CAPTURE

*Capture*


SO, you think that just because you have this picture of me, that you have a piece of me?
Mistaken!
You have a temporary image of me; one that will fade with time and the ravages of light on chemically treated paper
I don’t really understand why you wanted the picture in the first place. You should already have a thousand memories of me to draw on while we go off on our separate assignments
You know, my father was a photographer, just like you.
All my life, from the time I was about three or four, I was the live-in captive subject for all my father’s pictures. It’s amazing I’m even here with you. You’d think I’d seen enough flashes, heard enough clicks, smelled enough chemicals, bought enough film. How could I ever get involved with another shutter-bug?
CLICK.
“Turn this way. No, to the right just a little more.”
CLICK
“Hold that pose.”
CLICk!
“Have to do something with your hair.”
CLICK
“Put on this dress, and come back downstairs.”
CLICK
“You look spectacular.”
CLICk!
“We’d better hurry. We’re losing the light.”
CLICK\
“Just one more shot.”
CLICK
“Smile.”
CLICK
First bike.
CLICK
First library visit.
CLICK
First car.
CLICK
Notice, as I did, that there was none of the usual father-daughter conversations.
“Need help with your homework, Dana?”
“How was softball practice, Dana”
“Let me see that report card again, please. I can’t believe it.” “Your mom says you’ve got a boyfriend.”
I guess his camera shots were meant to take the place of words.
Well, they didn’t.
For eighteen years I lived my life in the pages of photo albums.
Is it any wonder I don’t have any here? I have no interest in reliving the past, looking at what I was, where I’ve been, or any of that shit. Thanks, but no thanks.
Of course, I work with photographers now. (Must be a genetic thing.)
But I don’t point and shoot.
I don’t care about shutter speeds.
I don’t look at light meters.
My job—and I’m good at it—is arranging the details.
To me is left the itinerary of the models the magazines request, their lodging, their travel, their desires, their fetishes, their eccentricities.
I never attend the shoots. Too many bad memories of being nothing more than immovable, bendable, transformable statue. I can’t watch those who voluntarily submit to it.
It makes me want to scream.
Smile?
I don’t think so!
What if I don’t feel like it, Dad?
What if I’m having a bad day, Dad?
What if I just found out I’m not going to summer camp, like all my classmates,
Dad?
What if I have Chicken Pox, Dad? (But of course, he documented that, too. Just like the rest of my young life.)
But I never said no.—to my Dad.
Not to anyone.
But I do, now. To you.
No!
And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?
I had someone capturing seemingly every instant of my life—at least “the important moments,” as Dad used to say, trying to soothe my emerging rebellions.
First lost tooth: Dad caught it on film, before the tooth fairy could bring me a quarter.
CLICK
First communion: Dad used up a whole roll—thirty-six pictures of virtually the same shot.
Sixth grade graduation.
CLICK
Junior high, complete with his “boy-crazy pictures. Can you imagine? He followed me on my first ten dates! Not to protect my virtue, he just wanted to document the event, the passage of his only daughter from childhood to adolescence. I finally managed to lose him, darting into and out of shops, slipping out a back door I think was the trick that succeeded where everything else failed.
CLICK
On film, he had my first attempts at makeup,
First date. He embarrassed Jordan, my next door neighbor, after he had worked up the courage to ask me out when I was thirteen. It took weeks to convince him my whole family wasn’t that eccentric.
Junior prom.
Senior prom.
High school graduation.
Each stage of my life, no matter how I tried, I couldn’t escape the flash-bulb-wielding, camera-loving, film-freak father of mine.
CLICK, CLICK, CLICK!
Don’t we have enough memories? Mental pictures we can draw on, look at, relive, in the privacy of the mind, where no one else can edit, revise, rearrange?
CLICK
ON THE BEACH: you and I waiting for the sun to sink into the sea. We stayed, even as the rest of the tan-seeking crowd disappeared. We wrapped ourselves in those cobalt-blue towels you got for Christmas, to keep off the cold. And we were there when the sun finally swallowed the sun for another day.
And the sun-burn we got for the effort, remember?
CLICK
ROCK.-CLIMBING: we worked our way up the rock-face, bruising our legs, scraping our hands, all the way to the top. Then we rappelled our way back down, our canteens bone-dry by the time we touched firm ground. Our matching His & Hers T-shirts were plastered to our bodies. And we made dibs on who got to shower first when we got back home.
Racing for the car, eager for the air-conditioning to cool our overworked bodies, our legs ached with every stride, and our arms hung at our side, barely functional.
CLICK
AT THE LIBRARY: you have your nose in the periodicals, looking up whatever information you can scavenge on the origins of baseball. Meanwhile, I’m scanning through the library’s selection of videos for the evening’s entertainment.
Meanwhile, those who get up late on Saturdays begin straggling in, and the library no longer is our personal kingdom. Without a word, we both decide to leave.
CLICK
DOING LAUNDRY: we work together, digging through the mounds of laundry that have overtaken our small bedroom. Underwear and socks fly a short distance, forming a new pile—the first-to-be-washed things; jeans and towels go airborne into the hallway—Next Clean Thing
Our hands touch as we work, this one free day of the week when we’re both free. Sometimes the touch is accidental, sometimes gentle, sometimes jarring.
Hour by hour, we excavate more floor, reacquainting ourselves with carpet—we really have it!
After hours of washing, drying, re-sorting and putting away, we collapse before the idiot box, a video already in the player from last night.
We’re not too tired for some things. Our clothes grow another pile on the floor—and we’ll only have to put things away in the morning.
CLICK
MAKING DINNER you make the spaghetti, while I make the salad.
The radio plays our favorite oldies station. This isn’t the music we grew up on, but it’s a compromise between your taste for jazz and my country. We find our common ground, sing along with songs as we prepare dinner.
We have friends coming over, and things should be just right. The wines in the fridge, the garlic bread is almost ready. The sauce is simmering, and the spaghetti is almost done.
And the dessert: neither one of us could resist German chocolate cake. Our joint-effort. We licked the spoons we used, the mixer blades, in the bowl. There’s never enough chocolate!
And when our friends, Jodi and Jann arrive, we set the table, light the candles, bring out the wine, and begin the evening’s series of silly toasts.
This isn’t an “occasion,” but an excuse for the pretty tablecloth to see the light of candles, a reason for bringing out the wine, a justification for fun after a week gone by in which we barely saw each other except in passing. You leaving for work, as I get ready for bed. I leaving for my current job while you start your daily landing cycle—reading the paper thoroughly before bed.
And so, the friends, the candles, the wine, the dinner, and the chocolate!
CLICK
READING THE PAPER: I always want the comics first. We both recognize I need my daily smile before I can face the deluge of news, gray and black. And you: the weather. For some reason I’ve never learned to understand, you don’t trust the weatherman on the 11:00 news, choosing to read about it before facing it in the morning.
World News follows. You need the newest topics boiling over, even if you can’t do anything about it. You just “need to know.”
We don’t waste energy with the TV or radio while we read. We share the silence, nibbling on waffles come fresh from the toaster-oven.
And when we finished, discarding the sections of the paper, which interest neither one of us, we move the morning’s refuse to the fireplace. In winter, morning proceeds with a fire. In summer, we take the paper to be recycled.
CLICK
SHOPPING: we have such different tastes. You like your vegetables, picking zucchini, carrots, lettuce, green beans and corn. I gather the bread, the morning muffins, the apples and bananas. We each have our own system, prioritizing what we need. Working separately, we seek out the items on our divided list. When we finish, we’ll meet in the middle of the store, one last chance to check for anything we missed.
CLICK
PLAYING THE FLUTE: I practice every day, knowing that you are an invisible audience. You’re just out of sight, rattling dishes in the kitchen as I work out the kinks in my newest composition.
The space between artist and analyst is a respectful but bridgeable distance. You don’t disturb me in my moment of artistic ecstasy, and I leave you alone to balance the checkbook, or do someone’s taxes.
Sweet notes ascend to the ceiling as I finish my day s work. I put my flute away, handling it lovingly, the vehicle of my joy. I energize myself as I entertain you with my repetitions. It amazes me that I don’t bore you with the number of times I run through my sequence of songs. Hour on hour of practice, for concerts you’re at work and can’t attend. But you don’t need to.
CLICK
PLAYING BASKETBALL: we begin a friendly game of HORSE at the neighborhood middle school. At first, the shots are easy--lay-ups, close-in jump-shots, free-throws--but our competitive juices begin flowing, the shots become more difficult, the attempts to outdo grow more outrageous, until I win with a half-court, single-handed hook.
You can’t match it.
Exhausted, we retreat to a doughnut shop to lick our wounds, so salve our egos, and share a laugh at the extents to which we went to win.
CLICK
LEARNING TO LINE-DANCE: you and I, the only two in the line, practicing before our bedroom mirror, with the instructional video to guide us. Remember how many times we tripped over each other? Those first few steps were so hard to memorize. How many hours before we moved without any thought of where our feet were supposed to be?
CLICK
RIDING BICYCLES: dressed in our matching sweatshirts, inscribed with His Buddy, and Her Buddy, we would ride through the streets, early enough to observe the sunrise, on those days when we’re both paroled form work.
In the cold of the morning, when everyone else we know is still sawing logs, dreaming of a boss’s beheading.
We pedal our way through foothills to UCLA, then to the beach, where we both get red as lobsters from sunburn.
CLICK
MARKING TERRITORY: as if we’re animals, we let the other know where they can trespass, and where they can’t.
On my side of the room, the clothes are tossed whimsically. I promise you repeatedly that I’ll get around to folding them up, putting them away. But I never do.
Perhaps it’s because I never feel comfortable with too much order. There’s enough of that in my life as it is.
On your side of the room, things are neatly folded, put away in their assigned drawer, or hung up neatly. We are a study in contrasts. If, as they say, opposites attract, is it any wonder we’re together?
Our first apartment. How did we live in such a small studio—tell me that. With the sliding-glass door that served as our front door, where we had to go out and buy the darkest curtains we could find to keep the world from peeping.
And then the move to this place. Boxing up those first collections of “stuff” we’d collected in eighteen months. Scrambling for transportation—this was before we came into the money we’ve accumulated. (How many weeks did it take us to unpack, making this feel like a home, not a warehouse or a self-storage unit?
The furniture in the living room we agreed on, the curtains, the dining-room table, the cuckoo clock, the silverware, and everything we own, we own together.
Memory one million and one.
CLICK CLICK CLICK
And what about the days when we were hired? Two days apart. The exaltation and relief of knowing we can make a living after college.
You went to your interview with Modern Treasure, first, then came home with Bailey’s Irish Cream to celebrate.
Two days later, it was my turn to bring the goodies, to jump for joy in my new suit—bought for the occasion. New Rainbow West said “Yes”, I couldn’t believe it!
We started making our plans for a life after student poverty. All the things we wanted but could never have.
Lists. We wrote down all the things, trying to prioritize in which order we would make our purchases with our paychecks, allowing for deductions for taxes and expenses—like rent.
Memory one million and one!

Just think about all those fingerprints, and those of any stranger who picks it up when it inevitably falls out of your wallet.
In the interlude before being lost, it will become creased and unrecognizable—yes, even over a summer and autumn.
And how many people will see this picture? Will you show it to friends? And how about your colleagues on the shoot? Will you show me to them? Reminisce a little? Brag a little, growing possessive—of the picture, and of me?
So, if you truly want this picture how about this?
Leg-irons?
Or chains around the ankles at least. And handcuffs—it won’t be complete without those.
And a gag, and a blindfold. That way, I can be See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Speak No Evil.
Not funny?
I thought so.
Do you realize how invasive a camera is? Intruding into someone’s life without warning, without invitation, without honoring the sanctity of the moment?
What if someone—a stranger! —Started popping up, invading your house, your work, your social life, snapping away— catching you when you’re just found out the insurance on the house is going up? When you discover at the coffee shop that you left your wallet in the office—after eating your lunch?
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK
And here they are again, snapping a picture of you when your infant nephew has just spit up on you?
These invaders, these photographers—or chroniclers, as some of them call themselves—don’t care how good, or how bad, the moment is for their subject. It’s enough that they are there to forever freeze the image.

Idea!
How about my voice? On tape? You could listen to it in the interludes between photo shoots? At night, by the fire, when you’re decompressing from the day, evaluating your work?
We won’t have many opportunities to talk while you’re away, while I’m on assignment, too.
And I can play some of my own compositions on the flute! Music to put you to sleep by. Music to wake up to, along with your ritual coffee.
And the music, if you wanted to share it with your collaborators, I wouldn’t mind. An artist always wants an audience.
This would be more portable. The tape could fit into your shirt pocket, near your heart.
And I know you’re taking your Walkman. I saw you packing it away late last night.
Private, if you want it to be Shared, if that’s what you want.
Harder to damage. It’s wrinkle-proof, fade-proof, tear-proof. You can return to it whether there is daylight or not, in the middle of the day or the cold of the mountain night.
What do you say?
If you want to capture something of me, let it be something living, something that breathes, shows emotion, tells stories, and consoles.
Let me get my tape-recorder.
We have a few hours before the flights that will separate us. There will be time enough to capture the moment, to be played, then rewound, then played again, and rewound again.
Let me get my flute.

Copyright (c) 1998 by the author