The Disastrous Love Lives of the Delaney Family

3.8 Richard Avedon

I blink. "Sticks? Like branches?"

"Walking sticks." Bronwen shrugs her shoulder. "But if you think English idioms are impossible to understand, then it's probably a good thing that you don't speak Welsh."

We fall back into a comfortable silence, but unlike earlier, Bronwen doesn't read her book. Instead, she jams her bookmark between the pages and sets it on the table next to where she's sitting. Her eyes cast around, fixing on one of the photographs that are scattered on the table. Slowly, with her head tilted to the left, she gets up and walks to the table, her hands delicately moving the picture she was looking at closer to her. 

It was the second photo I took of her when she was with me three days ago. I had Tao print it the morning after, trusting him not to ask me any questions about when the photograph was taken. I'm not sure why, but I trusted Tao not to make a big deal out of it considering he'd been at the photoshoot last week and had seen Bronwen before. I still need to get the print framed, but it is taking pride of place on the top of my stack of photographs. 

I edited the photo so that it would be in black and white. I toyed with the idea of keeping it in colour but something was missing, that spark of curiosity that comes from the monotone colour scheme, where your mind stops thinking and your heart starts searching. 

Photography deals, almost exclusively, with appearances, which makes it deceptive. But when you strip away all the frivolity, the colour, the noise, what are you left with? The person. Their vulnerability, their imperfections, their soul. And that's what makes a photograph so beautiful - the courage to sit there and just be you. 

"I prefer black and white."

Bronwen turns to me and smiles as she nods. "I know." After a second, she asks, "Why black and white?"

"Black and white photography goes through the skin; colours stay on the skin but black and white are raw- there's nothing to hide behind anymore, and we see you. The real you." Bronwen turns to lean against the table, her arms braced against the table as she listens to my words. "It's pure reality and what is more beautiful than that? You're connected to the idea of reality. Imagine a photo of a woman in a field of flowers. What do you see? In colour, you see the pinks and lilacs of the blooms and the blue of the sky, and yes, it's all pretty. Make the photo black and white, and what do you start to see? The lines and curves of the woman's smile. The way her nose crinkles as she catches the scent of the flower she's holding up. The way she holds herself, her body, like a ballerina. Who is this woman? Why is she here? Who is she picking flowers for? You become invested in her, and that is more interesting to me than flowers in a field."

When Bronwen doesn't say anything, I get up from my computer chair and walk to the dresser that sits against the wall, pulling open one of the top drawers. I pick up stacks of photographs bound with elastic bands and flick through each one until I find the ones marked NIA in big, bold, black print. Removing the elastic band, I flick through some of the prints until I find the two that I want. 

Both are from a photo session I had with Nia Llewelyn several years ago, with one in colour, and the other in black and white.

"Look at this photograph. Tell me what you see." I place the colour photo down first.

"What I see is a woman, in a field, on a cold and windy day, wrapped up in a heavy coat. She's pretty. Has dark hair. Dark eyes. Her lips are painted in a neutral shade. Her cheeks, under the strands of wayward hair, are a little pink. I look at this photo and that's what I see."

I place the second photo on the desk. "Now look at this one. Tell me what you feel."

"She's beautiful in this photo. How have I never seen it before?" Bronwen asks. 

"Nia never asked for a copy so it sits in my cache." I place my fingertip at the edge of the print and rotate it slightly in my direction. "What I feel when I look at this photograph is that this woman is strong, in the sense that she had strengths and resilience. She's a woman who has been to the extreme highs and lows in life and managed to come out the other side, despite the weight of the world on her shoulders. You see it in the tension she carries, the way her lips are flat, even though she's looking into the distance. Is she looking at someone she loves? Someone she's had to sacrifice for? Or is she alone with her thoughts? And if she is, do the thoughts plague her or is this her, at peace?"

A second later, I add, "Photography. It's so hard to explain. It's... it's about standing fiercely in authenticity. Your subject walks in and sits down, and you make one photograph. Then another, and another. You start to peel back layers of who this person is until you uncover their core, where they feel something. You never know what you're going to find but it will always, always be beautiful. Because it's raw, it's real."

Bronwen goes to say something, but I'm not quite finished. "There is no such thing as one photo of someone. People don't photograph the same for each photographer. What you have isn't a picture of someone, but a feeling between the two people involved in making a photo. When it's your mother taking the photo, you're one person and what you feel is affectionate love. When I photograph you, you're someone else."

"Joss, look at this photograph." Bronwen reaches to bring the black and white photo of herself closer. "Look at this photograph. Tell me what you feel."

I look at the print for a long thirty seconds. "I'm not sure what I feel."

"Oh." Bronwen's hands shuffle the photographs, burying the one of her under many of the others. "Have you ever fallen in love with one of the models?"

I nod. " fall in love with all my subjects. It's hard not to. Through the lens of the camera, they allow me to see them clearly. Their flaws, their vulnerability. And at that moment, it's intimate. It's hard not to love them. But then work stops, we separate, go home, back to our lives and we don't see each other again. I love them for as long as they're here. And that's all."

Something in Bronwen's demeanour has changed. Unlike before when her body was relaxed and she was unconscious in her movements, everything she does now is a study in deliberate and precise actions. And as someone who can't tell the difference in tone, when Bronwen speaks, even I can gauge the hostility.

"Well, I guess it's nice you love someone, even if it is for fifteen minutes."

I frown. "I can't photograph someone in fifteen minutes."

"Three days ago, you could when it was me." A clipped laugh escapes her lips. The ferocity, the coldness, the... the ... the anger she feels seeps into her words. "But that's all I'm good for. For you to love me for fifteen minutes, through the lens of the camera, and then once I'm out the door, that's it."

"Have I upset you?"

Again, that laugh. Bronwen moves quickly, packing the book into her bag and she grabs her things and edges towards the door to the dark room. "Yes, Joss. You have. And the worst part is that you probably don't even know why."