click of a camera. He recorded fragments of your soul. And while he was doing it you didn’t even realize what you were giving away.
In several cultures, taking someone’s photograph is forbidden. The fear is that the camera steals your personal essence, robbing you of part of your self.
Cole and his work are proof to me that the superstition is true to some extent. It does happen. And danger can follow when that part of you is lost, even worse when it is given up to the public, allowing them to gape at an emotion you have never even seen on your own face.
In other times, in other cultures, Cole might be considered the devil.
“Marlowe, can’t you give him another chance? He’s not happy that the two of you are estranged.”
“I don’t believe you. He knows – he knew exactly what it would take to work things out with me. He chose to do the opposite. I’m sorry. I’m being cryptic. I don’t want to be but I don’t want to talk about this anymore. And please, don’t tell him I saw this. If you do, I’ll never talk to you again, either.”
“That’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?”
“No. Considering the breach of trust involved, that’s the last thing it is.”
6.
I couldn’t go home. Not yet. If I did, I’d focus on Cole and his photographs and our estrangement and the upcoming show. So I went to Ephemera. Even though it wasn’t a day when I was expected, Grace was glad to see me.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“Tell me.”
For a second I heard Joshua saying the same thing and that made me sadder than I’d have thought it would. “It’s nothing… No… it’s not. It’s about Cole.”
“Why don’t you tell me–”
“Grace, I love you. But no matter how many times you ask me, I’m not going to talk about it. Not with you or Jeff. It’s between me and Cole. I’d just gone through this conversation with him and I’m sick of it. I love you but I don’t want to hear about forgiveness and families right now.”
She looked at me with that sweet, concerned expression she gets when she senses that I’m upset, put her arm around me and let me into her office. Her touch started to work its magic and I felt the edge of my anxiety start to dissolve.
As soon as we were sitting on her couch, she pushed a dish of chocolate in my direction. Grace is a chocolate connoisseur. At least once a week, she rescues me from my office and we take a long walk to the City Bakery on 18th to imbibe their heady hot chocolate, made the French way – not with cocoa powder but with melted bittersweet chocolate mixed with milk, a secret recipe they won’t reveal. The bark she was offering, deep dark and shining, studded with fat almonds, came from an even more exclusive shop, Le Maison du Chocolate, which was on West 49th street, where everything cost so much it was a true extravagance. Impossible to resist, I broke off a piece, put it in my mouth and let it start to melt. And then I chewed. And then it was gone and I was sorry. I eyed the dish, almost took more, but managed to control myself. The stuff was addictive.
“Better?” she asked.
“Yes. If only it was a real cure not a temporary distraction.”
“What happened?”
“Can I tell you the details later and leave it at the fact that I got yet more proof that I have a stepbrother who is a brilliant photographer and a very selfish prick? Okay?”
She didn’t want to, but she agreed, and we spent a half-hour talking and trying not to finish off the whole dish of chocolate but we failed.
When her client showed up, I returned to my office and sat down to work, buzzing from the caffeinated confection, trying not to let my anger bubble to the surface now that I was out of Grace’s calming presence.
The project I wanted to work on that day required a special rice paper, which I’d ordered, and since sitting still was proving an effort, I went into the back room where deliveries were unpacked to look for
In several cultures, taking someone’s photograph is forbidden. The fear is that the camera steals your personal essence, robbing you of part of your self.
Cole and his work are proof to me that the superstition is true to some extent. It does happen. And danger can follow when that part of you is lost, even worse when it is given up to the public, allowing them to gape at an emotion you have never even seen on your own face.
In other times, in other cultures, Cole might be considered the devil.
“Marlowe, can’t you give him another chance? He’s not happy that the two of you are estranged.”
“I don’t believe you. He knows – he knew exactly what it would take to work things out with me. He chose to do the opposite. I’m sorry. I’m being cryptic. I don’t want to be but I don’t want to talk about this anymore. And please, don’t tell him I saw this. If you do, I’ll never talk to you again, either.”
“That’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?”
“No. Considering the breach of trust involved, that’s the last thing it is.”
6.
I couldn’t go home. Not yet. If I did, I’d focus on Cole and his photographs and our estrangement and the upcoming show. So I went to Ephemera. Even though it wasn’t a day when I was expected, Grace was glad to see me.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“Tell me.”
For a second I heard Joshua saying the same thing and that made me sadder than I’d have thought it would. “It’s nothing… No… it’s not. It’s about Cole.”
“Why don’t you tell me–”
“Grace, I love you. But no matter how many times you ask me, I’m not going to talk about it. Not with you or Jeff. It’s between me and Cole. I’d just gone through this conversation with him and I’m sick of it. I love you but I don’t want to hear about forgiveness and families right now.”
She looked at me with that sweet, concerned expression she gets when she senses that I’m upset, put her arm around me and let me into her office. Her touch started to work its magic and I felt the edge of my anxiety start to dissolve.
As soon as we were sitting on her couch, she pushed a dish of chocolate in my direction. Grace is a chocolate connoisseur. At least once a week, she rescues me from my office and we take a long walk to the City Bakery on 18th to imbibe their heady hot chocolate, made the French way – not with cocoa powder but with melted bittersweet chocolate mixed with milk, a secret recipe they won’t reveal. The bark she was offering, deep dark and shining, studded with fat almonds, came from an even more exclusive shop, Le Maison du Chocolate, which was on West 49th street, where everything cost so much it was a true extravagance. Impossible to resist, I broke off a piece, put it in my mouth and let it start to melt. And then I chewed. And then it was gone and I was sorry. I eyed the dish, almost took more, but managed to control myself. The stuff was addictive.
“Better?” she asked.
“Yes. If only it was a real cure not a temporary distraction.”
“What happened?”
“Can I tell you the details later and leave it at the fact that I got yet more proof that I have a stepbrother who is a brilliant photographer and a very selfish prick? Okay?”
She didn’t want to, but she agreed, and we spent a half-hour talking and trying not to finish off the whole dish of chocolate but we failed.
When her client showed up, I returned to my office and sat down to work, buzzing from the caffeinated confection, trying not to let my anger bubble to the surface now that I was out of Grace’s calming presence.
The project I wanted to work on that day required a special rice paper, which I’d ordered, and since sitting still was proving an effort, I went into the back room where deliveries were unpacked to look for
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