Read Online Eight Girls Taking Pictures by Whitney Otto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Whitney Otto
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then rock the exposed glass plates in chemical baths, and how to book and interview clients; she learned about people as much as about portrait making. She also learned about money and society.
Being a modern working girl in 1912 made her feel that she was becoming the sort of woman the suffragette movement was all about; in this way she felt she was making good on her promise to fight the good fight, only from a different perspective.
On the other hand, she also became much closer to Chang, since itwas her job to walk him every day in the nearby park. When he promenaded in front of her on his lead, she was sure she looked like a lady of leisure. This made her want to tell passersby that the picture they presented, lady and dog, was inaccurate. She wanted to say, I’m actually a photographer—except that she wasn’t, not yet, even if her fingers were stained from chemicals—which made her more impatient when she spent time with Chang.
One day when she was in the park, trying to soothe the fractious Chang, she stepped into yet another dog mess, an ongoing hazard of dealing with the Pomeranian. As she looked around for a way to clean her shoe, while wrestling with Chang’s leash, her long skirt, and the soiled shoe, she overheard a male voice say, “What sort of person dresses her dog in pearls anyway?”
And another male voice answered, “The pretentious sort.”
She glanced over to see two men, not much older than she, seated side by side on a bench. It was obvious they were unaware of their carried voices.
“She looks like she bosses him around, and he looks as though he likes it,” said one of the men, who, Amadora saw, was handsome in a kind of cold, unstudied, and therefore probably completely orchestrated way. At first, she thought he was referring to Chang, until she followed their eyes to see the object of the comment—a nicely dressed couple strolling in the park. She had to admit, the woman did look a bit stern and appeared to be pulling her smaller husband along, with her hand resting on the inside of his arm, and he did look a bit cowed.
The handsome man’s friend, also nice looking but not as arresting, said in an affected accent, “Why yes, I am Fabian Socialist!” Amadora looked in another direction to see an obviously well-to-do man being trailed by what seemed to be a manservant of some sort while the well-to-do man was trying to impress a very pretty woman dressed in the style of a Pre-Raphaelite bohemian muse, or model.
As Amadora began laughing, having caught on to the men’s game, she saw that the handsome man realized she had heard everything they said. Instead of looking apologetic, he offered the most minimal of acknowledgmentsby giving a little wave, his arm draped across the back of the bench, as if he couldn’t be bothered.
While a little dog wearing pearls wasn’t her idea, she could see the humor in it. She could also see an arrogance in the handsome man that was absent in his friend, who, once he knew she had heard everything, seemed noticeably embarrassed.
• • •
One day, feeling slightly oppressed by all the pink, as monochromatic as the use of no color in Amadora’s opinion, she asked Miss Charles if it were completely possible, would she choose to do color portraits? Lallie Charles looked at Amadora as if she had suggested that Chang were merely a dog and answered, “No reputable portrait artist would take color pictures.”
“Why not? If it were possible?”
“It isn’t done,” said Miss Charles.
“Why isn’t it done?” Amadora insisted.
“No one would want it.”
“What if someone wanted a color portrait?” asked Amadora. “Shouldn’t she have what she wants?”
Miss Charles said, “Either you are serious about this work or you are not, Miss Allesbury.”
“My father manufactures colored ink. He would have no clients if people didn’t want color.”
“But they don’t want it.”
“Why don’t they want it?”
“Because it
Being a modern working girl in 1912 made her feel that she was becoming the sort of woman the suffragette movement was all about; in this way she felt she was making good on her promise to fight the good fight, only from a different perspective.
On the other hand, she also became much closer to Chang, since itwas her job to walk him every day in the nearby park. When he promenaded in front of her on his lead, she was sure she looked like a lady of leisure. This made her want to tell passersby that the picture they presented, lady and dog, was inaccurate. She wanted to say, I’m actually a photographer—except that she wasn’t, not yet, even if her fingers were stained from chemicals—which made her more impatient when she spent time with Chang.
One day when she was in the park, trying to soothe the fractious Chang, she stepped into yet another dog mess, an ongoing hazard of dealing with the Pomeranian. As she looked around for a way to clean her shoe, while wrestling with Chang’s leash, her long skirt, and the soiled shoe, she overheard a male voice say, “What sort of person dresses her dog in pearls anyway?”
And another male voice answered, “The pretentious sort.”
She glanced over to see two men, not much older than she, seated side by side on a bench. It was obvious they were unaware of their carried voices.
“She looks like she bosses him around, and he looks as though he likes it,” said one of the men, who, Amadora saw, was handsome in a kind of cold, unstudied, and therefore probably completely orchestrated way. At first, she thought he was referring to Chang, until she followed their eyes to see the object of the comment—a nicely dressed couple strolling in the park. She had to admit, the woman did look a bit stern and appeared to be pulling her smaller husband along, with her hand resting on the inside of his arm, and he did look a bit cowed.
The handsome man’s friend, also nice looking but not as arresting, said in an affected accent, “Why yes, I am Fabian Socialist!” Amadora looked in another direction to see an obviously well-to-do man being trailed by what seemed to be a manservant of some sort while the well-to-do man was trying to impress a very pretty woman dressed in the style of a Pre-Raphaelite bohemian muse, or model.
As Amadora began laughing, having caught on to the men’s game, she saw that the handsome man realized she had heard everything they said. Instead of looking apologetic, he offered the most minimal of acknowledgmentsby giving a little wave, his arm draped across the back of the bench, as if he couldn’t be bothered.
While a little dog wearing pearls wasn’t her idea, she could see the humor in it. She could also see an arrogance in the handsome man that was absent in his friend, who, once he knew she had heard everything, seemed noticeably embarrassed.
• • •
One day, feeling slightly oppressed by all the pink, as monochromatic as the use of no color in Amadora’s opinion, she asked Miss Charles if it were completely possible, would she choose to do color portraits? Lallie Charles looked at Amadora as if she had suggested that Chang were merely a dog and answered, “No reputable portrait artist would take color pictures.”
“Why not? If it were possible?”
“It isn’t done,” said Miss Charles.
“Why isn’t it done?” Amadora insisted.
“No one would want it.”
“What if someone wanted a color portrait?” asked Amadora. “Shouldn’t she have what she wants?”
Miss Charles said, “Either you are serious about this work or you are not, Miss Allesbury.”
“My father manufactures colored ink. He would have no clients if people didn’t want color.”
“But they don’t want it.”
“Why don’t they want it?”
“Because it
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