Sixty-Nine—Mia
I
picked up the three copies of my portfolio at noon and then drove to Pacific Grove, not sure of my next move. When I got there, I sat in the parking lot contemplating my work. I was pleased, for the most part. Actually, I was excited, anxious, and also filled with second-guessing dread over my final project, wondering if I could have done more. But then I went page-by-page again, and again, I knew I had nailed it.
Since we’d gotten home from Savannah, I’d worked non-stop, including obsessing over every minute detail of this collection. It was due by five, and I was sort of reveling in being done with it, the exclamation point on the end of this quarter, the permission I could now give myself to obsess about other things—tall, amazingly good-looking marine type things. The second-guessing, the dread, was because I’m a bit of a perfectionist with my work, but honestly compared to my original lackluster idea, I knew I’d blown this out of the park.
It was the pure gold I’d found in Geneva’s albums. That’s what saved me—and my final grade. And my enthusiasm for the composition had grown with each passing mile that Bo and I had driven home—Ivy, the topic of conversation from Alabama to Nevada feeding my creative bone.
It wasn’t just her face, which was its own definition of interesting. It was her life, her turmoil, the deep well of her eyes, the emotion that could transform her. As soon as I’d gotten home, I’d printed out every single photo I’d taken of her and couldn’t believe how I’d captured the progression. I could actually see Ivy changing, growing. They were all random shots, many of which had to be cropped to include just her. But now every image was perfectly imbued with the purity of human imperfection. Take that, Kyle Donahue!
Two nights ago, I had lined up my chosen images for final inspection and been admiring my work when Bo walked in. He’d taken one look at Ivy spread over the kitchen table and couldn’t seem to find his voice.
“What do you think?” I’d said. “They’re good, right? I’m calling the collection Ivy in Stills: A Tribute to Ashes. What’s the matter?”
He’d leaned over, silently taking in the photos, and after a long moment, all he could say was, “Good Lord, Mia… these are amazing,” — high praise from his critical eye, or maybe it was simply the subject matter. Of course, they weren’t all mine. Twenty percent of my final project could be enhanced treatment of existing photographs. I’d brought back several images from Savannah. The rest I’d been snapping from day one because, well, that’s what I do. Bo had picked up the picture I’d taken of Ivy at my exhibition the day I’d met her. “Look how sad she seemed, Mia,” he’d said.
It was true. The Ivy I’d met that day had been beaten up pretty good, and I’d been hesitant to use the image, with its poor lighting and everything going on in the foreground. But all of that had actually added to the overall mood of the picture—shadows borne of commercial illumination, picture noise, and her utter aloneness in the midst of it. The competing elements poignantly enhanced the message of a gutted girl just putting one foot in front of the other. It was tragic and lovely at the same time. I remembered that Daniel had made Ivy look that way. He’d been impatient with her, barky, and I had sort of hated him from that moment on.
Daniel Proctor was an ass. But he was an ass with good taste in black and white photography, so he’d appreciate this collection. On so many levels. He might even recognize his own work since I’d set the tone of my project with an image of the deeply human vulnerability he’d captured in his little girl that day on the pier. I’d made a copy of Geneva’s original so I could edit it, then digitally saturated the image with muted color. Then, I’d reworked it in gray scale. I’d cropped the image to include only that forlorn little face against the deepening sunset, her eyes filled with disappointment. Because I knew the story behind it, I’d named the image Abandoned . Daniel would love that.
During this process, my inner photographer had matured beyond what I’d thought possible. I now consciously applied the core take-away of this final advanced placement semester: Don’t bother capturing what doesn’t hold a secret . What a concept—and totally worth the summer I’d missed abroad with my friends. That simple directive, I knew, would inform my work for years to come.
Every photog understands instinct. It’s huge. We take pictures when the urge quickens our pulse—but something has to translate, a subtle mix of curiosity and fascination—a secret that must be present in the final image to draw the eye, engage the brain, and inspire a visceral response. Beauty was everywhere, and photographers everywhere were capturing it, exploiting it, claiming it for their own and splashing their name on it. But it wasn’t theirs. And this wasn’t mine. I’d simply shone a light on this girl and offered her images up as a gift to anyone smart enough to identify them as such.
Twenty 8x10s of Ivy. All done in black and white—actually grayscale. Each one infused with a secret.
I’d brought back a photo from Savannah that had been taken when Ivy was about sixteen or seventeen—it was one of my favorites. She was sitting at a kitchen table, a bowl and a box of cereal in the foreground. An oversized tee shirt hung off one shoulder, her long curls wild, a crushed note in her hand. She hadn’t been awake too long when the picture was taken, and she was not amused by whatever she’d read, but she was beautiful—barefaced with sleep-plumped features. She was facing the morning sun, so aside from her dark hair, she was just a bit washed out. I’d treated the image so that her lips and eyes were more defined against the fairness of her skin.
In these borrowed images, I included a 2x3 of the original with the breakdown of my edits to each one. It always impressed instructors when you could make someone else’s photo your own, and I was very into impressing my instructors. The last one I’d borrowed was a close- up of Ivy’s flawless face in the mirror the day she was supposed to get married. She was putting on mascara while someone behind her arranged her veil. I’d chosen it because her large eyes were filled with laughter and excitement, animated and hopeful. Three minutes from when this photo had been taken, it was probably over, and in all the pictures I’d studied of Ivy since, there was not one shot so saturated with optimism and joy.
That image especially had affected Bo, who’d commented, She really has no idea how beautiful she is.
It was true. When I’d called her to ask if I could use her as my senior project, Ivy had laughed. But when I’d told her what I was doing, what I had captured, she’d gotten very humble, simply stunned that I would find her project-worthy. Ultimately, she’d given me her reluctant permission; I have no idea what I would have done had she’d said no. After that, we’d spent the next fifteen minutes talking about Bo. I’d informed him later that Ivy missed him very much.
“I know that,” he’d said.
“And you miss her,” I’d said.
He’d been quiet for a moment. “Of course I do. But that doesn’t change anything, Mia. She’s still there. And I’m still here.”
“Doesn’t have to be that way…” I’d told him.
Bo had looked at me, sadness softening his glare, then he’d walked away. My sulky brother had been a bit hard to live with since we got home. And Ivy had asked me not to tell him that she was flying in this week, so I could offer nothing to lift his spirits.
Now I closed the album and looked up at the imposing building in front of me. Willis, Proctor and Holmes. I blew out a deep breath and got out of the car. From the back seat, I retrieved the photo Daniel had so admired at my campus exhibition— Battu at Sunset . Then I grabbed one of the boxed leather-bound albums and walked into his building.
A pretty girl with blond hair was sitting at the reception desk. She reminded me of Daniel, and I narrowed my eyes. “Are you Liz?”
She smiled. “I am.”
Daniel’s daughter. “I, um…I called earlier. You said I might be able to catch Daniel Proctor if I was here by one.”
Still smiling, she said, “Yes. And you’re in luck; he is here, but he has to be in court at 1:30, so you’ll have to make it fast.”
“I can be fast.”
She gave me directions, and I left her in happy oblivion as I walked down the hall.
Daniel’s office was behind a wall of glass, and when he saw me, he got up from his desk and waved me in. He too was all smiles, a family trait apparently. I didn’t return it as I walked toward him. “Hello,” I said. All business.
“Mia. Has something happened?”
“What?”
He hurried past me and shut his door. When he got back behind his desk he said, “I was just surprised by your call.”
“Oh, no need,” I said, taking in the portrait that hung on the wall behind him. “Nice family.”
He turned to look at it, then back to me. Clearing his throat, he said, “What can I do for you, Mia?”
“Well, there’s this,” I said, handing him back his credit card and the receipts for the purchases made for Ivy. “I won’t be needing that anymore.”
“Thank you for being so thorough,” he said. “Of course, you know I got an alert each time something was charged.”
“Of course you did,” I said, sounding a bit snarky. “But just in case, I saved all the receipts.” I rather held my breath then, thinking some scolding was forthcoming for the shoes we’d bought at Giselle’s, but Daniel didn’t say anything. “And then I wanted you to have something else,” I said. “Well, two somethings.” I handed him the framed photo of the tattered ballet slippers on the pier. It was wrapped in butcher paper, and I waited for him to pull it off.
“Oh, I do love this, Mia,” he said, holding the 16x20 at arms’ length. “You are a rare talent. But I can’t accept this as a gift. Let me pay for it.”
“That would be great,” I said. “Because it’s not a gift.”
He laughed at me, and when I didn’t laugh back, he pulled his checkbook from a drawer. He didn’t even ask me my price; he just wrote with a flourish and handed me a check for five hundred dollars, which was three hundred more than I’d been hoping for. I put it in my back pocket and told him thanks. Then I handed him the album. “This actually is a gift,” I said.
“For me?” he said with surprise. “What is it?”
“It’s my senior project. I thought you’d like a copy.”
He opened the box. “ Ivy in Stills …What is this?” he said, a crimp appearing in his forehead. I didn’t answer him, and after an awkward beat, he lifted the book out and turned the page to the photo he’d taken of Ivy as a little girl—the one I’d edited to perfection—and I’ll be damned if he didn’t deflate, just a hair. It made me happy because I actually wanted to hurt Daniel Proctor. I wanted to do it on Ivy’s behalf, and maybe that made me a horrible person, but I could live with that. Always stand up to put downs . If there was a theme to my existence, that was it, and as far as I could tell, Daniel had been putting Ivy down her whole life.
I didn’t say a word as he slowly perused my photographs. Ivy sitting on the patio bundled in a blanket, sadness flattening her features. Another at our dinner with her family, frustration bending her brow because she was being talked over instead of listened to. Daniel lingered on each page, and I wondered what he was thinking. The pictures were beautiful because the subject was beautiful, and Ivy’s father could not deny it. The last shot was one I’d snapped of Ivy alone at her mother’s graveside, her expression one of disbelief morphing into reluctant acceptance. He studied that page the longest.
When he finally looked up at me, there were no tears—I’m not sure Daniel Proctor was capable of tears—but there was sadness, and the idea of tears in his eyes. “As I said, Mia, you are a rare talent.”
“Thank you.” I stood up. “I also have to thank you for reaching out to my aunt, which led to you renting her pool house,” I said. “I would not have met your daughter otherwise, and she has become my good friend.”
He eyed me as though he didn’t believe me. “Have you talked to her?”
“I talk to her all the time.”
“Really? She won’t return my calls.”
“Did you really expect her to?”
He tried for a glare, but it fell flat. “How is she?” he finally said.
“How do you think she is?”
He shrunk a bit at that, and I let him squirm for a second.
“She’s coming back next week,” I told him. “I don’t know how long she’ll be here, but…” I shrugged. “I thought you’d like to know.”
“When?”
“Wednesday.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything else.
I stood up. “I guess that’s everything. Oh, and if you decide not to keep that,” I indicated the book he was holding. “I mean I guess having it could prove awkward—your daughter works here, right? Anyway, if you decide not to keep it, I’d like—”
“I’m keeping it, Mia,” he said coolly, shutting me down.
“Okay, then,” I said after a beat. “I guess we’re done here. Goodbye, Daniel.”
“Goodbye, Mia. And…thank you.”
I looked hard at him but said nothing else. Then I turned to walk out. In so doing, I met the curious gaze of Liz Proctor, who was standing on the other side of the glass. She opened the door to let me pass by, offered a weak smile, then walked into her father’s office.