Photo -- excerpt

Photo

“I don’t like taking photos trying to figure out what someone else wants them to look like,” he says.

I don’t like having my photos taken, trying to figure out who someone else wants me to be, I mentally respond.

One Saturday night at midnight, I accompany him around Logan to work on night shots for a photography project. It’s an October night, and the air bites every inch of exposed skin and seeps into the pores of our faces and our clothes.

Our first stop: Rendezvous Park, west of the train tracks just outside the city limits. We follow the fog to the river. He tosses me an LED flashlight and unfolds his tripod. Opening the lens to expose the film, he glances at his watch. “Start waving it back and forth,” he says. So I wave. For twenty-five minutes. We scan light across the water to ensure the film doesn’t turn out as black as the night.

From the park, we drive to the bridge that crosses the Logan River. Climbing down to the banks, he sets up his tripod. Somehow, he knew it would be beautiful down here. Fog dances along the water that passes underneath the bridge’s belly. A streetlamp sends a streak across the stream. I close my eyes to shield them from the sting of the breeze. When I open them, I watch our swirling breath curl like squirming toes. It’s freezing out, and I can feel myself getting sick, but I stay anyway.

After a series of shots on the west side of the bridge, we cross the road. A yellow sunflower shimmers under the streetlight, sprouting solitarily from a split in the sidewalk. The fog kisses its smooth petals as it sways in the wind. He lays it across the railing of the bridge and snaps a few photos; shadows accent the condensation that glistens like sweat on its yellow limbs. Now, it sits on my dresser in the same pose he laid it across the bridge. It isn’t as beautiful as it was when it sparkled under the soft streetlight, but I can see it glitter just the same.

Descending to the riverbanks, branches scratch at our faces and dying weeds crunch under our feet. Leaning over the water, he squints and bites his lip. He squats down and dips his finger in the river. “I’m getting in,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Don’t worry, it’s not cold or anything.”

“It might be a good shot, and I won’t be able to get it from here.”

Shaking my head, I watch him slip off his shoes. The swish of his socks sliding off sends shivers up my spine and my toes tingle just imagining the freezing river. I cringe as he wades into water. Looking through the viewfinder, his eyes crinkle with crow’s feet and a dimple forms as he finds the focus. For some reason, I wish I could take a photo of him like this.

“It’s not going to work out,” he says as he tiptoes back to the bank to put his socks and shoes on.

By now, it’s 3:30 in the morning and the only thing keeping me awake is the cold. He needs one more shot, so we drive to Second Dam in Logan Canyon. My toes are numb now, so I stay in the car while he sets up the shot. He climbs back into the car and turns on the heater. It’s going to be a while; he wants an hour-long exposure this time. We get as comfortable as possible and wait. The music spills like silk from the speakers and jumbled thoughts tumble like laundry in my head.

If this is a photo, my heart sits soaking inside the wash bath. His hand covers mine, but our fingers don’t lock. My hand rests on his chest, but on the right side where his heart isn’t. I look at him, but he stares out the window. I reach for the wash bath, but I’m not going to take my heart out yet. Not for him.

Flipping through his negatives, I see photos from that night. Some underexposed, some overexposed, but he keeps every single one of them. Small mistakes give so much substance to each shot. Imperfections are honest; they are beautiful. I am not in the photos, but I don’t hate or love them for it. I don’t have anything to hide anymore, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to waste my time trying to hide something as becoming as a blemish. I enjoy my lopsided smile and the collage of freckles on my shoulders. I appreciate my lack of subtlety, my emotional excess, and my inability to wear my heart under my sleeve.