Spring Break, Sketch 3/8: Eliza Graumlich Collaboration, Part 6/8. Originally posted January 7, 2010.
(See Eliza Graumlich, Image 6)
Setting: Thea’s drawing in her bedroom, early evening, late April, 2009.
I kept drawing in our sketchbook the whole time. Every day I started a new page without him, I told myself Cam’d just have to catch up when he got back, and that he’d have his work cut out for him, too. But the truth is, I just didn’t know how to stop. I couldn’t. It would’ve been like, I don’t know, like signing a death certificate, not even knowing whose name was on it, you know. Not to be melodramatic, but seriously, I just couldn’t let it die.
So I wrote things about school, I wrote down the inside jokes we would’ve shared if he’d been there, with me, that day, anything that came to mind, just like always. I told him things I hadn’t told him, the things I thought he should know that didn’t find their way before. Funny, you know, all that energy you put into keeping the secrets quiet, and then someone finally comes along, and turns out, all yours secrets have lost their voice. I mean, of course I didn’t tell Cam everything. I don’t even know what everything is, really. So I guess Karen was right, everything is relative. Still, plenty of things came to mind that I wished I’d told him, and one by one, I wrote them down, best I could. Sometimes in pictures, sometimes in words, sometimes in stories. All the above, usually.
Like that dream, after I had that dream I had of us on that plane, when I woke up and I knew he was alive, and then, after I saw that video of him and his dad, horsing around, watching Ghost Dog, I got this idea. I mean, when I turned around, like I turned my back for two minutes, and the video disappeared, I started feeling so crazy, and all I could do was draw what I remembered. When I finished, when I stopped moving my hand, it reminded me of something I’d read about the early days of photography. Because there was a time that people believed maybe photography could help treat the mentally ill, somehow. I’m not sure how, but that’s why there are all these huge collections of photographs of different patients at mental institutions in the U.S. and England from the eighteen hundreds.
Well, so my idea was that this handsome photographer is commissioned to take portraits, create a collection of the patients for an asylum. A nice one, though, or at least nicer than most were, back then. And while he’s there, he meets one of the patients or inmates or whatever, this young woman, and of course she’s beautiful and she comes from a good family, but she never talks, and it’s like she never sees him. And when he tries asking around, in his very delicate way, why she’s there, no one can tell him for certain.
So the photographer gets this idea that maybe he really can treat her, heal whatever’s ailing her by taking her picture, draw her out and give her her voice back, but it doesn’t work out that way, really. And turns out, maybe the Native Americans were right, that the camera does steal a piece of your soul. And he knows that myth, because he’s been to the west, and he’s taken pictures of different tribes, he’s been warned, but then he keeps taking her pictures, trying to find her, trying to love her. But most of all, trying to make her love him back. That was as much as I knew, but I started drawing the things I could think of. Like this scene in the hospital gardens, and then, later, this scene in forest, where he’ll takes her, trying to pose her outside the hospital.
But that’s all I know so far, really. I mean, I think maybe he finds out the real reason she’s there, and maybe, whatever the truth is, it’s much better and much worse than he ever could’ve imagined. Maybe she starts speaking, and she tells him her deep, dark secret, and turns out she’s really not crazy at all, and he wants to help her escape or to run away with her. I don’t know, maybe he thinks she’ll love him, that she could love him, and finds out that she can’t; she’ll never love him, and that’s why he keeps taking her pictures, knowing he’s capturing her, frame by frame.
Like in the movie New World, about Pocahontas, and Christian Bale’s character is the good guy, like the one good white guy in the new world, and they end up getting married, and he keeps trying to love her, even though he knows she’s always going to be in love with Colin Farrell, who’s a total dick to her. I mean, he just takes off, can’t commit, same old story, right. And in the end, Pocahontas finally figures that out and she wants to be with Christian Bale and realizes how much she loves him, but then she dies, and that’s the end. So you’re like, Well, that sucks. Guess it’s true, though, that nice guys finish last, especially in the time of tuberculosis. Anyhow.
I was thinking about calling the story Ambrotype, but I’m thinking I’ll just call it Sepia, because it’s easier, I think. Still, I thought it could be a really beautiful period piece, but it could also be about modern photography and all the things we deal with today, becoming obsessed with people we don’t even know just because we have a picture of them in our hands or on our desktop. I felt kind of like, I don’t know, like it could actually work, and I just kept writing everything that came to mind. So one night, I took a break and I went into the kitchen to get something to drink, and my mom looked up at me, smiling, sitting at the kitchen table, and I don’t know why, but I told her my idea.
She asked what I’d been up to, and I said, Hold on, I’ll show you, and ran to my room and got our sketchbook and took it back to the kitchen. Things had been so stressful, and I wanted, I just wanted it to be like it used to be, when I’d show her my drawings, my pictures. I knew it hurt her a little at Christmas, when I gave Karen her present first, and that Mom feels like Karen and I shared things that she and I don’t. And it’s true, I share a lot more with Karen. But I think that’s exactly because she’s not my mom, you know?
That’s an amazing idea, Thee, she said. How’s it start?
Like this, I said, sitting down and opening to the first page; turned the sketchbook so she could see the drawing. It looked like clouds, but it’s actually steam, you see? I said. Well, I think it should start, like the credits start with one of the patients, sitting in a chair, sitting still, staring at the audience. Someone attractive or striking, you know, not one of those crazy men or women without front teeth and just, you know, scary. Because the thing is, I said, turning the page: steam, steam, steam, I said. But back then, you’d have to sit still for five, ten minutes, even, for Daguerrotypes. Like they had neck braces and all this equipment to keep people from moving, because it was so expensive, and you’d have to sit perfectly still for such a long time, right.
Braces? she asked, balking.
Yes, I said, nodding. At one point, I was thinking of circling the camera around, showing the metal braces from behind the sitting models, so you’d feel how uncomfortable it was, just having your picture taken, like the things people were willing to do, but anyhow. Credits don’t take ten minutes, but like a good three, four minutes of this person staring at you, while the names appear in really fine print, you know, like old-fashioned handwriting, and then, at the end of the credits, the model finally blinks, and then a flash goes off, and then there’s a cloud of smoke. And then, I don’t know, maybe cut to another cloud of smoke, when a train stops at the station, and the photographer gets off, carrying all his equipment, all these leather bags and ancient tripods . . . Cam will know how to make it work, I said. He always knows how to fill in the blanks—I mean, that’s geometry, right?
She smiled, not saying anything, and I had to smile, thinking how Cam always says, You’re color, kid, and I’m play-by-play. That’s how we worked as a team, like baseball announcers, you know. One was technical, one was colorful, entertaining. And I liked being color, too.
How’s it end? Mom said, propping her chin with hand. She looked genuinely interested. No, that’s not fair: she’s always interested.
I don’t know yet. But it’s fifty-fifty, you know: it’s going to go one way or the other, I said, and then who walks through the door, right in the middle of the story?
Hey, Raymond said, strolling in, and I just rolled my eyes. Raymond is a human wet blanket. I’m sorry, I’ll just never like the guy. At most, we’ll live and let live, but it’d be so much easier if he go live somewhere else.
Hey, Mom said, smiling, and then he leaned over to kiss her, and I had to turn away, thinking, Is that really necessary?
Hey, Thee, he said.
Hay, I said.
Don’t let me interrupt, he said, heading for the fridge.
Easier said than done, I said, under my breath, and Mom cocked her head at me, even though I don’t think Raymond heard, because he’d already grabbed a beer and was fishing for a bottle opener in the silverware drawer. Mom kept looking at me, though, telling me to watch myself, because Ray’d been behaving lately. She kept saying he’d been trying to be supportive of us, and I was like, I don’t want his support. Anyhow.
Thea, tell Ray your movie idea, tell him about the script you’re writing, she said, and I just looked at her, like, Why do you say that? That was private: this is why I don’t tell you anything, because for some strange reason, you think you have to tell Raymond, who never even gets it and would have me spend the rest of my life painting acrylic flowers and orange sunsets and setting up a stall, selling my paintings in malls. It’s such a great idea, Thea, tell him, she said, not giving me any choice.
I sighed out loud, and I said, I have an idea about a photographer in the 1860’s who falls in love with a girl in this insane asylum in Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia, and he’s commissioned to photograph and then he steals her soul because she doesn’t love him back. Or maybe not. Maybe he breaks all the plates, killing her, but freeing her soul, I’m not sure yet.
Wait, a little girl? he asked, furrowing his brow, before tilting his head way back, taking a drink.
A young woman, I said, trying not to clench my jaw so tight I’d never be able to open it again.
This is a movie idea? he said, opening the cupboard and taking out the round can of beer nuts.
Yes, I said. It’s a movie script for a movie, Ray. By the way, did you wash your hands? I asked, watching him shove his hand in the tin and gulp down another mouthful.
Thea, Mom said.
Well, if you ask me, he said, and I was just like, Actually, no, I didn’t, Ray. I never ask you, as a matter of fact, in case you haven’t noticed. If you ask me, he said, you better cure the girl, he said, downing a handful of beer nuts, and taking a seat at the table.
I wasn’t asking you, actually, I said, and my mom cocked her head again.
I’m just saying, it’s a little twisted, is all. Really, who wants to hear about a love story that takes place in a nut house? he said, grabbing another handful of salted peanuts.
Whatever, I said, slapping my notebook shut, and then I got up and left the room. Of course my mom called after me, telling me to come back, and I ignored her, heading for my room, and slamming my door as quietly as I could get away with without being scolded about slamming my door. I mean, I was having a good talk with her, with my mom, and it’s like Raymond has to walk in every time, and it’s just like, Ugh. I can’t stand you.
Anyhow, I fell on top of my bed and opened up to the page again, with the picture of trees, the pictures of everything she sees in her silent world, all the beauty in her mind, no matter what everyone takes for darkness. And I wasn’t kidding, either, you know. Think about it: everyone calls it crazy love. What better place to set a love story than an insane asylum?