Chapter 21
People sometimes ask, if they’re feeling comfortable enough and bold enough, why I do portraits and engagements and weddings when my brother and I have also covered natural disasters and war zones and embedded with military units around the globe.
All right, fine—usually, they don’t ask me. They ask Julien, because they have incorrectly assumed I’m deaf.
Then Julien looks at me, because he’s not the one doing portraits and engagements and weddings and occasionally fashion shoots or what have you, and we do our dance.
I sign. The bold and/or comfortable question-asker gets embarrassed because I’m not deaf and they thought I was. I flash them a comforting smile to put them at ease.
Usually. For Julien.
I give them an answer. Most of the time, I go with the classic I enjoy photographing a variety of subjects.
But you know—you sneaky thing—you know that’s not the truth.
You know that’s not the full truth.
I’ll give you the full truth.
One reason I do portraits and engagements and weddings and various and sundry lifestyle-type shoots is for the balance.
Once you’ve photographed the charred remains of a baby blanket sticking out from a pile of concrete that used to be an apartment building, it’s important—I might say essential—to photograph a baby safe in her mother’s arms.
That kind of balance.
Another reason is that being photographed is vulnerable at the best of times, and once a family has found a photographer they can relax around, they tend not to let go.
And that’s good for me. Financially, of course, though that matters a lot less than it did when we were younger. But also because of…
You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?
Because of the balance.
Places devastated by natural disasters and war zones and the locales where military units are generally found tend to be chaotic and dangerous. The most stressful portrait session with a familiar client is nothing by comparison, and there’s much to be said for familiarity. And routine. And the feelings of safety familiarity and routine can engender.
That’s enough full truth, I think. Most things I do are on a need to know basis. You need to know: I’m the dark-haired one, and my twin brother Julien—identical except for his hair—is the light-haired one. I’m the one who uses American Sign Language and sometimes British Sign Language to communicate, and Julien is the one who talks out loud. Both of us are fluent in ASL, and I can hear you.
That’s the big one: I can hear you.
Although sometimes it suits us to let people think I can’t.
“Gessy,” Julien calls from somewhere down the hall. “We have to…”
I can tell from the ancient childhood nickname—an artifact from when we were both so young that saying August was a stretch, never mind Augustine—and the half-sentence and the tone of his voice that his mind is elsewhere. I zip my camera bag shut with a bit more force than usual, though he’ll look for me here first regardless. He pads through my bedroom door a few beats later, looking down at his phone. He’s rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand, and his hair—he’s the light-haired one, that’s how you’ll be able to tell us apart, don’t forget—sticks up like he’s been grabbing it. He scrolls for a few more seconds, frown deepening, then shoves the phone into his pocket and looks at me.
I try.
For a few seconds, I try, because it would be easier. We’re at home. There’s nobody else here.
Nope.
Is it Rathbek again?
“Yeah.” Julien’s hands come up. He’s flirting with signs rather than actually signing. “I don’t like some of the stuff coming out of their Congress. It’s dominoes.”
My brother doesn’t ghost-sign the fingerspelling of dominoes. What he does is more a visual representation of dominoes knocking into one another and falling down. A hint toward the visual representation of domino effect. That’s how I would translate it, if I was the one who did the spoken translations. But between us, it’s dominoes refers to more than the game.
It’s not dominoes yet. I sign it twice, Julien’s eyes moving between my hands and my face.
He holds his breath for a few seconds, then lets it out.
“Not yet,” he says.
Not yet.
He signs it back. Not yet.
I stand up straight, relax my shoulders, and breathe deep. Julien copies me, his eyes distant. He barely notices the mirroring. I know, because I barely notice it.
Julien, I sign.
He furrows his brow.
Fix your face.
I run my hand over my face, fixing it in the mirror of the two of us. By the time my palm is at chest-level, Julien’s expression is calm.
It’s not a lie, letting quiet excitement come into my eyes. I am genuinely pleased for Jameson and Lily.
The baby’s going to be small, I sign. And really soft.
“Babies are so fucking cute,” Julien says. “Ready to go?”
Newborn sessions takespecial care because?—
You know what I’m going to say, right?
Because newborns. Newborns are tiny and squishy and delicate. They’re more resilient than people think, though in my experience it’s the new parents who need the most delicate handling.
Lily and Jameson strike an impressive balance. They both look tired—most new parents do—but Lily’s radiant and smiley and good-natured and Jameson’s practically glowing with joy.
“Look at this, August,” he says the second we arrive in the foyer of their house. It used to be this parents’ house before they were murdered in a fire, and now he owns it again. Julien and I have been here many times. I bring a camera even when they say I don’t need it, because that’s when you get the best candid shots. “Julien. Both of you. Look what my hot wife made.”
Jameson shows off the bundle in his arms. So tiny. So soft. I feel a pang. I ignore that I’ve felt the pang. I decide not to feel the pang anymore, or at least not until later, when we go home.
What’s this baby’s name? I sign.
“What’s this baby’s name?” Julien says.
“Henry,” Jameson answers in a tone that borders on reverence. “But we’re calling him Harry.”
“It’s a joke,” Lily says from his side. “Because it’s not any shorter.”
The baby is so small.
The baby is so soft.
I photograph him in the living room in a pool of gorgeous natural light. Then I photograph Henry—Harry—with Lily, then with Jameson, then with both of them.
“Hey, Augie?” Jameson asks during a break.
My entire fucking soul sighs at that nickname. Do we have to use that nickname? I sign.
“You’re killing me,” Julien says.
I don’t laugh, but only because he’s my brother and I’m used to his paraphrasing. It’s not the done thing to paraphrase when you’re translating. Julien only does it when we’re among particularly trusted friends.
Jameson gives Julien a look. “I know that’s not what he said, buddy.”
Julien rolls his eyes. “My entire fucking soul sighs at that nickname. Do we have to use that nickname?”
“Your entire soul?” Jameson bows. “I apologize. I apologize, August?—”
I hold up a hand.
Call me what you want. You were about to ask me a favor.
Julien’s voice feels like an echo of my hands. Attached, almost.
“Yeah. Would you mind hanging out? Everyone’s coming to meet the baby this afternoon and I know they’ll want photos. I’ll pay you for, like, a location wedding or whatever.”
What food will there be?
Jameson grins hugely. “Elise made a birthday cake. The baby can’t eat any, though, so we’ll have extra.”
Julien shifts ever-so-subtly next to me.
Alcohol?
“I am prepared,” Jameson says. “I got your favorite and Julien’s favorite. I would never invite you to my home without having the necessary amenities. Fire?”
“What?” Julien asks, before I can sign.
“Do you want to sit by the fire and drink alcohol and have snacks? My kitchen is your kitchen. My snacks are your snacks. My?—”
Julien’s eyes meet mine and flicker away.
We accept. How do you feel about moving to candids?
“Fucking great,” Jameson’s answers. “Let me show you to the food.”
He takes the baby from Lily and helps her to her feet. The four of us move to the kitchen. Leisurely. Comfortable.
Julien catches my eye the moment Jameson and Lily are occupied with the fridge.
Not dominoes, I sign. Smile.
He smiles.