Chapter 9
Paul’s dictum There are worthy subjects everywhere is foremost in my mind as I stroll through the small town of Suttonville the next morning, Nikon in hand.
At first I see nothing but closed storefronts and half-empty parking lots in the shabby downtown, but finally I spot a “worthy subject”: an ancient-looking liquor store display.
Incandescent with late-morning light, the bottles lined up on the mirror-backed shelves look like liquid candy; I have the urge to bring one to my lips and take a great, burning drink.
One to burn away my grief over Rosie, my worry over Tom’s health.
Another to wash away the awful image of the couple from the party.
A third to forget the strange man I caught in my photographs.
One photograph, I remind myself. Multiple shots of the same few minutes, the same location. A fluke.
I spot myself reflected in the mirror behind the rows and rows of bottles.
I didn’t intend to take another self-portrait, but the shot is too good not to take.
I raise my camera to the top of my chest and try to relax my stern-looking face.
From the neck down I’m made of bottles, shining and bright.
I see a sudden flash of movement reflected behind me and turn, startled, to see a man passing by on the opposite side of the street.
But he’s just an ordinary man, not the least bit interested in me or what I’m doing.
When I look back, I check the mirror for any sign of someone reflected behind me; I’m certain there’s no one, nothing. I take the shot. I try different expressions and postures, and before long I realize I’ve been here quite a while. The light has changed to a bright, flat white.
I move on from the liquor store, snapping shots here and there: of three underfed but regal stray cats on a doorstep, and of a middle-aged woman like me, cleanly dressed but harried, leaving the grocery store with paper bags bundled in her arms. She gives me a hard look that will only make the picture better.
In last week’s class, I jotted down a note that said, The subject’s response doesn’t matter.
All that matters is doing what’s right for the photograph.
It’s easy to apply because the camera makes me bolder than I am.
So does Paul. It’s safe to think of him, of his words and ideas and predilections, now that I’m in the flow.
I’m moving and choosing easily; Paul’s words just give me an extra lift.
I take pictures of eloquently empty doorways, a broken window gleaming with sunlight, a man leaning against a tree with his legs crossed, his hat pulled down over his eyes.
I keep up a frantic pace until my stomach tells me it’s well past lunchtime.
It’s hard to stop, but I snap a few final shots and then turn back to the car, spent and deeply satisfied.