The Photographer, Mary Carter [the best novels to read .TXT] 📗

two in the morning, and I had a lot of work the following day. I labeled one folder Straub Family and one folder Straub, Alternates, the latter being photoshopped images for my personal use. Then, I closed down my computer, knowing that I could return to the project as often as I needed to, as an ongoing source of comfort.

The following morning I received a text from Amelia: Natalie adores you. You made such an impression!

When I saw the text, I realized that I’d almost been holding my breath. Had I not received her note, I might have attempted to reestablish contact myself.

I wrote back. Natalie’s a special girl. I’d love to babysit anytime.

Do you mean it?? How about Friday?

They wanted me to return. They wanted my involvement in their family. I had proof of that now. Oddly, I dreaded Friday as much as I longed for it. I dreaded the moment when I would no longer have the evening to look forward to, because I already knew how deflated I would feel when it was over.

I stayed up late Sunday night, looking at photos of the Straubs’ work online, beginning with their own website. I’d glanced at it before Natalie’s party, but now I studied it with renewed interest. I later found an illuminating interview in Architectural Digest from ten years earlier in which the Straubs were discussing the success of their partnership. “‘Fritz is big picture and I follow up on all the details,’ Amelia Straub says with a self-deprecating laugh. ‘He’s the most talented architect I’ve ever met. That’s why I married him!’ Fritz Straub interrupts: ‘Yeah, right, we all know who’s running the show.’”

A recent interview in Metropolis had a strikingly different tone. “‘Fritz has his projects and I have mine,’ Amelia Straub explains, ‘and we don’t actually have much overlap.’” Fritz was not quoted at all.

Before going to sleep, I ordered a copy of Defining Light: Twenty-First–Century Architecture from the Straub Group for sixty-five dollars on Amazon.

For the next couple of days, I was occupied with photo shoots, while my evenings were devoted to editing and album layouts. On Wednesday, when I arrived home and saw a package from Amazon, I felt like it was Christmas. I stayed up late, studying the Straubs’ book from cover to cover. The graphic design was exquisite. The images were strong and forceful. I found fault with very few of the photos.

I took my time with each page, analyzing each picture and reading every word. I was growing to understand how much I had in common with the Straubs. Quantity and quality of light drove the majority of their architectural choices. The same was true for my photographic choices. The Straubs used natural light to create the spaces in their homes, as much or more than they used structures and walls.

The first five chapters of their book focused on country houses in Long Island, Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, the Hudson Valley, and Connecticut, respectively. The next five were dedicated to urban residences, culminating in the Straubs’ own Brooklyn residence, the pièce de résistance. The book had a more comprehensive selection of photos than those I’d found online. Included were three spreads of the Straubs’ parlor floor, showcasing the sculptural staircase, the library, the majestic great room, the glass-and-steel bifold doors leading to the expansive deck outdoors.

The next two spreads revealed the master suite seen from several angles, including two shots of an otherworldly bathroom with a rain showerhead and a Spoon bathtub. An intense desire to immerse myself in the master suite radiated through my body. Just studying the photos and imagining myself there afforded me some visceral pleasure, but I wanted more. I felt compelled to penetrate their space, as if it ought to belong to me.

The very last photo spread in their book surprised me the most: pictures of a one-bedroom apartment on the garden floor of their building—as captivating as the rest of the house, with the same aesthetic and flawless execution.

I hadn’t known such an apartment existed.

Friday arrived. I had a nervous stomach and couldn’t eat breakfast or lunch. At 4 P.M., I allowed myself to begin preparations for the evening. My outfit for babysitting Natalie had a specific set of demands, distinct from what was required as a photographer. My clothing needed to say “responsible, mature, ebullient, and charming.” These parents were leaving their child alone in my care. I was required to be a reliable adult, but one that connected to children, an adult with a sense of fun and vivacity. I chose a pair of dark jeans, my leather boots, a thin sweater, and a sparkly necklace—one I felt certain that Natalie would like.

I maintained a decent wardrobe because I’d always considered my clothing a business expense. I recognized that my appearance mattered, especially when photographing at the home of an affluent family. I didn’t want to attract too much attention. However, I needed to look like I belonged in the home and was comfortable in the setting. In a service role, yes. But a level above the people who were preparing and serving the food. Two levels above the people who were cleaning and washing dishes. The parents liked to view me as an almost peer. Most of them would never choose to socialize with me. Nevertheless, if we ended up in conversation, I could hold my own, and they would find the conversation pleasant enough.

My clients probably assumed that my education and breeding were not up to theirs. And was that true? It depends on how such things are defined. Yes, I attended college, but a mediocre one. Not to say that I wasn’t educated. An autodidact, I read incessantly and processed images incessantly. In one image, I could extract more information than many people could extract from an entire book. I could look at a photograph of a group of people and, with surprising accuracy, detail the relationships among the various parties.

I had always been aware of my