The Woman in the Photograph Read Free

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    For the next two weeks, Lee tinkered with taking photos in art galleries. It was much easier than drawing, but it was still a challenge. Capturing details—the Florentine patterns, the jewelry, the belts and ribbons—with low-speed film in gloomy, windowless rooms required a level of skill far beyond that of the typical Kodak Girl. But it was a challenge she enjoyed. She bought a tripod, which proved so flimsy that she had to anchor it down with an umbrella, and stationed herself in front of canvases like Botticelli’s Primavera and Titian’s La Bella , adjusting the light and toying with distance until she got it right. Finally,she had amassed enough successful prints to satisfy any employer.
    Though still a novice, Lee had decided that photography was the art for her.
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    â€œTanja, do you really want to spend our last night in Florence with Mr. Porter and his lot?”
    Lee was sitting on her packed trunk, buckling her shoes.
    â€œIt’s a soirée in our honor. I think it’s sweet.” Tanja screwed on a pair of earrings, then gently powder-puffed her face. “And we haven’t met anyone else we can have a proper conversation with—”
    â€œ Proper is the word for it. What I’d give for a few dirty jokes.”
    â€œI’m sure you’ll get plenty of that in Paris. Those bohemians in Montparnasse should keep you entertained.” Tanja smiled at her. “Have you decided yet what you’re going to do there?”
    â€œI’ll think of something.”
    That evening, in Bancroft Porter’s nineteenth-century dining room, Lee barely listened to the discussion about servants and other local riffraff, but glanced around at the three other guests. Lord Rukin dominated the table with his loud voice and pre-war mustache while Lady Rukin, at Lee’s side, sat silently, pulling her shoulder blades forward with the determination of a footbinder, trying to make her ample bosom as concave as possible. The other guest, a Mr. Larsen from Copenhagen, pale and effete, was a newcomer to Florence. The obliging Mr. Porter would surely take him under his wing; hiding a smirk behind her napkin, Lee supposed he would prove a much more satisfactory protégé than she and Tanja had.
    At the end of the meal, the company made their way to the salon, where the much-discussed Italian maids laid out a variety of after-dinner options—fresh figs and apricots, crunchy biscotti, grappa and amaretto—and disappeared.
    â€œSince it is Tanja and Lee’s last night among us, I have hired some entertainment. A string quartet to play the highlights from Tosca .” Mr. Porter, delighted with himself, swept an arm toward the door, where the black-tied musicians were waiting to enter. “My poor girls, after you leave Italy, you’ll be hard pressed to find music like this.”
    Preferring Puccini to vapid conversation, Lee settled back in the fussy armchair with a glass of grappa, but as the musicians launched into an instrumental aria, her mind began to wander. Her eyes flitted around the room, from the antiquated guests to the gilded harpsichord to the ceramic figurines and shadowy landscapes; she wondered how difficult it would be to take photographs in there. Her eyes returned to rest on the pear-shaped violinist, whose back was to her. Lips curling into a smile, she thought again of Man Ray.
    Ever since Edward Steichen had shown her Noire et Blanche , she’d been intrigued by him. After that shoot, back at the Vogue offices, she’d asked staffers if they could lay their hands on any more of his work. The image they’d found floored her: an armless woman whose back was pierced with the f-holes of a violin, her curves becoming those of the instrument. Another clean shot, both beautiful and utterly disturbing. She narrowed her eyes, trying to imagine the body of this bottom-heavy musician transforming into his