An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart) Read online

  Jessie watered the ferns, brought in fans and muffs and vases for possible use in the upcoming sitting. Suzanne needed more time, Jessie decided, as she went about opening the linen drapes, letting pale December sunlight pour in. It couldn’t be easy for her to share her studio with another. The Bauer Studio didn’t have an apartment attached; Suzanne’s did, so she lacked the luxury of getting away from the memories at day’s end. Maybe that added to her headaches.

  Mr. Johnson had been the photographer, the developer. He did a fair postcard trade as well. Suzanne made the appointments, stocked the developing room, worked on ads to run in the paper, and assisted with retouching as needed. “Except for answering the phone, I did the private things,” she told Jessie when first they’d met back in July. Suzanne folded her hands in her lap during that initial interview. Her soft voice forced Jessie to lean forward to hear her. “My husband was the charmer. He could make a nasty child sit still and like it, and convince any customer who was unhappy with their portrait that it really was the perfect picture of them.” She shook her head, a wan smile lifting her lips. She twisted the gold ring on her finger. “He was very good at convincing people of things.”

  “Changing how they saw themselves.”

  “Yes. Exactly. And not just the patrons.” She’d looked away, fluttered her hands at her cheeks, and moved on to show Jessie the appointment book, discuss procedures. Suzanne’s last comment brought Fred to mind. Perhaps all successful photographers possessed a quality that reshaped reality, and not just upon glass plates. Kodak had it right promoting photography as camera “witchery,” without knowing they spoke too of a photographer’s alchemy of the spirit. More magical than the process of photo development was the change photography produced in people who evaluated what the lens had captured about them.

  Jessie had hoped that Suzanne’s personal comment that first day would mark the beginning of a friendship and that one day the two would share a deeper conversation about Mr. Johnson, what it had been like to work together day after day. They could compare stories, in a way. Jessie thought they might talk over tea about being unmarried women now, alone in a city, and how each fared when they weren’t busily at work. That day hadn’t come. Only words of weather or supplies filled the silences between the clients coming to the Johnson Studio. Jessie’s job involved blending in with the owner’s wishes, not becoming friends with her.

  Jessie waited for the first client as she listened to Suzanne moving around in her apartment. In general, Jessie’s work at the Johnson Studio wasn’t unlike the work she’d done for Fred at the Bauer Studio. Here, too, clients acted hesitant as they walked into the reception area, looked around at the horsehair couch, wiggled their noses at the scented candle Mrs. Johnson liked to burn. Peacock feathers in large vases stood like statues on the floor, drawing children, as did other props included in the final sitting. Jessie would give clients a tour, show them the operating room, and point out the developing room and the door that led to the small apartment Mrs. Johnson lived in. If the darkroom wasn’t occupied, she’d open the door to let them see the shelves of chemicals, the rectangular tubs filled with water where they bathed the prints. The children always giggled at the idea that pictures took baths. The line over the tubs, she’d tell them, was the clothesline. “We hang the prints there to dry just as your mother hangs up your flannels.” They’d giggle more.

  Giving clients a sense of their surroundings, aligning the strangeness with the familiar, put people at ease. But the adults still often acted shy of having their portraits made. Jessie had to gentle them into the idea that spending money on their families in this way wasn’t frivolous but preserved a memory, recorded change. At the same time she had to reassure them that what appeared on the glass negative was only a moment in time; it wasn’t the sum of who they really were.

  Fred had told her that the Indians he photographed in his North Dakota studio said their elders didn’t approve of photographs. They believed that such prints stole a part of their souls, trapping it on the paper. She marveled at the silver-tongued photographer who had first wiped away generations of deep spiritual belief, permitting the next generation to have their portraits made. Changing a person’s vision of the soul was no small thing. Fred had captured Chief Red Cloud, a portrait he’d been quite proud of.

  Like the Bauer Studio, the Johnson Studio had a retouching room that was nothing more than the back of a closet where they hung shawls and capes. Jessie spent a fair amount of time in that darkened room removing blemishes from a person’s face, inking out lines at his or her eyes. She wouldn’t describe that task to potential patrons as she gave the tour. Some might find the practice false, manipulating truth. Yet they’d like the results: a prettier picture than when they looked at themselves in the mirror.

  Most people didn’t pay attention to the tiny lines at their eyes as they used the mirror to set their hats or collars straight, but they noticed it in a print and did not find it pleasing. It was the craft of the retoucher to retain everything that signified the essence of a person, such as a mole on Grandpa’s chin that everyone would notice if it was absent. But small things—a reflection on a woman’s eyeglass, a stray strand of hair, a tear glistening on a baby’s cheek—could be removed and not detract from the image. In that way, a photographer mimicked a portrait artist, painting an image of a person over time and perhaps revealing a bit of the artist herself within the oils.

  As with the Bauer Studio, time with clients went quickly. She enjoyed meeting new people, hearing their stories. She also imagined the stories they didn’t tell, how they arrived in Milwaukee, what struggles they faced, if there was a reason they were having their portrait made other than what they said. Most of the Johnson clients came from the north and east sides of Milwaukee and were German, though Yankees lived in that section of town too. While Jessie didn’t speak German, she could understand bits and pieces if clients lapsed into that first language. But most spoke English they would have learned at the settlement houses or the country schools they attended before moving into the city. Thick accents still marked them as newly arrived.

  After Christmas, Jessie planned to suggest to Suzanne that they expand to the South Side patronage and maybe even lure their neighboring “Yanks,” as Suzanne called them, English descendants. Milwaukee attracted people of all persuasions, who settled into distinct neighborhoods and yet mixed throughout the city as a whole. Jessie loved that about Milwaukee: in the fall, she’d walked through different neighborhoods and known the nationalities of the residents by the smell of their strudels, kielbasa, lefse, and lox.

  Jessie was certain the studio could attract more business if they sought permission from a few of the finer clients to use their portraits in newspaper ads. The cost would be more, but the images would attract interest and the Journal appeared to like using photographs. The small text ad Suzanne placed each week—“Portraits by Johnson. Serving the North Side”—just didn’t have the flash Jessie thought it needed. So far, Suzanne had been reluctant to adopt suggestions. She had kindly put Jessie’s portrait of a young girl named Pearl in the front window. That was the only change Jessie could see. Doing so must have caused distress; all the other portraits there had been done by her husband. But Suzanne was fond of Pearl’s portrait. She’d looked wistfully at it, and Jessie wondered if the absence of a child was another grief the woman carried. Suzanne was bound by the desire all have when faced with grave emptiness: the yearning to keep the old routines, hoping they might wash away despair. And yet they couldn’t because something—everything—had changed. Jessie knew that firsthand. To manage her sadness, she’d found it best to seek new ways of doing things, even if it meant “episodes” brought experiences one didn’t care to repeat.

  The Raymonds arrived on time and were easily posed because the man told Jessie exactly what sitting he wanted. His wife appeared much younger than he, and Jessie thought there might be a story there, of this white-haired and obviously successful man sitting as he wi
shed, with a comely young woman standing behind him, her diamond ring sparkling on the finger that rested on his shoulder. His wife silently did whatever he directed.

  “You’ve had your portrait made before, Mr. Raymond,” Jessie ventured as she turned the wheel on the camera stand, raising it to the proper height. Her skirts swished as she moved about the device, focusing, setting. Her slippers slid easily across the carpeted floor.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You know what you like,” Jessie said.

  “Aye, he does know what he likes.”

  It was the first time the woman had spoken, and Jessie judged from her words and missing eyetooth that she was not of her husband’s social class. Jessie wondered how the two had met, what circumstances had brought them into marriage. Maybe they weren’t married, but why would he give her such an extravagant gift or go to the expense of having a portrait made together? Fred had given Jessie gifts, but the two of them had never been in the same photograph. The woman wiggled the finger bearing the ring, the morning light flashing against the small diamonds set around a larger white stone.

  “Keep your hand on my shoulder,” he told her. “The photographer will need absolute stillness, won’t you?”

  Jessie nodded as she manipulated the lens, prepared the glass plates that would slide into the frame in the belly of the Johnsons’ portrait camera. The woman placed her hand against his expensive wool suit and stiffened her standing pose. Her smile disappeared into plumping cheeks.

  “You’ve taken a few photographs yourself,” Mr. Raymond said. “Yet you can’t be much older than what, eighteen? Are you the Johnsons’ daughter?”

  People often wanted to know personal things about photographers. Perhaps asking them to reveal a bit of themselves equalized the vulnerability of being exposed to film. It also gave people subjects to talk about while they waited in that awkward setting. Jessie usually complied. She wanted people to be comfortable, as they’d be more inclined to like the final results.

  “Nearly nineteen,” Jessie told him. “In just a few months. And yes, I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen. I’m pleased a certain level of experience shows.”

  “And are you a Johnson?”

  “Oh no. Mrs. Johnson is widowed. I’ve been hired to help her run the studio until she feels she can manage it on her own or perhaps sell it to another photographer. My plan, though, is to have my own studio one day.” Jessie thought that the more she spoke her dream out loud, the greater the likelihood it could happen.

  He looked around. “This one could use sprucing up, be more inviting.”

  “Oh, don’t move,” Jessie said. “That’s it. I’m almost ready here.” She straightened, moved the camera slightly to take advantage of the light. “I rather prefer taking pictures as Robert Taylor does, of the Journal,” Jessie said.

  “Of disasters?”

  “No, more ordinary things, outside. The Indian Mound at Olmsted’s Lake Park or people picnicking at River Park. Could you turn your head to the right, lower your chin just a thread, Mrs. Raymond? Thank you. But those photographs don’t pay well unless you’re Robert Taylor, working for the Journal. I think we’re ready now.”

  “So you enjoy ‘gardens of the poor’?” Mr. Raymond said.

  “Is that what the parks are called?”

  “It’s what Olmsted called them when he designated the land. He wanted park space always free and open to the public, with both active and passive areas.”

  “I like active areas,” his wife said. “Watching the golf.”

  “Watching golf,” her husband corrected. “Not ‘the golf.’ That’s how we say it.”

  “All right. Hold that pose. Mrs. Raymond, you’re a natural,” Jessie said, hoping to erase the look of a woman chastised for her grammar. The woman smiled without showing her teeth, but it lacked enthusiasm. Still, she had distinctive features, pleasing to the eye. Jessie took the shot at the crest of the smile easing up toward her eyes.

  “I wonder if you might be willing to have a few other poses,” Jessie asked as the Raymonds let their shoulders relax. “You have such lovely eyes, Mrs. Raymond. I’d like to try images of just you if that would be possible. I wouldn’t charge you for them unless you decided to take one. I’m always looking for subjects for character studies. Most photographers are.”

  “Minnie,” she said. “Call me Minnie.” She looked at her husband, awaiting his answer.

  “I have a lovely gown that I believe would highlight your wife’s creamy skin tone,” Jessie said. “May I get it for her?”

  The gowns were unique to the Johnson Studio, a series of props Jessie thought inventive. A few of the gowns could be slipped on from the front right over a patron’s dress with a tie on the back to keep it closed long enough for the photograph. Others were gowns that Suzanne had acquired in various sizes, beautifully stitched. Jessie brought two out for Minnie and her husband to look at. “I prefer this one with the lace and silk ribbons and the ruche on the sleeves. There’s even a bow for your hair,” Jessie pointed out.

  “I like that one too,” Minnie said.

  Her husband nodded. “That one then, with the large flower in front,” he said.

  Jessie motioned for Minnie to change behind the folding screen. Soon her maroon dress draped over the stork painted on the panel.

  “If you’re inclined,” Mr. Raymond said, “you might consider photographing gardens since you enjoy outdoor images. There’s quite a market for them, from what I hear, in Chicago and back East. That sort of thing eventually makes its way to Milwaukee. We don’t like to be outdone. You couldn’t do it until summer, of course, but it might be an option. Sell them to the owners.”

  “Like Jessie Tarbox Beals,” Jessie mused.

  “Don’t believe I know her. Is she local?” Jessie shook her head. “Here’s my card,” he said. “Come spring, look me up. I like helping young ladies succeed.”

  Jessie glanced at him, to see if his words carried more meaning. They didn’t seem to. His address was on Lake Drive, one of the finer sections of the city.

  Minnie came out from behind the screen then, looking lovely as she ran her hands over the ribbons and lace. Jessie posed her and took the shot.

  Minnie still wore the pensive look, and Jessie suspected that her eyes reflected the strain of her journey from a settlement house to the fine halls of the homes along Lake Drive. Finished, Jessie said goodbye to the Raymonds, told them when the prints would be ready, then developed the prints immediately.

  Minnie’s face formed slowly on the glass plate. The woman reminded Jessie of Suzanne, of all working women trying to make their way. She’d have to peer more closely at herself in the mirror to see if her own eyes revealed emotions she hadn’t imagined they would.

  Minnie Raymond

  December 1910, Johnson Studio, Milwaukee

  Johnson 5 × 7 Graflex portrait camera

  Resignation

  I love this photograph. Not just because it required so little retouching, but because the viewers’ eyes are drawn into the eyes of this woman, Minnie Raymond. I was her in many ways. A common girl, “shop girls” you might call us, with limited schooling, finding ourselves connected to older men perhaps in ways we’d never imagined. Good men, men who liked women, enjoyed being helpful to them, and who didn’t always realize how their well-intentioned instruction could wipe away a girl’s confidence as swiftly as the proper brush could erase a blemish on a glass plate.

  The pose I chose had Minnie looking off in the distance, not staring at the camera, as though she pondered. Her expression to me says, “So. It has come to this, a mixture of blessing and unease.” Fred took several photographs with the subjects avoiding the lens, but he preferred they look directly into the camera. He had a special talent in poses set that way that captured the best of a subject. With photographs he took of me, it was almost as though his care for me spread like warm butter onto the glass plate, giving my eyes a sensual look they really didn’t have, making me
appear more beautiful than I am. Loving eyes can do that. Fond eyes. It was important, especially in those first months after I moved to Milwaukee, that I minimized the intensity of my feelings for him, repositioned memory and hope by using neutral words to trick my mind, if not my heart. He was fond of me, nothing more.

  So in this photograph I didn’t want her looking directly at me as I closed the shutter. She struck me as a sister, a girl who found herself in an unusual situation of the heart. Her shoulders are set firm and forward toward the camera, but her eyes—her eyes reveal a sadness, looking back. Minnie didn’t photograph as sensual, yet you could see it in the fullness of her face, the arch of her lips. I minimized the shadow against the left side of her throat, the light softening her jaw line and serving as camouflage to a plumping chin. That chubbiness appeared recent to me, and I could imagine her as a girl as thin as spaghetti, handing off portions of her own food to younger brothers and sisters at their settlement house. She just didn’t seem accustomed to affluence.

  Of course, I made that judgment in part on the day I photographed her, for when she came out from behind the screen, having put on the elaborate gown, she tugged at the sleeves, wearing a surprised look that the material pulled against her arms and bodice. Her eyes held wonder for just a moment.

  When Minnie came alone to pick up the prints, I was surprised. But she affirmed what I’d imagined about her past. She told me that her frizzed hair was new for her. “Siegfried tooked me to a parlor. They had a machine. Called it a Nessler perm machine. It took six hours. Aye, I looked like a lamp with dozens of tubes out of my head. The things lifted my hair from my scalp.” She put her fingers into her hair to demonstrate. “So my hairs weren’t burned. I was scared though.” She laughed when she told the story, but I could imagine it wasn’t terribly funny at the time. “I got only the frizzles left.” She touched the frizz at her temples and lowered her eyes. “Siegfried, he’s fond of newfangled things.”