The Woman in the Photograph (8 page)

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“Some of the Surrealists are coming over this afternoon—”

“Wonderful! I've been wanting to meet your cronies.”

“They're not just my cronies, Lee.” He put down his coffee cup to pick at a patch of dried paint on his thumb, left over from the day before. “They are some of the most original thinkers in the arts today. Poets, painters, intellectuals—”

“Wonderful. Like I said.” She nipped at his earlobe. “Who's coming?”

“Today it'll just be a few of us. There's André Breton, the leader of the group. He's a psychiatrist by trade and worked in a neurological ward during the war—talk about a fine introduction to the absurd! Then Max Ernst, the painter and philosopher. He's German, but we don't hold it against him. And a couple of poets. Louis Aragon—he lives in the building next door—and Benjamin Péret.”

“How exciting!”
Lee beamed, sure she'd have more success with this bunch than she had with Kiki. She'd always had a way with men.

“They'll love you, kid. Who wouldn't?” Patting her hand, Man glanced out into the living room. “We need to straighten the place up. Jesus, your stuff is everywhere.”

She frowned. “You know there's nowhere to put it.”

“Well, pile it up on the bed for now. Cram it underneath, if you have to. I'd like the group to see my new work, not all of your hats and jackets. Come on, you—get cleaning.”

“Yes, massah.” She took the coffee from his hand, poured out his last sips, and rinsed the cup.

“Lovely,” he said drily. “So helpful.”

At five o'clock, the bell rang. The room was back to the way it had been when she first saw it—filled with Man's objects, all arranged just so—with the addition of several new prints, enlarged and matted for display. Four men bustled into the room. Hovering in front of the sofa, Lee eyed them with an expectant smile. They were older than she, some ten to twenty years older, and all rather attractive, though pale and unathletic.

“Man!” they exclaimed, clapping him on the back, shaking his hand. “Christ, we haven't seen you for weeks, months! What have you been doing?”

He gestured behind him. “I'd like for you to meet my new assistant, Lee Miller.”

They turned to her and began nodding their heads, laughing. “This explains it!”

“Yeah, she's a shade different from your last assistant,” said
Aragon, shaking his finger at him. “Berenice wasn't half as pretty—and this one looks like she might even like men!”

“Oh, shut your mouth, Louis. Berenice Abbott was a good old girl and a fine photographer.” He joined Lee by the couch and took her by the hand. “But it's true that Lee is more to me than an assistant. She is my muse.”

“
Enchantée
.” Lee made the rounds, kissing everyone on the cheeks. “Can I offer you an aperitif? Campari and soda?”

While she made the drinks, Man showed the group his latest photographs. They were all nude shots of Lee, remarkable for their poses and lighting. Lee looked over at Man, listening proudly to their praise. She wanted to mention that a couple of the ideas had been hers, but decided it would seem too childish.

Drinks in hand, they made themselves comfortable. Lee sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning slightly on Man.

“Gentlemen,” Breton spoke importantly, getting down to business. “I think it's time to write a second manifesto. We need to assess the degree of moral competence among our members and excommunicate those uninterested in collective action. Surrealism needs to be at the service of the revolution.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We need to formalize our support of communism and the Soviet Union.”

There were murmurs of assent—“hear, hear”—and raised glasses.

Lee suddenly spoke. “Sometimes I wonder, though. If the Soviet Union is so great, why is Paris filled with Russians?”

They all turned from Lee to Breton in silence. He raised an eyebrow and looked down his nose at her.

“I congratulate you, Man. What a catch this woman is. All this”—he
pointed to her with an outstretched hand, sweeping it from her head to her foot—“and beautiful, too.”

Lee realized she'd been slighted as their guests began to snicker. She opened her mouth, a retort ready, when Man squeezed her hand.

“Why don't you get us some snacks?” His eyes begged her to be quiet. “Thanks, kid.”

“And I could use some coffee, if you've got some,” added Péret.

Flushed, she stood up and smiled at them stiffly. “Of course.”

From the small kitchen, she could still hear Breton's loud voice. “Most women are so much more delightful with their mouths closed.”

“Or wide open!” cried one.

She heard the guffaws and could imagine the obscene gesture. Lee bit her lip, bitterly disappointed. They obviously thought her an idiot, nothing more than a pretty face. Sometimes she regretted her halfhearted attempt at a formal education. She'd always hated rules and authority figures and, after being expelled from a half-dozen institutions, barely finished secondary school. She'd never had the discipline for theoretical lessons—her intelligence was more intuitive, more fluid—and was easily bored. Lee liked hands-on projects, much like Man Ray. He knew she was smart; he understood her. Why hadn't he stood up for her in front of his snooty friends?

She set the coffeepot on the stove, then automatically arranged crackers around a block of pâté and poured nuts and olives into bowls. Man had put a jazz record on the gramophone,
but the odd word still drifted in from the salon. All talk of politics was stalled as they continued to talk about women. She was straining to catch the gist of their conversation, when Breton's voice rose above the music. “But,
mes amis
,” he pronounced with authority, “the female orgasm is of no importance!” She rolled her eyes, incredulous. Jesus! At least Man didn't agree with him on
that
point. Or was he in there nodding just the same? What contradictions these men were: avant-garde yet antiquated, sternly judgmental yet boyish and silly. Lee was sure that, as soon as she walked back into the room, they would resume their stuffy talk of communism and allegiances, thinking themselves superior.

She took a full tray out to the living room, then slipped on her coat.

“Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but I'm afraid I have a few errands to do. If you'll excuse me.”

She swept out of the room, without even looking at Man. It embarrassed her that he'd let his friend insult her right there, in their very home. She blinked back tears. It seemed his studio wasn't her home anyway. She had no presence there, no respect. Lee knew that, at her parents' house, her father would have never stood for such a thing.

Lee walked briskly up the boulevard. At le Dôme, she ordered a brandy, then quickly scanned the room for someone to talk to. The place was nearly empty except for one large table of artsy types, presided over by Kiki. Giggling with another model, she peeked up and saw Lee on her own, but didn't call her over; she puffed on a cigarette and pretended not to see her. When two girls—teenage sisters—walked in, the group
scrunched together to make room at the table, and their loud chatter redoubled. Love affairs, tragedies, the latest exhibitions. Lee watched their reflection in the mirror behind the bar, telling herself how ridiculous they were. Their outrageous makeup, their thin voices and vulgar laughter. One girl with flowers in her hair sat sucking her thumb while a shirtless man in top hat and tails stroked a Siamese cat. Lee rolled her eyes.

Alone at the swanky bar, however, she felt rejection radiating from her, their laughter bouncing on her back. This was new. Usually, Lee was sought after, a coveted conversation partner at any gathering. What was wrong here? She finished her drink and walked out, her head high.

Ten minutes later, she found herself at the Montparnasse cemetery. Winding through the crowded gravestones, she decided she preferred the company of the dead to that of Man Ray's friends.

Lee stood before the mirror in the hallway, nearly ready to go out. She slipped on a black velvet hat, then the matching jacket. After cinching the belt, she pinched a lily from the vaseful Man had photographed the day before. Large and white, she set it at an angle on her lapel. She smiled at her reflection and grabbed her bag.

“I'm going to
French Vogue
today,” she announced. “To see if they have any work. I know the summer collection won't be out until February, but they might have something for me to do.”

“You don't want me to go with you?” Man asked. “I'd be happy to—”

“Thanks, sweetie, but I'm sure you have better things to do.”

He gave her a long kiss at the door, then she was free, out in the autumn sun. Lifting her face toward the chill blue sky, she breathed out, glad to be in the street. She'd been feeling claustrophobic; they'd barely seen anyone since the Surrealists visited two weeks earlier. Between the November rains and their lack of sitters, Man's worry and watchful eyes, it was all getting under her skin. She needed time away from the studio, more independence, her own work. And though Lee longed to
focus solely on photography, she'd come to realize that, during these times of skinny cows, she'd need to return to modeling.

Even though the
Vogue
offices were on the Right Bank, she decided against taking the metro and headed toward the Seine, down the long boulevard Raspail. Passing florists and fruit stands, Lee eyed the other strollers and peeked into shop windows. After coffee at a café terrace, serenaded by a street violinist, she started across the Pont Royale, the Louvre large on the other side of the river.

She paused on the bridge, watching a seagull bobbing alone on the steel-gray Seine, like the commander of a vast vessel. Rivers make cities, she thought. Especially here, where the current cut the city in half and formed islands in the middle. She leaned against the coarse stone. Upriver, she could see the clunky Notre Dame without a proper spire and the haughty dome of the Academie Française. The buildings were solid and timeless; the water flowed clumsily beside them, constantly changing.

But it wasn't just the Seine or the old stones that Lee loved about Paris. It was its energy and rhythm. The church bells and car horns, the click-clack of high heels on cobblestones, the French language itself, in which the worst insults managed to sound delightful. It was its streets, littered with smells: black tobacco, fresh bread, mop water, frying onion, the cacophony of perfumes. The Parisians, who looked at each other unabashedly with heavy-lidded eyes. There was poetry on every corner, dance on every hip. History—be it fleeting or rock-solid—was the present. Paris, now. Lee belonged here, despite her misgivings about Man Ray's friends. Who cared? She unpinned the
white lily, tossed it into the languid water, and watched it amble under the bridge. Why would she be anywhere else?

She continued through the Tuileries gardens. Walking slowly, she passed uniformed nannies with well-dressed babies, and a quiet group of veterans from the Great War sunning themselves in wicker wheelchairs. Paris was much more conservative outside of Montparnasse. With her
Vogue
looks—the chic suit, the tasteful lipstick, the new pumps—Lee felt like an undercover spy; she could fit in anywhere. One of the veterans doffed his cap at her as she passed by; she winked at him like a fellow conspirator.

When she finally arrived at the offices on the Champs-Élysées, a river away from Man's cluttered, cramped studio, she felt energized and refreshed. Alive.

“I'd like to see the see the editor in chief,” she told the secretary, with a self-assured smile. Even at the French offices, she was in her element at
Vogue
. “My name is Lee Miller.”

After just a few minutes, she was shown into his office. A portly man rose from behind an orderly desk. “Lee Miller? Michel de Brunhoff.” He switched his pipe into his left hand to shake with her. “I've heard of you. You're Condé Nast's protégée, am I right? I remember some of Edward Steichen's photos of you,” he said, taking in her features, glancing over her limbs. “We'd be delighted to have you here with us. But, um, no posing for feminine products, eh?”

His eyes twinkled. In New York the year before, there'd been a scandal when one of Steichen's elegant fashion shots of Lee had been used in an advertisement for a distasteful new product, a sanitary pad called Kotex.

“Of course not,”
she said with a faint blush. “And if you need a photographer, I have quite a bit of experience. Steichen taught me some of his techniques back in New York, and here in Paris I've been training with Man Ray.”

“Possibly, possibly,” he said, relighting his pipe. “Our head photographer here is George Hoyningen-Huene. A fascinating character! His father was a Baltic nobleman—chief equerry to the tsar, if I'm not mistaken—and his mother the daughter of the American ambassador to Russia. Needless to say, they fled after the revolution”—he took another puff—“and came here. He's a moody sort—and a baron!—but an excellent photographer. We'll get you settled in as a model first. Then we can talk about photography.”