Fresh Ink

This section of our site showcases original work by class members of the Weekly Santa Fe Writing Workshop. For questions about attendance, format, fees and other arrangements, contact Sarah directly. You can also contact Sarah for permission to publish or reprint any story on Fresh Ink.

the photographer of women
by lisa oberteuffer

He began by shooting anything that didn't move, but he soon discovered that women were more accessible than mountaintops, and more aesthetically pleasing than fruit. And he flattered himself that he had an affinity with his subject: his portrait of a leading industrialist's wife in the style of Leonardo da Vinci had garnered a doting review from the art critic of the local paper.

He became so popular because of this that for several months he did nothing but portrait after portrait of the city's leading ladies and their daughters. This gave him a kind of mild phobia about teeth, and when the commissions finally waned and he was free to go back to his own work, he began to do more abstract compositions, cutting out the head entirely.

A friend at the developer's office, flicking through another sleeve of negatives, commented that the drapery aspect was a little overdone, and this made him take another look at the show he was putting together. He took the weekend off and drove to the coast, where he parked his car and walked up and down the deserted winter beach, ignoring the waves; and when he came back, he delayed the show for two weeks and began to work with nudes.

The critics, who had also found the drapery aspect a little overdone, packed the opening and in between bouts at the open bar and the hors d'oeuvres table, pumped his hand vigorously and congratulated him on his exquisite use of form and line. Pudenda and aureolae gleamed in silver gelatin from the walls.

But he dreamed at night of the Venus de Milo, with a mocking smile on her blind face; and he began a series of sepia-toned prints entitled "Dora's Hand." The fingernails started to disturb him, and he found there was nothing to do but focus elsewhere.

He bought a zoom lens and began to do close-ups. between Christmas and Easter, he had two well-received shows, totaling one hundred and thirty-four prints, entirely variations on that area between the navel and the line where pubic hair begins to grow. He was pleased with himself and felt that his work was really beginning to show some promise. The critics were beside themselves with praise.

He published a monograph entitled "Vein," and the director of the modern art museum invited him to do a series of lectures on Sunday evenings. He felt almost drunk with creativity, giddy with success.

And then one day it all ended. It was at the occasion of the permanent installation of a number of his "classics" (signed, limited editions) at the museum. No-one remembered the woman afterwards, but amid the chat and clink of wine glasses, there was a sudden flash and the noise of something breaking. It was assumed to be a member of the press, at first, until the photographer screamed.

The doctors were optimistic about saving one and perhaps both eyes, but they couldn't say how his sight would be. The critics competed to turn out the most eulogistic account of the tragedy, pawing through press files for full-page photographs to run. In the hospital, the photographer awoke behind bandages and requested a pair of gloves.

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