time to take photographs for yourself, what will you have to show when there is a chance for an exhibit?” I asked.
“Wet blanket. There’s always Sunday. I’ll get up earlier, take some photographs before I go to the studio.”
“And when will I see you?”
“Nora, the vacation is over. Remember, Berenice Abbott worked for Man for three years and learned enough to open her own studio. And she didn’t know anything about photography when she started! To be an assistant to Man Ray . . . that’s the beginning of a real career.”
Lee, too, was working, modeling for Paris Vogue , gowns by Patou, day costumes by Chanel. As the discovery and protégée of Condé Nast himself, Lee could get modeling work whenever she wanted. But it wasn’t all about connections, not with Lee. There was her beauty to recommend her, that startling cap of blond hair, the slender legginess that would make even a hopsack dress look elegant. And she had personality; it showed even in photographs.
One particularly stunning photo I remember from that time shows Lee in a floor-length sleeveless black dress with a neckline cut almost to the waist and a big flower pinned on it. She leans against a wall, staring at something the viewer can’t see, and her expression is one of impatience and discontent. Because of the angle of the shot, her shadow on the wall behind her shows a seemingly different posture, straighter, more formal. It was as if Lee and her own shadow lived two different lives. Duality. There was the Lee you saw, and the secret Lee you could not see. The Lee you knew, and the Lee no one would ever really know.
Lovely women were a dime a dozen, but Lee knew how to hold back, to make the viewer want and need more of her. It was this very quality that drove Man, possessive and insecure, mad. Lee could not be contained, controlled, or even embraced for very long, and the more she evaded you, the more you tried to pin her down.
Lee was already tired of modeling, though, of being the object of fantasy for men who desired her, and for women who wanted her face, her figure. But the Depression was cutting into Man’s portrait work and they needed the money Lee earned.
She took me to one of her modeling sessions at Paris Vogue (she called it P’rogue , of course, just as Poughkeepsie was P’oke, as if all situations could be reduced to a single syllable). The photographer was Huene, a wild-haired Estonian with an accent so thick you could spread it on bread. He obviously adored Lee. He barked orders at everyone else, but with Lee he was polite, even obsequious. “Lean back a little more, darling. No, the smile is too big. Mystery, mystery. Lift up the elbow a little, dearest, turn—sideways.”
When his back was turned, Lee would make faces at him, then return to her stonelike stance in a split second. The Estonian could never figure out what I was laughing at. He probably thought I was simpleminded.
“Take a photo of my friend,” she said, near the end of the session.
“Too short. No legs,” the Estonian said.
“Spoilsport. She’s smallish but well proportioned,” Lee argued. “I’ll fix the hem, you’ll see, she’ll look fine.”
Without asking my opinion or permission, Lee selected a gown from the rack, a red silk jersey with a plunging neckline. “Put it on,” she said. “Quick, quick.” She found a pair of high heels that added four inches of height, and then took three books from the bookcase.(They had been shooting at-home loungewear, and so had created a kind of library in the studio.) “Stand on these,” she said. “I’ll drape the gown over them.”
This is what it feels like to have a camera pointed at you, to know that others will see that picture and judge everything about you, to the smallest detail: miserable. I couldn’t smile properly. “Too many teeth!” the Estonian groaned. I couldn’t pose naturally. “She looks like she has a backache,” he complained to Lee.
“How do you do
“Wet blanket. There’s always Sunday. I’ll get up earlier, take some photographs before I go to the studio.”
“And when will I see you?”
“Nora, the vacation is over. Remember, Berenice Abbott worked for Man for three years and learned enough to open her own studio. And she didn’t know anything about photography when she started! To be an assistant to Man Ray . . . that’s the beginning of a real career.”
Lee, too, was working, modeling for Paris Vogue , gowns by Patou, day costumes by Chanel. As the discovery and protégée of Condé Nast himself, Lee could get modeling work whenever she wanted. But it wasn’t all about connections, not with Lee. There was her beauty to recommend her, that startling cap of blond hair, the slender legginess that would make even a hopsack dress look elegant. And she had personality; it showed even in photographs.
One particularly stunning photo I remember from that time shows Lee in a floor-length sleeveless black dress with a neckline cut almost to the waist and a big flower pinned on it. She leans against a wall, staring at something the viewer can’t see, and her expression is one of impatience and discontent. Because of the angle of the shot, her shadow on the wall behind her shows a seemingly different posture, straighter, more formal. It was as if Lee and her own shadow lived two different lives. Duality. There was the Lee you saw, and the secret Lee you could not see. The Lee you knew, and the Lee no one would ever really know.
Lovely women were a dime a dozen, but Lee knew how to hold back, to make the viewer want and need more of her. It was this very quality that drove Man, possessive and insecure, mad. Lee could not be contained, controlled, or even embraced for very long, and the more she evaded you, the more you tried to pin her down.
Lee was already tired of modeling, though, of being the object of fantasy for men who desired her, and for women who wanted her face, her figure. But the Depression was cutting into Man’s portrait work and they needed the money Lee earned.
She took me to one of her modeling sessions at Paris Vogue (she called it P’rogue , of course, just as Poughkeepsie was P’oke, as if all situations could be reduced to a single syllable). The photographer was Huene, a wild-haired Estonian with an accent so thick you could spread it on bread. He obviously adored Lee. He barked orders at everyone else, but with Lee he was polite, even obsequious. “Lean back a little more, darling. No, the smile is too big. Mystery, mystery. Lift up the elbow a little, dearest, turn—sideways.”
When his back was turned, Lee would make faces at him, then return to her stonelike stance in a split second. The Estonian could never figure out what I was laughing at. He probably thought I was simpleminded.
“Take a photo of my friend,” she said, near the end of the session.
“Too short. No legs,” the Estonian said.
“Spoilsport. She’s smallish but well proportioned,” Lee argued. “I’ll fix the hem, you’ll see, she’ll look fine.”
Without asking my opinion or permission, Lee selected a gown from the rack, a red silk jersey with a plunging neckline. “Put it on,” she said. “Quick, quick.” She found a pair of high heels that added four inches of height, and then took three books from the bookcase.(They had been shooting at-home loungewear, and so had created a kind of library in the studio.) “Stand on these,” she said. “I’ll drape the gown over them.”
This is what it feels like to have a camera pointed at you, to know that others will see that picture and judge everything about you, to the smallest detail: miserable. I couldn’t smile properly. “Too many teeth!” the Estonian groaned. I couldn’t pose naturally. “She looks like she has a backache,” he complained to Lee.
“How do you do
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