10
2014
NORTH CAROLINA L I T E R A R Y RE V I E W
photograph by R.A. Romanes; Courtesy of Hunter Library, Western Carolina University
“The analyst?” “Yes, Herr Doctor Jellife. Imagine a tall, heavy man with an oily mustache. He found my pictorial photographs fascinating because they revealed the ‘sterility of my inner landscape.’” “Was he a sadist, your husband?” “No, that’s giving him a little too much credit. But he did love picking things apart. He was devoted to spreading the inside of your mind all over the dining room table. There was no subject too personal or private for him to discuss in front of dinner guests.” “Too much brain?” “And not enough heart. Not enough heart and not enough – other parts.” I had to smile. Slowly the sound of her voice was massaging my worries about the Mountain Park, rubbing my fears of Roy Robbins out of the front of my mind. “So you were an artist, but the results weren’t artistic?” “Oh, I fancied myself an artist, and certainly I took photographs of artistic writers, editors, actors. And I did these wonderful studies of things like ‘the shadow of a leaf against a wall with texture.’ That was the title.” “Symbolizing?”
number 23
“Shy, life haunted by death of course.” “Reckon what the leaf thought? About being a symbol, I mean?” “Leaf didn’t think about it at all. And the wall with texture didn’t give a damn either.” She laughed again – suddenly, spontaneously – as the wagon gave a lurch. And the incongruity of it all hit me: this woman to whom I was so easily attracted, trying to sit gracefully on an ancient farm wagon, talking about her New York artistry as a mule named Janie began to address the turn that would take us up to Bearwallow Gap. I forgot about my mother then, for those few easy moments, as Anna reminded me how to smile. How to laugh in spite of myself. “And now?” I asked. “What do you mean now?” “Are you still the artist?” “No, I shed that skin. Now, I want to look through the camera and just see what’s there. Not make what’s there suit my own notions of the world, but try to understand what’s there for its own sake. These days, I think that all the camera does is provide a frame so that when we look through the box we are forced to see one small piece of the world at a time.” She was talking faster and faster. “Oh, Stephen, that’s really all the camera does – capture light, and the light burns an image on the glass.” “So, now you’re the keeper of the light.” “You’re making fun of me.” “No. No, actually, I’m not. I believe I meant it as a compliment.” We’d passed from under the trees when we turned up the old road to the gap, and she had to shade her eyes with her hand to look into my face. “I meant what I said – keeper of the light.” “Then thank you,” she replied, bringing her hand down to touch my arm. “Where are we now?” “We’ve made the turn up from Big Pine,” I said. “Leaving the creek behind. In a bit, we’ll leave this road at Bearwallow Gap. From there, near where my grandparents are buried, we’ll climb up the Divide Mountain and over into Highlands.” “Where your mother lives?” I nodded. And all the deep and crawling fear as to just how sick she might be and just how she might receive us came swarming back.
I forgot about my mother then, for those few easy moments, as Anna reminded me how to smile. above left Near Highlands, NC, Nov. 1937