is, close-up, closer up than she has ever been before. It’s one of the images she’s never seen. How old is she, perhaps seven? It is summer—she can tell by the waviness of her hair—and she is lying on a braided rug, her hair spread all around her. Clara remembers the rug; it smelled of lemons and dog hair and was soft from a thousand washings. How can she remember the rug but not the photograph?
A black paper sash runs across the middle of the mock-up. CLARA. Just her name, nothing more—each letter cut out from the black paper. The design is brilliant; she sees this even now. The sash can be removed so that only the image of the little girl remains. And the name CLARA itself—her own name!—is an absence rather than a presence. Cut out. Each letter an empty hole in the blackness.
“What do you think of it?” asks Ruth.
“You can’t do this,” says Clara.
“What do you mean? It’s already—”
“I won’t let you do this,” Clara says, more forcefully.
Ruth has managed to sit up now and has shoved two pillows behind her. She looks at Clara indulgently, as if she were an adorable but misguided child.
“Oh, Clara,” she begins, “it’s my work. It’s not about you—it was never about you.”
“That’s bullshit! Of course it’s about me—it is me!”
“You’ve refused to understand this,” says Ruth. “Light, shadow, texture—the pictures are scenes, compositions—”
“You stole me away from myself!” Clara digs her nails into the soft flesh of her palm, willing herself to stop—but there is no stopping. Not at this point.
Ruth doesn’t react. She just takes it all in, wishing—Clara is certain—that she had a camera in her hand. Even now, she is framing her subject: her grown daughter, face contorted by outrage, sitting in the old wing chair with a pile of photographs on her lap.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth says, sounding anything but. “I wish you weren’t still so worked up about all this. It’s ancient history. How can it possibly matter?”
Clara is crying now. For such a long time—all her adult life, really—it has been difficult for her to muster tears. She has moved past her feelings as if they were scenery seen from a moving car. Anger, sadness, regret, loneliness—she kept going, and her painful thoughts remained stationary, like dusty signs on a road. But all Ruth has to do is…to be Ruth. Ever since first arriving in New York, Clara has felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She has sprung a slow leak.
“It matters,” she says. “How can you not understand that it matters? I’ve been trying—” She breaks off, gulping for air.
“Oh, Clara, please, you must—”
“You stop.” Clara finds her breath. “You stop this right now.”
Ruth shakes her head.
The phone rings again. KUBOVY WEISS . Ruth reaches for the receiver but doesn’t have the strength. She collapses back against her pillows, breathless even from that small effort.
“Could you answer that for me, Clara?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Clara!”
There’s that feeling again—unfamiliar, both terrifying and liberating. If Clara had to describe it, she would say it is a complete lack of caution. The sudden improbable removal—as if surgically excised—of a key aspect of her careful, guarded nature.
“Fine,” she says. Her body is coiled, tense, like an animal ready to spring. She grabs the ringing phone.
“Hello, Kubovy.”
A split second of silence on the other end.
“Is that Clara?”
“Yes, Kubovy. It’s Clara.”
“How are you, my beauty?”
“I’ve been better.” And then, in a rush of words—“Kubovy, this book you’re doing with my mother. Please think—think about what you’re doing.”
Another pause, slightly longer than the last. Even as a little girl, Clara imagined Kubovy’s mind as a calculator. Always computing, adding or subtracting, finding a way to make the equation work to his advantage.
“I can’t accept it.”
A black paper sash runs across the middle of the mock-up. CLARA. Just her name, nothing more—each letter cut out from the black paper. The design is brilliant; she sees this even now. The sash can be removed so that only the image of the little girl remains. And the name CLARA itself—her own name!—is an absence rather than a presence. Cut out. Each letter an empty hole in the blackness.
“What do you think of it?” asks Ruth.
“You can’t do this,” says Clara.
“What do you mean? It’s already—”
“I won’t let you do this,” Clara says, more forcefully.
Ruth has managed to sit up now and has shoved two pillows behind her. She looks at Clara indulgently, as if she were an adorable but misguided child.
“Oh, Clara,” she begins, “it’s my work. It’s not about you—it was never about you.”
“That’s bullshit! Of course it’s about me—it is me!”
“You’ve refused to understand this,” says Ruth. “Light, shadow, texture—the pictures are scenes, compositions—”
“You stole me away from myself!” Clara digs her nails into the soft flesh of her palm, willing herself to stop—but there is no stopping. Not at this point.
Ruth doesn’t react. She just takes it all in, wishing—Clara is certain—that she had a camera in her hand. Even now, she is framing her subject: her grown daughter, face contorted by outrage, sitting in the old wing chair with a pile of photographs on her lap.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth says, sounding anything but. “I wish you weren’t still so worked up about all this. It’s ancient history. How can it possibly matter?”
Clara is crying now. For such a long time—all her adult life, really—it has been difficult for her to muster tears. She has moved past her feelings as if they were scenery seen from a moving car. Anger, sadness, regret, loneliness—she kept going, and her painful thoughts remained stationary, like dusty signs on a road. But all Ruth has to do is…to be Ruth. Ever since first arriving in New York, Clara has felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She has sprung a slow leak.
“It matters,” she says. “How can you not understand that it matters? I’ve been trying—” She breaks off, gulping for air.
“Oh, Clara, please, you must—”
“You stop.” Clara finds her breath. “You stop this right now.”
Ruth shakes her head.
The phone rings again. KUBOVY WEISS . Ruth reaches for the receiver but doesn’t have the strength. She collapses back against her pillows, breathless even from that small effort.
“Could you answer that for me, Clara?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Clara!”
There’s that feeling again—unfamiliar, both terrifying and liberating. If Clara had to describe it, she would say it is a complete lack of caution. The sudden improbable removal—as if surgically excised—of a key aspect of her careful, guarded nature.
“Fine,” she says. Her body is coiled, tense, like an animal ready to spring. She grabs the ringing phone.
“Hello, Kubovy.”
A split second of silence on the other end.
“Is that Clara?”
“Yes, Kubovy. It’s Clara.”
“How are you, my beauty?”
“I’ve been better.” And then, in a rush of words—“Kubovy, this book you’re doing with my mother. Please think—think about what you’re doing.”
Another pause, slightly longer than the last. Even as a little girl, Clara imagined Kubovy’s mind as a calculator. Always computing, adding or subtracting, finding a way to make the equation work to his advantage.
“I can’t accept it.”
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