The Woman in the Photograph by Dana Gynther Page B

take this slow, make it last. For the last month or so, she’d been so preoccupied and confused—about their relationship, the move, work—that her lovemaking had become quick and mechanical. Not tonight. Her newfound independence made her feel even closer to him, generous and happy.
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    Lee stood smiling in front of Man’s studio door, her portfolio under her arm. She was trying to decide whether to ring or use her key, wondering which would surprise him more. She’d been in her own place for two weeks now and, although they still saw each other every day, they were enjoying each other more than ever. It was like starting all over again.
    Having her own space and a private darkroom had also boosted her creative energy and made her more experimental. Cityscapes or pretty postcard pictures didn’t interest her; Lee looked for unusual images, bizarre contrasts. Quietly taking everything in, she meandered around Paris neighborhoods with her camera, a dreamscape naturalist looking for unrecorded specimens; using her viewfinder as a microscope, she framed the shots to make new discoveries. A blob of tar seemingly crawling toward a man’s well-shod feet; a mysterious walkway shrinking into a tunnel. She loved playing with light, form, and technique, making her own mistakes, choices, and decisions. When she was pleased with an image, however, she would run to Man’s studio to show him, still keen on her mentor’s praise.
    She turned the key and opened the door, calling, “Mr. Man Raaaay! Delivery!”
    He poked his head out of the kitchen, trying not to smile. “Whatcha got, bub?”
    â€œFresh bearded clam! The best of the season.”
    â€œGive me all you got.” He pulled her toward him and kissed her. “Hey, what’ve you really got here?” He slid the portfolio out from under her arm. “New pictures?”
    â€œJust one.”
    Snuggled together on the sofa, he opened the portfolio with playful ceremony. But when he looked down at the print, his mouth fell open. “Wow.” In it, a woman’s hand appeared to explode as it touched a doorknob. “Let me get my glasses.” He examined the photo carefully. “I see. That flash is caused by all the little scratches on the glass door. The lighting is just right.” He nodded at her. “I’m impressed, kid. It’s a fabulous shot of a Surrealist image. You’ve done your old man proud.”
    â€œThanks, honey,” said Lee, bubbling with self-satisfaction. “I took a whole roll of the windows at the parfumerie Guerlain. The Art Nouveau glasswork, the reflections of the street lamps and clouds on the perfume bottles. It was all shit. It wasn’t until a woman was leaving the shop that I saw the hand explode. She was pleased to pose.” Lee grinned at the shot. “Lucky for me she was wearing that bell-shaped sleeve. Makes it look like a witch’s hand. Like she’s casting a spell and sending out sparks.”
    The doorbell buzzed; Lee looked at Man.
    â€œThat’s Breton.” He put the photo on the table and stood up. “I’m taking his portrait this morning. He wants a formal shot for the back cover of his new book.”
    Lee lit a cigarette as Man disappeared into the hall. She was no longer intimidated by André Breton or the other Surrealists.After meeting them another time or two, she found them pleasant enough—and some quite charming, attentive, or flirtatious—but had long realized that none of them were interested in her opinions. To them, she was not one of their fellows, but Man Ray’s muse: his inspiration, his well from which to draw creativity, his. And these men generally preferred their muses to be quiet and submissive, not equals with whom to discuss their projects or exchange ideas. Lee was always intrigued by the new work they brought round the studio, the mysterious canvases,