The Woman in the Photograph (6 page)

At a cramped table on a terrace, they shared two dozen raw oysters and a bottle of white wine, watching the passersby squeeze between the outlying café chairs and the busy street: women in elegant hats and sleeveless pastel shifts, men overly warm in three-piece suits, stray cats stalking scraps. Man Ray occasionally said hello or nodded to people—local artist types or wealthy Americans—but invited no one to join them save a striped cat. He set a few oyster shells on the ground, watched it lick them clean, then turned back to Lee with a thoughtful wrinkle on his brow.

“When we get back to the studio, I'd like to take some photos of you. I've been looking at your face far too long without doing anything with it.”

“What do you mean?” she protested. “You took dozens of snapshots of me at the beach.”

“Those holiday pictures don't count. No, I want to do some serious work. Portraits. Just your head.” His voice trailed off as he gazed at her, reaching out to touch her face, her neck. “Nothing else for now; it's not necessary. Some poets—the bold ones—can see a woman's sex in her eyes,” he said in low tones; Lee shivered in delight. Man sounded like an inspired gangster when he whispered. “You realize,” he continued, “the head has more orifices than the rest of the body combined. The head is a complete portrait.”

She took his hand, still lingering around her shoulder, and brought it to her mouth, grazing it with her lips. After oysters and wine, only a trace of lipstick remained, which left thin, uneven trails on his skin.

“I can think of other things we could do, back in the studio,” she said, her voice low and sensual.

She enjoyed making him squirm. Man Ray was clearly one of those men who had been unable to attract women when he was young. Now in his late thirties, a celebrated American artist with at least one explosive relationship under his belt, she could tell that part of him still saw himself as that short, funny-looking boy that girls found unappealing. Every time he looked at her, he seemed amazed at his good luck. Lee found it touching. For her, appearance had never been the most desirable quality in a man. She was attracted to character, creativity, renown, charm, confidence, affluence. And besides, she quite liked Man Ray's looks.

Blushing, he immediately called for the check. But back at the studio, both the photographer and his subject were too engrossed in each other to bother with tripods, lighting, and focus. The official photo session was forgotten.

•  •  •

Her lessons began the following day. He brought Lee into the red light of the darkroom and, with calm control and patient movements, went through each step. He meticulously showed her how to insert glass plates into holders, dip them in the basin, then rinse them once fixed. He taught her how to use the enlarger, to print on his favorite eggshell paper, to retouch with a triangular blade, ironing out any wrinkles. Lee loved being
privy to his preferences and methods—watching a genius at work—and was moved by his openness in the darkroom. He wouldn't share his professional secrets with just anyone, would he? It must be a sign of his feelings for her; surely he hadn't taken such care with his other apprentices.

All the fragments she'd been shown before—rudimentary notions from her father and Steichen's odd tricks—came together under his generous instruction. It was intuitive to her, and she learned quickly; Man was encouraging, almost proud.

Soon they were working together like a four-armed creature, absorbed by the task, both intent on perfection. Sometimes, however, in the night-heat of the darkroom, pressed against each other in the tiny space, they would become distracted by an accidental touch, the feel of warm breath, and they would remember the body beside them. In the shadows of the amber light, their hands and mouths would find each other again, their clothes wrenched aside. More than one photograph was left forgotten, overdeveloping to nothingness.

Their seclusion was broken nearly every day—and sometimes more than once or twice—by a steady procession of portrait sitters.
Tout Paris
wanted to be done by Man Ray, and Lee, as his receptionist and assistant, helped him with this multicolored parade of aristocrats, wealthy foreigners, artists, and novelists. Although she was fascinated by many of them—from Barbette, the female impersonator, to the mannish writer Gertrude Stein—she was never starstruck, but warm and welcoming. A pleasant contrast to Man, who was always businesslike with clients, cold and monosyllabic.

“Hello, there. Let me take your hat and coat.” She smiled at
a chubby British earl. “Mr. Ray will be out in a moment. Would you like a cigarette?”

She held out her silver case, and he accepted one. Blowing out smoke, the earl took in the unusual décor, wide-eyed, as if he were on an adventure holiday to the heart of bohemia. Man strolled in with a gruff hello, stationed himself behind the tripod, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You can take your seat, sir.” Lee gestured toward the portrait chair.

The earl frowned at the bare corner where he would pose, fingering the burlap backdrop as if it had been worn by a leper. He sat down stiffly and eyed the camera, set up across the room, and tried to get a good look at the photographer beyond it.

“Say, there,” he said nervously. “I don't fancy a full-length portrait. Just, you know, the head and shoulders.” He stroked his paunch as if to iron it out, then looked up at Lee. “Doesn't he need to move the camera in? Toward me?”

“Don't worry, sir,” she said. “He knows what he's doing.” Man always preferred to keep his distance, then crop his shots into portraits in the privacy of his own darkroom. “Now, just relax.”

After a few minutes, the session was over.

“He's done?” the earl whispered to Lee, obviously disappointed.

Man disappeared as Lee wrote down the earl's address, made another appointment with him to view the prints, and ushered him through the door.

“You can come out now,” she called to Man, half-joking. “No more sittings today.”

“Excellent.” He smiled. “Let's take some real pictures.”

In their spare time Man photographed Lee, which was all he wanted to do anyway. Sometimes she would wake up to find him staring at her through the viewfinder, a light set up next to the bed. He would smile sheepishly, but she liked being at the center—the very seed—of his creative process. With his warm, silky hands, she let him place her body in position, set it up for a shot as if it were a still life. She watched the ideas whirring in his head and his eyes roaming over her body, taking in every inch. Besides the portraits that merely emphasized her beauty, he took shots that reflected his feelings for her, the depth of his emotion. Moving or motionless, in shadow or light, she was his subject. And Lee thought he captured the complexity of her nature: her sensuality, but also her energy, her rebelliousness, her dark humor.

It fascinated Lee that, depending on the photographer's vision, she could change into something else entirely. As she watched Man taking pictures, she occasionally compared him to other photographers she'd worked with. They'd all liked to look. Photographers, it seemed, were Peeping Toms who used the viewfinder instead of the keyhole. At
Vogue,
Arnold Genthe had softened her features, giving her the face of an innocent schoolgirl, whereas Edward Steichen had made her look worldly and sophisticated. While her father . . . What had his unorthodox photos brought out in her? Her inner strength, her self-confidence, perhaps? And what might a self-portrait show?

“I've been thinking of a pose all day,” he said, moving the posing chair out of the corner, then putting it back. “And, finally, those idiots are out of our hair.”

“That's
what you get for being so damn popular. Everyone wants a piece of you,” she said with a little snort. “So, what's your plan? Do you want to work with the patterns from the window bars again?”

“No, my little Leebra. I'm done with stripes for now.” He tapped his lips with his index finger, thinking. “Here, carry these lights upstairs. I'll take the camera.”

In their small bedroom, he began arranging the tungsten lamps around the bed, contrasting light with darkness. “Take off your clothes, kid. I'll be done with this in a minute.”

Lee pulled off her jersey with a little tingle in her stomach. She had done nudes before she began working with Man Ray, but most of those poses were chaste and romantic—classic art shots—compared to his. She liked these provocative sessions in front of the camera—the heat from the lamps, Man's gangster voice, his obvious excitement—which often ended in equally long sessions in bed.

“Now, I want you to curl up into a ball. All I want to see is your ass.”

She got on the bed, her backside to the camera, and ducked down; he was immediately there, moving her arms, tucking down her shoulders, fiddling with her fingers. She went slack and let him manipulate her like a lump of clay. She liked his strong touch. He readjusted the lights and peered through the camera. The pads of her feet and her bodiless hands came forth from her perfectly round bottom; the rest of her was obscured in the dark.

“It's beautiful,” he whispered. “You have become the perfect peach.”

Man took several shots, shifting the tripod a few inches to either side to vary perspectives. Finally, he unscrewed the camera and took a shot closer up.

“What I really want to do, kid, is take a big bite,” he said.

He tossed the camera onto the pillows and began taking off his clothes, fumbling with the buttons of his bulging trousers. She lay in wait, keeping her pose, and licked her lips in anticipation. She'd been with many men before Man Ray—she'd always been keen on her sexual freedom—but no one so consistently. She reveled in the variation and experiment; older and more experienced than most of her former lovers, Man enjoyed giving pleasure as much as taking it. Under the hot lights, he became one with the peach, grasping her, then slowly unwound her coil. She turned to him, ready. Ah, the seduction of being a muse.

“Why don't we go out tonight?” Lee said, closing the door behind their last client.

Though she'd been in Montparnasse now for over a month, they'd rarely ventured out of the studio. Ever since she'd moved in, they'd been working in tandem—teacher and student, artist and muse—or rolling in bed together as equals. But they had been doing little else. Lee was beginning to get restless; she needed outside company, new faces, a bit of adventure.

“Let's! I could make you a toga and bring out the Greek goddess in you. Or cover your head in scarves and make you into a Turkish princess.” With flashing eyes, he wrapped her hair with an imaginary turban. “Or do your makeup. I could shave off your eyebrows and paint new ones on.”

He was studying Lee's features, his thumbs gliding down the length of her eyebrows. Lee stared back up at him, mildly entertained and slightly peeved. Kiki had allowed him that luxury, to alter her appearance for photos, films, or just a night out. But there was no way in hell Lee was letting him near her face with a razor.

“I don't think so,” she said shortly.

“Just an idea,” he
said, backing off, slightly disappointed. “Not that any of you needs changing, of course.”

She went upstairs to get dressed. Some of her clothes were still in her trunk; the others were bursting out of Man's small wardrobe. She pulled out a floral frock with a cutaway back and inspected it; it would do. When she was dressed, Lee added the black feathered skullcap Man bought her in Biarritz—the feathers framed her face on one side, making her look half raven-haired—then went through her jewelry box in search of bracelets. Inside, she found a long gold chain. Meant to be looped around the neck several times, it was at least two yards long. Lee smiled. In the absence of togas or turbans, perhaps this would satisfy Man's need for theatrics.

When they were both ready, Lee brought out the chain. She clasped it around her wrist, then attached it to his belt.

“What's this?” he asked, visibly pleased.

“I don't want my little lamb to go missing.”

Once on the boulevard, they headed to la Coupole.

“For its opening night two years ago, they popped fifteen hundred bottles of champagne. What a night!” Man said, quickening his step. “It's been a popular place ever since.”

Even from the outside, the nightclub radiated excitement. Two stories tall, it was brightly lit with neon, and automobiles stood in a line out front. Lee squeezed his arm as Man escorted her inside; the head waiter immediately appeared—
Bon soir, Monsieur Man Ray. Suivez-moi
—and led them to a table under the cathedral-like dome next to the center fountain.

Lee looked at the people at the nearby tables, crammed together among the painted pillars. A quartet of affluent Americans,
swinging half-empty cocktails and long cigarette holders, was slurring loudly about the absurdity of nouns having gender, while a serious mustachioed man was delivering a sermon on writing to a group of young disciples. Next to them, a wide-eyed, provincial family sat ignoring their dinners and staring at those they presumed to be bohemians (“Papa, do you think those girls model
nude
?” asked the son, earning a smack from his mother).