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I wrote a postcard but this is the first blog! Hi. How are you? Am I talking to the ether? I came here because of a photograph. Well, we came for some temple but had to pivot to a tree. When I saw it, I was compelled to find it and it’s bigger. It’s something out of a Dr. Seuss book on the edge of the lake that has this steam and mist. There’s a tradition that you should be under one of these trees for New Year’s Eve. Hope the luck is still running on a non NYE.
I’ve been thinking about what it means to leave proof. The show is one kind. But that’s just proof I showed up. I’m starting to think showing up is the easy part. The hard part is staying long enough to understand what you’re looking at.
I left my mark on a tree at the edge of a lake and maybe that counts.
Maybe someone will find it someday and wonder who Z was.
I know who I was thinking about when I carved it. Or at least I think I do.
—Squire
I read it back once. Hit publish before I can change my mind.
The room is very quiet.
I take out a hotel notepad, this one from a Marriott in Singapore, two trips ago, and I write the things I won’t put on the blog. The things about the light and what she’d do with it. And how I think about her a little more than I expected. I write all the things no one will know because nobody’s supposed to read them.
Chapter 33
Male Call
KAT
Rhinebeck
It’s been a week of running around taking pictures and learning my camera in tiny towns, on the Hudson and hikes. No word from Zane. I could text him but I don’t know if he’s busy or even what time zone he’s in. I miss him and that’s fucked up.
I hoist my camera bag and walk into Ginny’s gallery. I want to show her my pictures and see what she thinks. And my ticket to Bangladesh before I show it to my mom at lunch in a half hour. All of those things are making me nauseous.
Ginny comes around the corner as the door signals someone has entered. “Just feel free to browse around.” Her fake smile drops when she sees me.
“I have to pee.”
“Good to see you too.” I dump my bag on her little welcome desk. I keep talking to her while I’m in there doing my business.
“I have lots to show you. And I don’t want any judgment.”
She yells, “That’s not something I can promise. And wash your hands.”
I pump some soap then look around the bathroom. I start spinning around the little room. It’s larger than a normal powder room with wall space she’s decorated. I yell, “What the fuck is happening in here?”
She opens the door, “Don’t be mad.” She hands me a check. “Your secret bathroom show is a hit.”
I sit back on the toilet and stare at my photographs of wildflowers, the reunited naupaka flowers, Manhattan and a series from the Staten Island ferry that are framed and hung with little red dots on them.
“How?” My voice breaks.
She opens the door holding the door frame. “Remember when I stole your phone after you took all those pictures of when we were renovating The Little Bird?”
I slowly nod.
“I found your secret IG account. I stole photos then and the other day while looking at your wall. I printed and sold your work. They’re really fucking good.” I look up at her with tears in my eyes. She hands me a paper.
I sniffle back my emotions. She disappears and I’m left looking at a check for $6200.
“I cut my commission by the way. And I’m raising your prices.”
I walk out and she’s holding my camera. “Where the hell did this come from?” She’s rooting around in my bag when I step closer.
