Chapter 30
I move slowly through the rooms of the Samantha Laertes exhibit, absorbing each unsettling image of Chicago’s outcasts: The poor, the mentally ill, the prostitutes, drug dealers, and addicts.
Neglected elders and young runaways. In one face, one stance, I see defiance; in another, fleeting joy.
A young homeless mother and her children, huddled together on a street corner, ooze despair amidst the well-shod pedestrians passing by.
Each picture resembles a richly detailed oil painting that I could study forever.
At the same time, each one compels me toward the door, toward the vibrant city streets.
As transfixed as I am by Laertes’s photographs, I’m also itching to go.
“She committed suicide,” Paul says, his voice suddenly by my ear.
I turn to him, startled. It’s the first time we’ve had a moment together today, and it may be the closest we’ve ever stood.
It’s awkward having his bearded face so close to mine, and I’m unsettled by what he’s said.
I knew she’d died young, but her brief biography on the wall doesn’t mention suicide.
“They don’t say it there,” he says, pointing, “but she overdosed, and everyone who knew her knows she did it on purpose. Including me. She was severely depressed.”
“I-I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know you were friends.” We both turn back to the picture before us, titled Runaway, of a gaunt, hunched teenager holding a black kitten.
“Not friends, exactly, but—acquaintances,” Paul says, shrugging. “We, uh, both had photographs in an exhibit together once. After my Harper’s publication. But that was a long time ago. A while ago. Anyway, it’s a damn shame there won’t be any more of her work.”
“It’s powerful. I find it hard to look away. Her pictures have this…dark magnetism to them.”
“I knew you’d like them,” he says, sounding pleased.
I keep staring at the photograph, but I’m distracted by Paul’s closeness.
I should thank him, I know—for bringing me here, for prodding me out of my stagnant confinement—but the words don’t come, and there’s only so much I can tell him.
I suppose I’ll thank him by taking good pictures today, though it’s a selfish expression of gratitude.
“Your pictures could be hanging in a place like this, you know,” Paul says, without taking his eyes from Runaway.
“You have a great talent, like Samantha did. It shouldn’t be wasted.
” Wasted. What a word. Is that the sum total of what Paul thinks of me and my photographs?
It burns like the man saying selfish fucking bitch, his rough hand gripping my arm.
Or like my ear pressed up against the telephone.
But haven’t I felt wasted, too, these last few weeks?
Not the way Paul means, but by giving up and putting my camera down, by hiding inside.
A moment ago, I was going to thank him for putting an end to my wasting, but now I’m repulsed by his proximity.
I notice new faults as I study his profile: the large pores of his nose and the shine on his forehead.
The faint coffee tang of his breath as he continues to speak.
“I’ve had a hell of a time lately getting my own work out there.
I’m not like you, Judith. I’ve taken some lucky shots, but most of my pictures come out too studied, too composed.
I’m trying hard, you know, but earnestness doesn’t win over the gallerists—or anyone.
Your work has the effortless quality they want—that everyone wants.
I may not be able to do it myself,” he says, sweeping his arm to take in the whole room.
“But I know it when I see it. That’s a talent, too, I suppose—or a skill, at least.”
I compose myself for a moment before speaking. When I turn to Paul, I see how hopeful he is, his dark eyes holding mine expectantly. Like he thinks he’s won me over already; like he thinks he’s won. I take care with my words, and deliver them firmly.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such trouble, Paul, but you know how I feel.
My pictures are private. I have no desire or need to share them more widely.
And I don’t think of it as a ‘waste,’ simply because my photographs won’t be up on public walls,” I add with heat.
Paul’s gaze intensifies, hardens. I step back from him a little, though I’m vibrating with anger.
“It is a waste. It’s irresponsible. Selfish, even.
I don’t believe this whole worry over privacy—I think you’re just afraid.
You want to curl up in your safe little life and reject anything that might challenge the way you’ve lived, that might set you free.
” He shakes his head. “Your work is trying to free you, Judith. Listen to it. And share it. Otherwise, yeah, it’s a fucking waste.
” He spits the last words. I stare at him, stunned. “Judith—”
“I have to go,” I say. Paul grabs my arm and I nearly scream.
“Let me go,” I manage to whisper. He does, then lifts both hands in the air.
I walk toward the door with him calling after me.
The other students turn their heads, soaking up the drama between us, assuming things that aren’t true.
I push through the gallery’s front door and stand on the sidewalk, shocked and blinking in the sunlight.
There’s a squeezing pressure in my head.
I can’t believe what Paul said, the language he used—foul and hateful, like the man’s.
Every inch of me says flee. So I do: I spot the nearest subway stairs and run for them.