CHAPTER 57 The Best Of The Best
October 11, 2012
Maya Chen’s portrait turned out stunning. Abigail and the rest of the team loved it. When I explained to Maya that my black-and-white close-up portraits relied solely on lighting without Photoshop editing, she kind of freaked out. And then when she saw the end result, she was floored by it.
I’d provided the magazine with seven more portraits after Maya’s, but today, I was going to photograph the notorious French gallerist Louis Beaumont. He and his wife were in New York to inaugurate the first Beaumont Gallery in the United States, and Abigail’s interview started in ten minutes. I grabbed my camera, dropped a USB off with some files Becca had asked me to work on earlier, and headed to Empire Magazine’s headquarters on the 21st floor.
I greeted Abigail, whom I’d been getting to know better after working with her for almost two months, and the only word I could think of to describe her was badass. Abigail was in her late fifties and had curly, dirty blonde hair that landed just above her shoulders. Her wayfarer-style dark-framed glasses heightened her natural intellectual persona.
When we first met, I felt intimidated by her, but even if she wasn’t the most affectionate person, she had her own way of showing appreciation for the team. She was careful with words and with how and when to use them. I’d been trying to learn as much as I could from her. I looked up to her and wished I could learn to convey that level of confidence with my peers and in my work. I was still figuring out myself and my role in the company and often felt like an orbiter who moved from room to room, unobtrusively but effectively doing what was expected of me. I was afraid to stand out more, knowing that I wanted to. It was an intimidating environment I’d learned to feel comfortable in, but one that was still filled with a varied range of personalities one sometimes needed to tiptoe around.
I greeted Abigail and took my place behind the scenes where I could be present in the interview without invading the intimate setting she had carefully curated for this purpose. An office assistant would bring in a kettle with hot water and a tray with an assortment of teas, always prepared to attend to any specific requests from Abigail or her guest.
Louis Beaumont arrived at 5:00 p.m. sharp with his wife, Simone. Judging by his tailored attire and perfectly groomed appearance, Louis seemed like a man with a keen but balanced fashion sense. Simone exuded timeless elegance and understated sophistication with her neutral color palette outfit and glowy, effortless beauty.
Abigail conducted the interview with determination and grace. She focused on the history of the Beaumont Gallery, which dates back to the late 1800s, and how the legacy had been passed on from generation to generation since his great-grandfather. They talked about the excitement surrounding the gallery’s expansion and introduction to the American market, among other things.
When the interview was almost over, and Abigail asked Louis what he envisioned for the future, the conversation took an unexpected turn and touched on a more sensitive subject. Louis and Simone went off the record and mentioned their only son had died in an accident. He was only twenty-six and on track to learn everything about the business to take over one day. But that would never come to pass. They didn’t provide further details regarding their son’s death but reiterated they wouldn’t allow the family legacy to become extinguished.
Once the interview was over, I introduced myself and guided them to the studio space where I would capture Louis’s portrait. Abigail never attended the photoshoots. People feel more comfortable talking with an audience than being photographed with one since I’ve found it to be a much more vulnerable experience.
After giving Louis a brief explanation of the portrait I would be taking, I guided him to the stool and noticed he was growing more overwhelmed. Simone quickly approached him and started talking to him in French while I finished setting up my equipment.
“If you don’t feel like doing this, we can leave,” Simone whispered to Louis in French. “We can reschedule for another day. We’ll be in New York for three weeks, and the article won’t come out until next month.”
I didn’t know what to do or say, especially since they thought they were having a private conversation and didn’t stop to consider I might understand what they were saying.
Louis looked sad and on the verge of tears. Mentioning his son to Abigail had probably triggered him. But he kept telling Simone he couldn’t leave without having his picture taken, that he’d much rather push through than have to return for it some other day.
“If you need a minute, I can give you some privacy,” I said in French. It was best to let them know I could understand them and avoid overhearing something more personal.
Louis shook his head with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I could tell he was trying to reel it all in as Simone squeezed his shoulder. I slung the camera strap over my shoulder, letting it hang like a crossbody bag, and sat on the stool across from Louis.
“I lost my mother when I was fourteen,” I said. “And my best friend two years ago.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes softened with understanding. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Simone and Louis nodded in appreciation as tears streamed down his face. Simone was visibly shaken but was better at maintaining her composure.
My eyes were watery, but I didn’t allow the tears to take over. Instead, I took a deep breath through my nose. “Although I’m no stranger to grief, I can’t pretend to even remotely understand the magnitude of what losing a child might feel like. So we can reschedule if you’re not feeling up for it right now.”
Louis straightened on the stool and gently grabbed his wife’s hand to remove it from his shoulder. “Take my picture,” he said in an almost supplicating tone. “Please.”
Simone knitted her brow with concern. “Louis, but you—”
“Please,” he insisted, and before he had to ask again, I pointed my camera at him. He wanted me to capture this moment, and he didn’t have to explain anything for me to know why.
I gave him a few indications of his posture and face position to perfectly match the mental template I followed for these portraits and snapped the first picture. Louis allowed the sentiment to flow and the tears to keep streaming down his face. His suggestion to register his pain through my lens had provided him the break he needed to carry on with the actual shoot.
Simone handed him a tissue, and after patting the tears away, he indicated he was ready to continue. Despite having cried, his eyes were wide and expressive, and his features had softened into a more relaxed state.
It took me less than a few minutes to finish the shoot, and the results were divine. I offered to show them the photographs on the studio’s display, and Simone’s approval rang out in the form of a few consecutive delighted gasps, and I smiled with pride as I listened.
“Do you showcase your work on social media?” Louis asked.
“Yes, I do.” I slipped my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and showed them my Instagram profile. Louis asked Simone to take note of my handle.
“Billie Murphy?” I nodded as he stared contemplatively at my name at the top of my profile page. I had told him my name when we were introduced earlier, but I didn’t blame him for forgetting. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Murphy,” he carried on in French. “Does Ambassador James Murphy happen to be your father?”
“That would be correct.” I smiled, trying to ignore how much I missed my dad. The months between the gala and William’s birthday, when he showed up unannounced at my place to apologize and reactivate our relationship, had been easygoing and pleasant. He offered me a glimpse of the father he knew he could be, and of the father I remembered he once was. Loving, supportive, and committed. The ups and downs had taken a toll on me, and I was letting my pride get the best of me with the excuse of wanting to protect my mental health. It was more taxing to make myself believe our relationship was beyond repair, even if I kept telling myself I needed time.
“Ah! C’est un petit monde, n’est-ce pas?”
Small world indeed.
“We met during an event at my gallery during his Ambassador days in France,” he said with a heavy accent after switching to English. “You look very much like him.”
“So I’ve been told.” I smiled as I turned off the display and popped the lens protector back on my camera.
“Alor …” Louis said, reaching into his pocket. “We would love to have you for the gallery opening on the 27th.” He handed me one of his business cards. “I would appreciate it if you could email me your contact information so we can formally invite you to the event.”
“Of course.” I accepted his card and gave it a quick scan. “Thank you so much. It would be an honor to attend.”
“And please extend the invitation to your father if he’s available,” Louis added. “We would love to see him at the opening as well.”
“I—um,” I hesitated, fumbling to find my words. He caught me off guard, and I was too slow to think of a simple response like, Of course, I’ll let him know. Transparent, as always. Louis and Simone had been vulnerable enough to open up about their son. I could only repay with the same currency without giving too much away. “I haven’t spoken to my dad in a while, but I’ll extend the invitation through his assistant.”
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Louis said as he regarded me with sympathy. “But I can tell from your reaction that something is going on between the two of you.”
Nodding, I pressed my lips together.
He dragged the stool closer to where he stood and sat before me. “Please allow me to share a small piece of advice.”
“Of course,” I replied, curious about what he was about to say, and sat on my stool to convey my interest. I’d pressed pause on my therapy sessions because I found that they were overwhelming me. My therapist asked too many questions that only left me even more confused about where I stood with my own thoughts, so I had decided to take a break from it. Maybe it was time to change therapists. But the truth was I needed all the help I could get. Therapy saved me when my mother died and once again when Caleb did. But it felt like there were some things I needed to figure out on my own.
“Don’t wear yourself out trying to understand why people do the things they do,” Louis began. “It rarely, or ever, has anything to do with you. Achieving a healthy relationship with our parents sometimes comes in the shape of letting go of the past, surrendering to the present, and building something new from the ground up. But when the door is closed, and you genuinely believe it cannot be opened again, it comes in the shape of absolute forgiveness and allowing yourself to move on in peace. As long as you’re emotionally anchored or invested in any way, it will remain an itch you won’t be able to scratch.”
Louis’s words landed like a guided missile. It was easier to look away from the situation than face it head-on and do the required work to heal the wounds surrounding my relationship with my father.
“Makes perfect sense,” I responded. “I guess I’m at a point where the door feels too heavy to pull it open, even if I know it’s unlocked.”
“There are ways to find that strength,” Louis said with such conviction it gave me hope. “I took responsibility for my life and nourished my needs and the areas that felt lacking instead of insisting on blaming my parents for their mistakes.” He paused for a moment as if to let his words sink in. “I understood how hard it is to give others what you weren’t provided. But when you realize that we’re all doing the best we can with the information we have, the wounds heal, and the cycle is broken.”
“Seems like your son was blessed with a wonderful father,” I said, swallowing down the growing swell of emotion in my throat. Simone looked away and brushed a stray tear that rolled down her rosy cheek.
“Le meilleur du meilleur,” Simone spoke, standing behind Louis and running her arms around him. The best of the best.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, gripping his wife’s arms with tenderness. “I only did the best I could with the information I had.”