Chapter 27
“I’m sure I don’t need to point out that most of these phenomenal photographs were taken in New York City,” Paul says toward the end of our next class.
“If you’ve been there—I’m sure you’ve made the trek all the way from New Jersey at some point—then you know how the city stirs the imagination and provides endless chances for amazing shots. ”
Paul’s lecture on the great street photographers of recent years is like a taunt; I’ve spent a week doing nothing, stifling my imagination, denying any chance at all for taking “amazing shots.” Could Paul know, somehow, that I haven’t touched my camera in days?
Instead, I’ve focused on large-scale domestic chores: sorting through boxes in the bedroom closet, clearing the attic of old toys and board games, dropping several loads at the donation center.
I’ve felt useful and noble, standing dirt-streaked and sweaty in the shower after these long, physical days. Simple days. Empty ones, too.
When I set the camera down in the bathroom, more than a week ago now, I picked it up once, later, to retrieve the film roll, then I set it down again.
I left it sitting there, day after day. It wasn’t a decision I made, but simply something that happened.
I couldn’t stop it from happening. I finally asked Tom to carry my camera to the darkroom for me—mainly so I wouldn’t have to see it every time I used the toilet or sink—and he gave me a questioning look but complied.
I know I’ve done right, because I haven’t seen the man or heard his hateful voice in over a week.
What’s new is the gnawing emptiness. It lands with full force when I wake in the morning, giving me the foggy sense that I’ve misplaced something; then the sense of loss grows until I name it, acknowledge what’s happened, and along with that, who or what I’ve become: Mrs. Judith Stanley, mother and housewife—that’s all.
But what’s caused this? The camera’s sudden absence, or the man’s?
I thought about quitting the class. What was the point, if I was no longer taking photographs?
And what would I say when Paul asked for my photos?
But I told myself my sudden quitting would worry Tom—even if he didn’t love me going to the class—so here I am, staring at the vibrant images up on the overhead, most of them taken by Garry Winogrand, Lee Friedlander, Diane Arbus, and Robert Frank.
I feel a faint stirring at the sight of them, like a sleeping foot tingling—painfully—back to life.
I’m so caught up that I’m only half-aware of Paul, standing center stage with his hands on his hips, looking pleased with himself.
“I’m sure you’ve all long since lost your syllabus,” he says to laughter.
“And have probably forgotten about our field trip to the city next Friday.” I sit, stunned for a moment.
I’m not a twenty-year-old and yet I forgot all about it in the blur of the last weeks.
Now I remember Paul mentioning it to me directly, and seeing it on the syllabus long ago. I look up to find Paul staring at me.
“We’ll leave from Harrington station at nine o’clock and spend the day there.
If you can’t go, you’d better have a really great excuse.
Dead grandma or a sudden, debilitating illness.
” The students laugh again, and Paul glances around the room while I avoid his gaze.
I won’t go. I’ll make up an excuse, it doesn’t matter.
It’s not as if I care about my class grade.
But I know Paul will be disappointed, and I hate the thought of disappointing him, even as I sit here, empty-handed, having set my camera aside.
“So, show up at the station next Friday with your cameras and as many rolls of film as you can comfortably carry. We’ll visit a gallery first to see the Samantha Laertes exhibit.
Remember the slides I showed you last week?
Powerful stuff, and the show is getting great reviews.
Then we’ll hit the streets. Any questions? ”
After a brief cascade of questions, class winds to a close. I want to slip out quickly, but students block the aisle in small groups, chatting about the trip as I try to push past them up the stairs. I’ve almost made it to the door when Paul calls my name.
I could ignore him and just keep walking.
But I can’t. I could never ignore Paul—or be rude enough to ignore any professor’s summons.
I turn and walk down, facing the curious looks of my fellow students; one of them is Charlie.
But her look is softer, more companionable somehow.
Like she’s telling me it’s all right, she’s on my side.
I catch her smile and feel buoyed by it.
Paul eyes me when I step to the lectern empty-handed.
“No pictures today?”
“No. It’s been a busy week.” He nods but looks let down. His disappointment feels like a steady pressure against my temples. A headache forming.
“You’ll be there next Friday?”
“Yes, I’m—looking forward to it.” I meant to say the opposite, of course, but the words failed me.
“Good,” Paul says. He’s clearly relieved. “I may have planned this for the whole class, but I’m mainly happy we’re going for you.”
“Oh.” I can’t hide my uncomfortable pleasure or my swiftly reddening face. “That’s…so nice of you to say, Paul.”
He gives a soft laugh. “It isn’t nice, Judith.
I’ve told you before—I’m not encouraging you out of niceness.
I want you to take more pictures in the city, and I think Samantha’s work might inspire you, too.
So…I’ll see you on the platform next Friday at nine a.m. sharp, yeah?
” He holds my gaze. What can I do but nod my throbbing head and say goodbye?