeks making seascapes along the NorthernCaliornia coast in late August) while she stayed behind with Bosco, her

    troublesome pregnancy, the even more troublesome Mary Doyle, and

    their now partially burned house.

    On her good days, Cymbeline took pictures o Bosco as he investigated

    the fowers in the marginally tended garden (which she had no time or).

    He spilled water on the cat. He pinched a pill bug between his strong

    little ngers, an old discarded shoe lay nearby. There was Bosco eating a

    sandwich that had recently allen in the dirt. Sometimes he slept naked

    in the sun, and she took pictures o that too. Bosco held her ast with his

    love, and his practical needs; her photographs o him were not so much

    a mothers desire to record her sons lie as a consequence o all that end-

    less togetherness.

    Someone sent her a magazine with pictures by Elliot and Andrs;

    photographs by men she knew, had worked with; men who had mis-

    tresses, muses, studio assistants, and wivesa wealth o women to do

    or thempictures that she had no time to study because Bosco was

    crying. Bosco wanted lunch. Maybe Bosco didnt nap today because he

    was coming down with a cold that would keep him up all night.

    Then there were the ew clients she still saw, who elt like another

    demand: Could she arrange a sitting? Could she touch up the negativeto, you know, x things a bit? When could she drop o the prints, or

    when could someone pick them up? And yet she still loved her work so

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    much that it almost killed her, loving it so much. The chemical stains on

    her ngers meant more to her than diamonds.

    She wrote to Leroy, I have spent so much time in the darkroom. Mymother came at 3 & took B. or a little walk. I hardly had time to speak

    to her because I had to get 2 o my morning prints dry & fat & spotted &

    get the others nished beore an expected caller at 4. Im still sick as a dog.

    She didnt write, I cant do this alone, because they had hired a young

    woman, Mary Doyle, to help her. He wondered why they needed the

    extra expense when they already lived so close to the wire. Housemaids,

    he announced as he nished packing, were nothing more than a luxury.Mary Doyle, Cymbeline wanted to write, steals small, inconsequen-

    tial things that become important only when theyre missing. But she

    couldnt complain to Leroy about Mary Doyle (nothing more than a

    luxury) because Mary made it possible or Cymbeline to keep what was

    let o her photography.Mary Doyle is careless when she lights the evening

    candles. Once I watched her light each taper beore holding the fame to the

    hem o a curtain. When I called out to her, it was as i I had awakened her

    rom a trance, leaving me to rush in and slap out the sparks.

    On the days when Cymbeline was too weak and worn to leave her

    bed beore noon, Mary Doyle hustled around the house, sotly singing to

    Bosco, baking bread, and cheerully sweeping the foors.

    No one would listen i Cymbeline tried to describe Mary Doyle

    setting a small, smoldering log rom the replace onto the hearth rug,

    then strolling out the ront door to retrieve the mail. Cymbeline smelled

    the burning material almost immediately as it began to catch, and she

    rushed to stamp out the embers, singeing the hem o her dress. She was

    torn between what she believed to be true about the girl (that she could

    not be trusted) and her need or help around the house.

    So she told hersel that Mary Doyle got distracted, and no wonder

    with all she had to do all day to allow Cymbeline the time to do as

    she pleased; who in 1917 would sympathize with a married woman who

    chose to work? Wasnt Mary Doyle exactly like someone she deserved?So when Leroy was o painting El Capitan, Cymbeline spent her

    days in the little Seattle cottage with their two-year-old son, Bosco, while

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    Mary Doyle set Cymbelines darkroom and studio on re, igniting the

    kitchen only as an aterthought. Cymbeline berated hersel or taking

    her eye o that sweet, angel-aced girl whom the police gently escortedto jail.

    She simply couldnt take the pressure o More Things Going Wrong.

    There was never a rest rom the sense o the unpredictable, and oten the

    unaordable, pressing in on her. The Lives o Artists, she thought wryly,

    and what did she expect? She had been old enough (no child at age thirty)

    when she married Leroy to understand that the creative lie was oten

    one o constant hustling; her navet had suraced when she thought shecould do it with children. How could she have known how much space a

    child takes up in ones thoughts and in ones heart? Her rst thought ol-

    lowing this last re was Thank God Bosco was with me, his saety always

    on her mind. Her second was, had anything, anything at all happened to

    that little boy, there was nothing that could save Mary Doyle. How close

    motherhood could bring her to dark antasies o murder.

    Yet listening to Leroy, one would think that he was under so much

    more pressure than she, which was why he absolutely had to be able

    to nip o to Nature to paint. So he could come home rejuvenated and

    inspired.

    Cymbeline couldnt remember the last time shed elt inspired. And

    i she did eel the amiliar elation o creative possibility, it was almost

    instantly crushed by Bosco calling her to play with him or to eed him.

    Or it was Leroy who wanted supper and could she please quiet the baby?

    Oh, and where was that paintbrush he had so recently bought? Then

    urious to see Bosco loading it with mud in the garden.

    This was the sort o thing that would cause Leroy to rant about the

    lack o order in their household and how was he supposed to paint i she

    wouldnt do her part? He would accuse her o indierence to him, o

    proessional jealousy (hers toward him), o caring more about domestic

    matters than she did art, you see, then pronounce her happy with her

    little home lie but he needed more. This contradictory line o reasoningwould sometimes segue into I dont even know who you are!

    Under her breath she would say, I dont know who I am either.

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    In the wreckage o the studio, Cymbeline sorted through the ashes olm stock, prints, the burnt barrel that housed her stored glass negatives,

    those pictures o another lie. The baby kicked. Bosco sat with his grand-

    mother in the other room. Across the studio was a black leather carrying

    case, miraculously spared, that held six exposed glass plates Cymbeline

    told hersel she would print one o these days, when she had the time.

    Not allowing hersel to think too much about why she never had the

    time to make prints oWaiting Room, Anhalter BahnhoorMathematics& Love or Tulips; or Late at Night, the Brandenburg Gate or Something to

    Want or The Unmade Bed. OrJulius.

    She picked up her old olding camera, a Seneca No. 9, the one she

    had bought beore she went to Dresden, that she wouldnt have let out

    o the black leather carrying case had she known the ate o her studio.

    Though it was miraculously intact, on closer inspection she could make

    out slight damage to the lens, a couple o minuscule holes in the bellows

    where it looked as i sparks may have landed. She careully set it back

    down, walked into the kitchen, took paper rom a drawer, and sent yet

    another letter to Leroy: By the time you get this we will be packed and on

    our way to Caliornia. Well be staying with your parents until I nd all o

    us a new place to live. With love, C.

    But what she wanted to write was You were wrong. Were exactly like

    everyone else.

    PART 2: GERMANY

    Her Dresden Year, 19091910

    Seven years beore the kitchen re, through luck and hard work Cymbe-

    line was awarded a scholarship to study at the Technische Hochschule

    in Dresden with Julius Weisz, the most amous proessor o photochem-istry in the world. The personal time line that had brought Cymbeline

    to this point went something like this: reading the classics, summers

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    spent painting and drawing, her rst year o university, when she decided

    to become a photographer, six months to determine exactly what that

    meant, a love o art and the belie that taking photographs could be likepainting with light; the good advice she took to major in chemistry (pho-

    tography as an academic discipline? A degree in art? It did not exist); col-

    lege employment making lantern slides or the botany department, her

    still indulgent ather building her a shed-darkroom where she worked

    by the light o a candle in a red box (I cant see what all that studying

    at the university will do i youre just going to be a dirty photographer,

    said the man who conused the matter by doing without so his daughtercould have art classes). A sel-photographed nude taken in a eld o

    uncut grass surrounding the campus, in which Cymbeline looked more

    playul than sexual. Then graduation, a job with a amous photographer

    who took amous pictures o Native Americans even though he was

    arrogant and absent, leaving so much o the work to his assistant, who,

    in turn, instructed Cymbeline. Then the scholarship, the black leather

    covered Seneca olding-bed camera that, when closed into a relatively

    small box (seven by seven by our and a quarter), weighed all o three

    and a hal pounds i not loaded with a pair o dry glass plates; everything,

    camera and a handul o plates, tting into a compact black leather suit-

    case that was part o her prize.

    She took the Seneca, packed several boxes o Eastman dry-plate glass

    slides, and her ew belongings aboard a train barreling across the coun-

    try to catch a steamer bound or Liverpool. It was during that trip that

    Cymbeline met someone, and, in the time it took to span the Atlantic,

    the aair had run its course. Neither partner mourned its brevity; when

    Cymbeline and the man said good-bye in Liverpool, she was already past

    their encounter, excited or the next new thing.

    With every traveled mile taking her arther and arther rom Seattle,

    Cymbeline could eel hersel opening. Everything was new and mar-

    velous and conounding and curious. She had suddenly, miraculously,

    caught up to her own lie. The uture stopped eluding her grasp longenough or her to enter it, breathless and happy. Even the shipboard

    romance was perect in that it was nothing more than a souf.

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    Then she arrived in Dresden, a colossal conection o a city, where

    she enrolled in a studio art class, ound a teacher to improve her Ger-

    man, and became the sole woman accepted into the photochemistryseminar o the renowned Julius Weisz, which was when all her best

    intentions to leave love alone let her.

    The rst day o her photochemistry class at the Technische Hochschule,

    Cymbeline realized that not only was she the lone woman in the room

    but, at age twenty-seven, she was quite possibly the oldest student inthere as well. Her American smile, nervous and refexive, was met with

    indierence when it was met at all.

    Her solitude orced her out into the Dresden streetscuriosity too,

    laced with lonelinesspushed her out into this place that elt as insub-

    stantial as an invented story with its impossibly romantic architecture,

    grand concourses, perectly arranged gardens, and ountains. There

    were churches and palaces. And all o it as elaborate as expensive pastry.

    While she was in transit, being unattached was exhilarating, but the

    moment she stopped, so did the high.

    Seattle was raw, unnished and barely begun; surely no one could

    miss Cymbelines hayseed aspect as she wandered the gardens and city

    squares and wide boulevards, alternately xated on her environment

    while unaware o the people within it. There was something abulous

    about walking along the Elbe River instead o gazing out across Elliott

    Bay, or spending her days going largely unnoticed in a college class o

    men, or hearing only German and no one talking to her in class or on

    the street, leaving her unsure about her conversational skills. It was as i

    she had willed this dream into being then orgot to make hersel visible.

    Additionally, she was now cursed with all the time alone she never

    elt she could get enough o back in her stateside lie. So novel was

    this situation that she barely knew what to do with hersel. She tried

    to list the advantages o being overlooked, chie among them having tobe concerned only with hersel; then she would see something unny or

    provocative or puzzling, and, without someone with whom to share the

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    unny/provocative/puzzling thing, her aloneness would come to her all

    over again.

    The Advantages to Being Alone list had a single entrythat o havingto be concerned only with her own desires, which pretty much exhausted

    the upside.

    As a photographer, Cymbeline was drawn to the pictorial photograph.

    She loved the sotness o Ksebier, the maniesto o Stieglitz, the dreamy,

    blurred beauty o Baron de Meyerthese pictures that could be paint-ings. She believed, as others did, that a camera was good or more than

    recording the world. A photograph wasnt a response to something; it was

    something. (Ater Berlin, ater marriage, she would say that she shited

    her own artistic expressions along less sentimental lines.)

    There was no one in Dresden she knew well enough to pose or her.

    No riends or models to arrange in biblical allegories, or tableaux o

    Greek gods and goddesses. So, on a dry autumn day, Cymbeline stowed

    her boxy camera in the little black leather suitcase, along with a handul

    o dry plates, and went into the street. I she was to be invisible, then she

    may as well use that invisibility.

    It wasnt long beore Cymbeline came to a massive mural made o

    tile. Even i it was placed at street level and not well above the sidewalk,

    and below a bank o windows on what looked to be an important build-

    ing, the thirty-oot-high picture would still dwar whoever stood beside

    it. The illustration was a parade o theatrically dressed men, some on

    horseback, others on oot, all resembling nely drawn ink etchings on

    white, with a yellow background. There had to be a hundred gures,

    many with names written below and just above the bottom o the ornate

    border that ramed the entire scene.

    There was no way to photograph the whole mural; the building acrossthe street threw shadows, and photographing straight up, or when stand-

    ing at one end o the hundreds-eet-long mural, caused distortion.

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    Cymbeline, the open suitcase beside her, camera in hand, was trying

    to gauge the shadows and distance when a voice said in aintly accented

    English, Why dont you photograph real people instead o drawingso people? She was so accustomed to being unseen, it didnt occur to

    her that she was being addressed, even in English. It isnt the original

    mural, you know.

    This time Cymbeline turned to see Julius Weisz, her photochemistry

    proessor.

    Frstenzug, The Procession o Princesa history o local royalty

    was rst carved into the wall about three hundred years ago. When theyears aded it to almost nothing, a nineteenth-century artist named Wil-

    helm Walther decided to carve it back in.

    Wilhelm Walther? asked Cymbeline.

    I suspect many people wondered who he was, so he etched himsel

    as the last man in the procession. Like a hanging on, yes? A hundred

    years later his painting was replaced with tiles, he said as he was already

    reaching or her camera. May I?

    He held the camera or a moment, then opened the hinged fap that

    protected the ground-glass viewnder, which he turned vertically and

    horizontally beore adjusting the bellows. Its a good weight or street

    pictures, he said.

    You know, I do photograph real people, not lately because . . . That

    is, I did work in a portrait studio or the last two years. Mostly, I made

    prints and negatives.

    Is that how you came to be interested in your platinum paper experi-

    ments?

    I think theres a way to use lead to increase the printing speed. The

    whites will be sharper, and the result, I think, will be more beautiul.

    She stopped. Anyway, I came to that on my own. Not rom the man who

    ran the studio.

    You didnt like this man?

    No. She sighed. Being well-known made him arrogant. My lessonscame rom his assistant, who did everything.

    And what did you learn about people when you worked there?

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    You mean about portraiture?

    He said nothing as he studied her rom behind the wire-rimmed

    glasses that were exactly like hers. This bad man infuenced you to stoptaking portraits? His hair was longer on top and close on the sides, and

    he had a small beard. His inormal attire was pretty par or a scholar;

    her discerning eye caught the quiet money in the cut and abric, and

    something else: an unexpectedly stylish quality. His ace and gure were

    pleasing; unny how she had never really noticed that he was, well, rather

    handsome. For someone in his early orties, anyway.

    I dont know anyone here, and in that moment she could havesworn that he understood the isolation o being an American girl walking

    around Dresden, on a day o rom class but without the company o a

    single classmate.

    And Im to be somewhere.

    Oh, sure, o course, said Cymbeline, I didnt mean to keep you.

    But you didnt keep me.

    He seemed genuinely reluctant to leave. May I take your picture? A

    souvenir o this great bathroom wall o German princes and their shame-

    less riend, Wilhelm Walther.

    The suggestion itsel was enough to make Cymbeline eel better than

    she had in weeks as she stood there, posing against a backdrop o blond

    brick, well below the image o Mr. Walther, the mural almost too high

    on the building to capture anything but the decorative border, boots, and

    horses hooves that hovered above Cymbeline, even with Julius Weisz

    standing across the narrow street. She imagined how the pair appeared

    to those walking by: two tourists, maybe lovers, spending an aternoon

    together.

    I really do have to go now, but I will see you again. He returned her

    camera.

    Was he asking to see her again? Was he interested in her? Her experi-

    ence with men was so thin that she couldnt quite read him.

    At school?At school, she agreed a little too enthusiastically in an attempt to

    hide her misunderstanding o his words.

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    want to return once she had let, a thought that had more to do with

    watching her mother labor in a home where she barely had enough time

    to sleep, let alone pick up a book or meditate on the spiritual belies oMadame Blavatsky. Lie on their Seattle arm was so very hard in all

    the ways that a rural lie, where the money seemed to come and go in

    proportions so exact that growth and debt canceled each other out, is

    hard. She loved her parents and her brothers and sisters, but, or now, in

    Dresden, she loved being away more.

    Everyone in Julius Weiszs class was expected to attend the International

    Photographic Exposition. Cymbeline had been twice already, looking

    again at Stieglitzs workhis pictures taking on a more personal meaning

    now that she hersel was studying in Germany, much as he had twenty

    years beorebut the work that really held her belonged to Baron de

    Meyer: all that glamour, all those elegant dreams embodied in still lies

    and portraits.

    Julius Weisz said, There is an arrogance in the demand or the view-

    ers attention. He went on to say that i the photographer isnt going to

    pay attention to the picture he is making, that i he thinks the camera is

    just a machine and not an avenue o expression, then he has no business

    asking anyone or anything, let alone their time and interest. Dont show

    the world, he said, invent the world.

    In this regard, the sot-edged beauty o the de Meyers was extreme.

    His graceul universe was like seeing lie on a star. The ashions worn

    by the models always went one luxurious step, one extravagant diamond

    and pearl necklace, one highly stylized headdress or sleeve urther. Her

    avorite picture was o two hydrangea blossoms, their stems suspended

    in a drinking glass, bending over the side as i they meant to all: the

    glass, the water, the table, the wall ethereal. At rst glance, the photo-

    graph was as simple in its subject and composition as his pictures with

    people were baroque.It was at this very photograph at the exposition where Cymbeline and

    Julius Weisz caught up with each other.

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    What do you think about photographing fowers? she asked.

    It depends i youre talking about living fowers or cut fowers.

    She was about to ask him about the dierence when he said, Oneis memento mori, so to speak. Its lie is ended, its appearance in rapid

    decline. As a photographer you have a completely dierent set o prob-

    lems to solve when you photograph cut fowers.

    Like this picture with the refection o the water and the table and

    wall? she asked. They were looking at de Meyers hydrangea blossoms.

    Sure, okay. Lets take this picture. There is the problem o the light

    bouncing on the refection o the water, the glass, the tabletop, and thewall. But any picture could deal with the problem o light. The problem

    with this picture is greater than that o refective suracesits one o

    death. You invite a proound theme into your work when you choose cut

    fowers. You are talking about mortality and time moving orward. You

    are saying that everything, everything we see and experience and love

    happens uniquely and happens only once. When you take a picture o

    a fower in a glass you are, paradoxically, capturing evanescence. You

    are also showing the indierence o Nature. There is no mourning in a

    fower photograph, only a shrugging o the shoulders.

    I think its beautiul.

    That would make de Meyer very happy to hear.

    Across rom the de Meyers were some photographs o gypsies,

    dressed in a kind o exotic nery, though Cymbelines practiced eye

    could still make out their scratch living. Next were pictures o New York,

    so beautiul they could break your heart. Except Cymbeline had been

    to New York, walking hersel to exhaustion during her ve days there,

    and all its beauty could not blind her to the immigrant slums she saw,

    the overcrowded darkness o some parts o the city. It was her habit, as

    a photographer, to constantly observe the light, natural or articial. The

    poor in these neighborhoods were so crammed together that one o the

    luxuries they were orced to orgo was sunlight. Strange to think that

    money bought the sun, which rightully belonged to no one. Cymbelineslightly amazed that the wealthy would nd ways to keep and control

    something that shouldnt have been anyones to control.

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    Maybe it was because she had grown up rom a poor girl into a young

    woman who had to watch every penny that things like this oten crossed

    her mind.What are you thinking? asked Julius.

    Im thinking, Did the photographer set up the shots o the gypsies

    or were they allowed to be themselves? She had not orgotten some o

    the articial poses the amous portrait photographer in Seattle imposed

    on his Native American sitters, not to mention the antiquated costumes

    he orced them to wear.

    Ah, the bad man you worked or at home.Im uncomortable with the artice. It eels condescending.

    You preer the unartul de Meyers. The fowers in the crystal bowl,

    the grown woman in a tiara wearing a cloud o tulle, the man with kohl

    eyeliner dancing in the costume o a pasha?

    She wandered back to de Meyers pictures o his moneyed, arty soci-

    ety, which were pure artice. She sighed, aware o the contradiction. I

    love these. I just do.

    Julius, who had ollowed her, nodded.

    She turned to him. Perhaps my taste lies somewhere between reality

    and dreamland.

    Why not meet me tomorrow at the Himmlisch Garten? Well talk

    about people and lie.

    People and lie?

    I mean portraits and fowers.

    She laughed. She liked his teasing.

    A young man, somewhere in age between Cymbeline and Julius,

    and whom she thought she recognized, hurried over. As he slid his

    body between them, addressing Julius, he subtly orced Cymbeline out.

    Julius, Sie mssen kommen und sehen, pulling him by the hand toward

    the adjacent gallery with Cymbeline hesitantly tagging along.

    The trio entered the high-ceilinged room to nd a large crowd gath-

    ered in the ar corner. From their vantage point they had to keep read-justing their sight line to see the man speaking.

    This little camera is axed like so said the man speaking, hold-

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    EIGHT GIRLS TAKING PICTURES

    19

    ing a pigeon rmly, though not unkindly, in his hands. He held it alot so

    everyone could see the tiny camera that was part o the harness buckled

    to the birds breast. There was a sound o birds cooing.The Bavarian Pigeon Corps, whom we are happy to introduce to you

    today, has been taking aerial photos or us since 1903. This camera takes

    automatic exposures at thirty-second intervals during the birds travel.

    On the wall behind me, you can see the results. Through the interstices

    o the crowd, Cymbeline could see the photographs hung on the walls

    without being able to make out their contents.

    The pigeon man, a Herr Neubronner, who, as it happened, was theinventor o the avian camera harness, began handing out penny post-

    cards o the bird-shot aerial photographs.

    One o the cards made it all the way back to Cymbeline, Julius, and

    the young man who stood near the arched doorway o the gallery. As

    she studied the picture, she marveled at the wonder o seeing the earth

    rom the clouds. The closest shed ever come to something like that was

    when she had hiked up a very tall mountain, though it didnt seem any-

    where close to peering down with nothing but sky below your eet. For

    a feeting moment she thought about what her ather, the animal lover,

    would have said about these birds being pressed into service wearing this

    ridiculous apparatus.

    As she went to hand the postcard back to Julius, she noticed the young

    man whispering something in German to him, his hand resting lightly on

    the back o Juliuss jacket. This single, unremarkable gesture struck her

    as unbearably intimate; she could neither stand it, nor walk away.

    He was saying something that made Julius laugh. Now she remem-

    bered: She had seen him once, in prole, when she was passing Juliuss

    oce. He was sitting across rom Juliuss desk, laughing and talking.

    Another time he was drinking coee in a student ca near the school.

    She had a hard time determining his age, something she attributed to his

    having the curly hair o a Renaissance angel.

    I am rude. I am sorry, said the young man to Cymbeline, as i hedonly just now noticed her. I am Otto Girondi. I teach maths at the

    school, and I think I may have seen you there.

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    Whitney Otto

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    I think Ive seen you The loud, collective ooohhh o the crowd

    interrupted her. The small fock o pigeons had been released in the

    room and were diving and climbing as they swept about the gallery. Itwas dicult to count the number o birds because o their intersecting

    fight patterns, but there seemed to be at least a dozen.

    Herr Neubronner announced in a loud, excited voice that these

    birds were, at this very moment, taking aerial photos o everyone below!

    Cymbeline stepped back, taking reuge under the archway, having lived

    among animals long enough to know that a bird doesnt care i its inside

    or outside when it comes to its droppings. Julius and Otto crowded innext to her at the rst cry o someone on the receiving end o earthbound

    waste. It was rom this vantage point that the three watched a crowd rst

    entranced, then panicked at the amount o scat alling upon them.

    One bird landed on a womans hat, another on a mans bare head, his

    hair worse or the experience; mostly they swooped and made a mess as

    amazement turned to chaos, with Herr Neubronner alternately trying

    to redirect the birds and regain the crowds attention. No one listened

    as they fed the room in their now white-fecked clothing, Cymbeline,

    Julius, and Otto pressing themselves against the outside wall o the adja-

    cent room.

    Cymbeline caught somewhere between amusement and disbelie.

    Just when I was worried that taking a decent picture required no greater

    skill than having a camera strapped to my chest.

    You dont need a class, said Otto, you need a dovecote.

    And a raincoat, said Julius, laughing along with the other two. He

    barely touched Cymbeline on her shoulder, his hand almost hovering.

    The Himmlisch on Saturday, he reminded her. Bring your camera.

    Buckled to your body.

    And just as quickly as she elt the three o them united in their

    luck at missing the Wrath o the Bavarian Pigeon Corps, she again elt

    excluded rom the company o the men. She couldnt say why, or how,

    this happened; she was accustomed to eeling outside the groups o hermale classmates, but this was dierent. This was a puzzle she couldnt

    quite put together.

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    ScribnerA Division o Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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    This book is a work o fction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either areproducts o the authors imagination or are used fctitiously. Any resemblance to

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    Copyright 2012 by Whitney Otto

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    ISBN 978-1-4516-8269-4ISBN 978-1-4516-8273-1 (ebook)

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