The Studio
Paul Rabinowitz
Last year they brought an old tugboat to the surface, refurbished it, and turned it into a bar. The inside is solid wood with heavy beams coated with multiple layers of antique white paint. A huge wooden figurehead hangs from the ceiling. Her chest arches over us, her dark eyes wide and mysterious. The effect of all of this is impressive. The bartender pours me a merlot and fills a bowl with salted peanuts. He asks how I’m doing, and before I can answer, he’s screwing a bolt on the underside of an old brass cash register.
These days I find it hard to relax at home. My daughter starts college in the fall and only speaks to me when she’s in need of money. My wife nags me all the time about a cottage we saw upstate about three years ago. It’s in the mountains. The back deck overlooks a huge lake. A slow moving stream runs through the front yard and occasionally floods the basement. It’s been on the market for some time because no one wants to deal with fixing the crack in the foundation. My wife wants to buy it. I can’t find it in myself to understand. She says we can figure out a way to repair it and redirect the water. It’s affordable because of the work one would need to put into it, but I have no interest in putting our money into something that’s not rock solid. Each time she brings it up, I remind her I’m not good with my hands, and even if I was, we don’t have the right tools to fix something that serious. She folds her arms across her chest, squints, and shakes her head. I know it’s about more than the cottage. I am losing energy to try to intuit a way forward through this conversation.
I take my wine and peanuts to an empty table near an old copper light. A waitress asks if I want to see a menu. She’s petite with cropped auburn hair, freckles, and a tiny glinting stud in her nose. I look up from my fog and swallow. My words stick. I don’t know where they went.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asks.
“I’m good for now.”
She puts one hand on her hip, tilts her head, and studies my face.
“I usually don’t do this,” she says, “but I’m in the middle of a photo essay and in need of a subject. All the working models lately are students, but I need an adult, you know? I’m shooting tomorrow at my studio. If you’re interested, come by, and we’ll see how it goes?”
She writes her address on the back of the bill and leaves it on the table.
“And if you regain the ability to speak and want to order something, just give me a shout. My name’s Jessie.”
The next day I call my wife from work. I tell her I’m going to the bar for a drink before coming home. I walked, feeling the ground under my feet. The studio is in an old warehouse across from the docks. The door is a solid piece of wood with a heavy iron latch. Small track lights hang from rough-hewn beams and run the length of the ceiling. The lights are adjusted to illuminate her photos, which hang from the exposed brick walls. They’re striking. And now, seeing the way she’s composed them, seeing what she’s trying to get at, I’m excited to see what she can do with me in her frame.
“These are yours?”
“Yep. Shot and developed myself.”
“They’re nice.”
The subjects are all burly, middle-aged men. Her manipulation of light spreads a subtle glow over their faces and curates a sense of calm. All the subjects are sitting in an old wood chair pushed against the wall of her studio. I glance around and spot it. Maybe waiting for me. On the floor, next to her camera, is a haunting black and white photo of an elderly sea captain with a dog seated at the prow of a small boat. The subject appears to be in mid-sentence.
“Is this also yours?”
“Yep, it’s my dad. That’s the last photo I took of him before he died.”
“It’s a nice boat.”
“Our neighbors got divorced and split up everything. No one wanted the old boat, so I took it. I found a how-to book in an old nautical shop and refurbished it myself. We loved being out on the water together.”
She turns her head and lifts the camera. A flash of light bounces off the stud in her nose. I think about this, what makes a person decide to pierce themselves. Is it a hunger to feel something? A perpetual reminder of pain? I don’t ask her, I just sit, and try to pose how she asks, wondering what she’s seeing as she shoots.
When I arrive home, dinner is on the table, surrendering its heat to time. I open a bottle of red wine and fill our glasses.
“Didn’t you have wine at the bar?” my wife says.
I reach into my backpack and reveal the how-to book. “This is for you.”
She squints and runs her hand over the glossy cover. I watch her smile and realize suddenly it’s been a long time since I caught her off guard in this way. She thinks she knows what to expect from me. How long has it been like this?
“How ’bout we skip the news tonight and snuggle up with our new book?” I say.
“Sure,” she says, then a new idea comes into her eyes. “If we buy the house, do you think we can turn the room with the view of the lake into an art studio? I’ve been missing my sculpting. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea.”
That night, I lay awake listening to rain fall on the roof. I remove the book from my wife’s chest and place it on her nightstand. In the distance, there is a crack of thunder. A burst of wind pushes through the open window, through the screen, separating the delicate lace curtains.
I wonder why she hasn’t pressed me about where the how-to book came from.
These days I find it hard to relax at home. My daughter starts college in the fall and only speaks to me when she’s in need of money. My wife nags me all the time about a cottage we saw upstate about three years ago. It’s in the mountains. The back deck overlooks a huge lake. A slow moving stream runs through the front yard and occasionally floods the basement. It’s been on the market for some time because no one wants to deal with fixing the crack in the foundation. My wife wants to buy it. I can’t find it in myself to understand. She says we can figure out a way to repair it and redirect the water. It’s affordable because of the work one would need to put into it, but I have no interest in putting our money into something that’s not rock solid. Each time she brings it up, I remind her I’m not good with my hands, and even if I was, we don’t have the right tools to fix something that serious. She folds her arms across her chest, squints, and shakes her head. I know it’s about more than the cottage. I am losing energy to try to intuit a way forward through this conversation.
I take my wine and peanuts to an empty table near an old copper light. A waitress asks if I want to see a menu. She’s petite with cropped auburn hair, freckles, and a tiny glinting stud in her nose. I look up from my fog and swallow. My words stick. I don’t know where they went.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asks.
“I’m good for now.”
She puts one hand on her hip, tilts her head, and studies my face.
“I usually don’t do this,” she says, “but I’m in the middle of a photo essay and in need of a subject. All the working models lately are students, but I need an adult, you know? I’m shooting tomorrow at my studio. If you’re interested, come by, and we’ll see how it goes?”
She writes her address on the back of the bill and leaves it on the table.
“And if you regain the ability to speak and want to order something, just give me a shout. My name’s Jessie.”
The next day I call my wife from work. I tell her I’m going to the bar for a drink before coming home. I walked, feeling the ground under my feet. The studio is in an old warehouse across from the docks. The door is a solid piece of wood with a heavy iron latch. Small track lights hang from rough-hewn beams and run the length of the ceiling. The lights are adjusted to illuminate her photos, which hang from the exposed brick walls. They’re striking. And now, seeing the way she’s composed them, seeing what she’s trying to get at, I’m excited to see what she can do with me in her frame.
“These are yours?”
“Yep. Shot and developed myself.”
“They’re nice.”
The subjects are all burly, middle-aged men. Her manipulation of light spreads a subtle glow over their faces and curates a sense of calm. All the subjects are sitting in an old wood chair pushed against the wall of her studio. I glance around and spot it. Maybe waiting for me. On the floor, next to her camera, is a haunting black and white photo of an elderly sea captain with a dog seated at the prow of a small boat. The subject appears to be in mid-sentence.
“Is this also yours?”
“Yep, it’s my dad. That’s the last photo I took of him before he died.”
“It’s a nice boat.”
“Our neighbors got divorced and split up everything. No one wanted the old boat, so I took it. I found a how-to book in an old nautical shop and refurbished it myself. We loved being out on the water together.”
She turns her head and lifts the camera. A flash of light bounces off the stud in her nose. I think about this, what makes a person decide to pierce themselves. Is it a hunger to feel something? A perpetual reminder of pain? I don’t ask her, I just sit, and try to pose how she asks, wondering what she’s seeing as she shoots.
When I arrive home, dinner is on the table, surrendering its heat to time. I open a bottle of red wine and fill our glasses.
“Didn’t you have wine at the bar?” my wife says.
I reach into my backpack and reveal the how-to book. “This is for you.”
She squints and runs her hand over the glossy cover. I watch her smile and realize suddenly it’s been a long time since I caught her off guard in this way. She thinks she knows what to expect from me. How long has it been like this?
“How ’bout we skip the news tonight and snuggle up with our new book?” I say.
“Sure,” she says, then a new idea comes into her eyes. “If we buy the house, do you think we can turn the room with the view of the lake into an art studio? I’ve been missing my sculpting. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea.”
That night, I lay awake listening to rain fall on the roof. I remove the book from my wife’s chest and place it on her nightstand. In the distance, there is a crack of thunder. A burst of wind pushes through the open window, through the screen, separating the delicate lace curtains.
I wonder why she hasn’t pressed me about where the how-to book came from.
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Paul Rabinowitz is an author, photographer, and founder of ARTS By The People, and the author of five books. His work appears in The Sun Magazine, New World Writing, Arcturus-Chicago Review Of Books and elsewhere. Rabinowitz’s poems and fiction are the inspiration for 8 award-winning experimental films. www.paulrabinowitz.com
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