The Woman in the Photograph Read Free Page A

violin. She let out a sigh. This stale old room just didn’t have the Man Ray magic.
    During that last week in New York, she had taken advantage of her good-bye dinners and parties to try to get the scoop on him. She found that most of the artists and writers she knew (and even some of the café-society elite) had heard of him, but they only had the barest facts: Mr. Ray was from Brooklyn but had lived in Paris for nearly a decade; he was one of those avant-garde (or “gaga,” according to one source) Surrealists: artists so fascinated by the subconscious, they tried to paint their dreams. And the woman in the photographs? Most everyone agreed she was his lover and muse. One man identified her as a cabaret singer named Kiki. Just Kiki.
    Lee had had the vague notion that, once in Paris, she would meet him or even model for him. That maybe she could pose for one of his brilliant ideas. But in the last two weeks, she’d begun to wonder if it was time to step behind the camera. Not only was she bored of having her picture taken, but she’d enjoyed the innovative headwork of taking photos, even of dull design details made under adverse conditions.
    Listening to the swell of voiceless opera, she felt inspired. Man Ray could teach her how to be a real photographer. She was interested in his aesthetic—so creative and sexy—but also his technique. By all accounts, he was the most interesting, the most influential, the most daring photographer in Paris. Why learn the craft from anyone else? She quietly toasted the idea with a healthy sip of grappa.
    Walking back to the pensione after the soirée, Lee took Tanja’s hand in her own. “Well, that was worthwhile.”
    â€œYou enjoyed it? I can’t believe it. The ongoing woes of Lord and Lady Bumpkin and that scaredy-cat Mr. How-terribly-frightful?”She gave Lee a sidelong glance. “During the music, you looked like you were in a trance. I thought the voice of my dead Aunt Mabel was going to come out of your mouth.”
    Lee laughed. “I was in a trance. I’ve finally decided what to do when I hit Paris.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI’m going to take photography lessons from Man Ray.”
    â€œThe Surrealist? What makes you think he’s going to teach you?”
    â€œWell, why wouldn’t he?”

II

    Turning left off the boulevard Raspail, Lee took another look at the scrap of paper half-crumpled in her hand: 31 bis rue Campagne-Première. She walked slowly down the street, past a café and a neighborhood grocery, eyeing the numbers on the buildings: 35, 33, 31. When she found the correct address, she tilted her head back to take in the façade.
    Unlike the other buildings on the street—all constructed of stuffy stone with narrow iron balconies too little for even a woman’s feet—this one had enormous windows separated by tile designs, geometric towers of roses, buttons, and pyramids small enough to fit in a coat pocket. It was topped with ateliers, artists’ greenhouses. The glass panes reflected a soft July sky, flimsy clouds floating on blue, which managed to make the huge place (was it the biggest building on the street?) seem airy. A new style, befitting the times: open, modern, full of possibilities. She’d seen nothing like it in Florence.
    She stared up at the oval window over the doorway, topped with the sculpted head of a mythical woman (who might have resembled Lee herself, had the chin not been so sharp), formulating the right words to say to the concierge. Four years earlier she’d been fluent in French, but was now quite rusty. Shepulled her cloche hat around her ears, practicing the words out loud, whispering formal inquiries and earnest requests, trying to remember the grammar and decide on the most charming approach. Finally, opting for simplicity, she rang the bell; a stout older woman answered.
    â€œ S’il vous plaît, madame, ”