Chapter 7
You Were My Muse
Nolan
Professor Nelson studied my proof sheet in the lab and smiled.
“You have a natural eye,” he said. “The composition is strong. Who is she?”
“My neighbor.”
“Your subject has a story.”
I looked at the photograph of Elise beneath the tree. She was laughing, unaware that I was studying every detail.
“She does,” I said.
Nelson asked whether I had permission to use the image. I said yes, though I had not actually asked. The thought made me feel guilty enough to call her.
“You photographed me without permission,” she said when she arrived.
“You gave me permission to photograph you.”
“Not for a gallery.”
“It isn’t a gallery. It’s a student critique.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a gallery.”
I handed her the print. She stared at it for a long time.
“You made me look like someone I know,” she said.
“Who?”
“Someone who isn’t always worried.”
“That person is there.”
She glanced at me. “You see too much.”
“That’s the job.”
“No. The job is taking pictures. Seeing is different.”
She was right. I had begun photographing Elise because I wanted to remember her. I continued because she made the world look newly arranged.
That afternoon, I helped her carry the cello to class. She complained that I was holding it incorrectly. I complained that she carried it like a weapon.
“It is a weapon,” she said. “Against mediocrity.”
“You’re intense.”
“You like it.”
“I do.”
Her expression softened before she looked away.
At rehearsal, I waited outside. She played a difficult passage, missed a note, and started again. I heard the frustration in her bow.
When she came out, she looked defeated.
“You played well.”
“I missed the same measure three times.”
“And played it four times.”
“That is not how music works.”
“It is how failure works.”
She smiled despite herself.
We walked to the park and sat beneath the tree from the photograph. I showed her a portfolio of my older work: streets, empty rooms, and people who seemed to be waiting for permission to exist.
“You don’t photograph happy people,” she said.
“Happy people move too fast.”
“You photographed me happy.”
“You were moving slowly.”
She leaned closer to the photographs. “What do you want to do with this?”
“Travel. Work. Make pictures that matter.”
“And after graduation?”
“South America, if the assignment comes through.”
Her eyes shifted toward the fountain. “For how long?”
“A few months.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It is.”
Neither of us mentioned what the distance might do.
That evening, my father called about my brother’s engagement. He wanted me in California for the party and asked whether I needed money.
“A few hundred dollars,” I said.
“I’ll transfer it tomorrow.”
I hated asking him, but I needed to pay for travel equipment and rent. After we hung up, I thought about Elise. She worked constantly to keep her scholarship, yet she never complained about what music cost her.
She had faith in a future she could not see. I wanted to learn that kind of faith.
At the PhotoHut, I printed another photograph of her. This one showed only her hands around the cello bow.
I wrote “Muse” on the back, then crossed it out. The word sounded too small.
I wrote “Ellie” instead.
When she came by, I gave it to her.
“What is this?”
“A thank-you.”
“For what?”
“For making me want to become better.”
She held the photograph against her chest. “You’re welcome.”
“You were my muse before I knew what that meant.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. “Nolan.”
“I know. Too serious.”
“No.”
She stepped closer and rested her forehead against mine.
We did not kiss. We did not need to. The space between us held enough truth for one evening.
I loved her before I had a name for it. I had said the word a thousand times, but it sounded different when it belonged to Elise.
The next morning, I found her in the practice room before sunrise. She was tuning the cello, her hair tied back, her expression focused.
“You’re early,” I said.
“You’re late.”
“It’s six.”
“Exactly.”
She handed me a cup of coffee. “I wanted to show you something.”
She played the piece she had been preparing for her audition. The melody began quietly, then gathered force. I watched her hands move with certainty, even when her face showed doubt.
When she finished, she did not look at me.
“Well?”
“I don’t know enough to judge it.”
“You’re a photographer. You judge everything.”
“It sounded like you.”
“That isn’t a technical assessment.”
“It is the only one that matters.”
She finally looked at me. “What if I fail?”
“Then you play again.”
“What if I lose the scholarship?”
“Then we find another way.”
“You always say we.”
“You’re included.”
She set the bow down. “I don’t want to depend on you.”
“I don’t want you to depend on me. I want you to know you don’t have to carry everything alone.”
She was quiet for a long time.
“You changed me,” she said.
“I’ve heard that.”
“Before you, I thought needing someone meant failing.”
“And now?”
“Now I think choosing someone can be another kind of strength.”
I took a photograph of her beside the cello. This time, she watched me take it.
“Did I give permission?”
“You stayed still.”
“That isn’t permission.”
“You’re right.”
I lowered the camera. “May I?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
After rehearsal, we walked to the river. The city was waking around us, taxis sliding through wet streets, shopkeepers lifting metal gates.
“When you go to South America,” she said, “what will you photograph?”
“People who don’t know they are being watched.”
“You mean seen.”
“You’re correcting my vocabulary now?”
“Someone has to.”
I photographed the river, the bridges, and Elise’s reflection beside mine.
“You were my muse before I understood what a muse was,” I told her.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“Then don’t make me responsible for your art.”
“You’re not responsible. You’re the reason I stopped pretending art was enough by itself.”
She looked away, but I saw the smile.
By noon, we were back at Senior House. She returned the photograph to me after signing the back.
“What did you write?” I asked.
“That you owe me a better picture.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”
“That’s a dangerous promise.”
“You keep saying that because you want me to stay.”
She squeezed my hand. “Maybe.”
I wanted to tell her that I would stay if she asked. I also knew she would regret asking before she finished building her own life.
So I took one last photograph before we went inside: Elise standing in the doorway, light behind her, one hand on the cello case and the other reaching for me.
That was the picture I carried when I left.
I kept it close, even before I knew why.
It became the first photograph I carried into every uncertain room.
And the reason I kept looking forward.
That was enough for one morning.
I carried the feeling into class.
Forward.
Still.