Her Best Photo

This obsession had officially taken over. Her grace was gone, her confidence had withered and what was once a brilliantly white notebook was drenched into a hue of black. When Marlene Burkett first began this search, she never imagined that she would go this far or become this consumed within it. That night of her gallery opening became the most defining event in her 25 years of life. A life that was froth with perfection and beauty. A life that exuded the scent of privilege and utter acceptance in everything she did. Every photo she ever took, the classically beautiful and the unmistakably stunning, she couldn’t look at the same. The stylized descriptions she wrote in her notebook about these photos with her once exquisite penmanship now seemed vapid and unimportant. The descriptions, as Marlene took more risky and more vulnerable photos, were written with the hand of a lost, frustrated, and disillusioned person. It was a small and almost indistinguishable font with short blunt lines and mysterious black smudges all over the paper.

“ Is she right? " Marlene murmured. “Hideous?”

The Kleinfeld Photo Gallery is one of the most glorified art galleries in Greenwich, Connecticut. Marlene has visited this museum ever since she was a child and dreamed about becoming one of their legendary artists. Twenty-nine days ago was her opening night. Her sunshine personality reflected her photo choices. Pictures of flowers ranging from chartreuse to fushia, couples fondly canoodling each other, portraits of kids laughing with rows of gleaming pearly whites playing as if life would never end. Standing in the midst of her glory, with lacey heels, a clean white dress, notebook in hand, she relished at the sight of everyone enjoying her work. Almost everyone.

“Hideous,” someone said.

Marlene snapped her neck to face whoever uttered that horrible word. She saw a ghostly woman, tall and lean, with bleached hair pinned back in a sleek bun and red smart glasses. A real-life witch.

“Dull and dry. Every Photo. There’s absolutely nothing here!”

Her name was Charlotte Becker. She was one of the most well revered photographers of Greenwich. She emitted a sense of arrogance but by the prestige she’s received for her numerous portraits, it’s well deserved. Marlene was hurt by the comments but was more bewildered. How could photos that she believed were so beautiful and unique be called hideous? No one’s ever said her work was hideous before. She approached with confidence but caution.

“Hello Ms. Becker. I’m Marlene Burkett, the photographer” she introduced.

The witch studied her smugly.

“Figures,” she replied. Marlene, ignoring her verbal smite, continued on with her curiosity.

“I’d just like to know why you called my work -.”

“Hideous?” Ms. Becker finished. “why did you choose these subjects?"

Marlene answered. “Well, I chose these pieces because I think they’re beautiful. These subjects make me smile. I thought others would feel the same as I do.”

“Is that all, Ms. Burkett?”

“No ma’am.” said Marlene. She handed over her notebook.

“I always write my interpretation of every photo taken. I try to see the beauty of each -”

“Useless things,” she interrupted. “ that’s the problem. You’ve idealized things around you and it’s boring. You clearly have a physical take of what beauty is and these photos make you seem shallow and lack depth which is very unbecoming. That’s why these photos are hideous. So now, I’m going to challenge you.”

“Challenge me?” Marlene questioned.

“I’m guessing you’ve never been challenged a day in your life, and it’s about time you got one. I will give you 30 days to present me with one photo. Just one. But it has to be something real.” What does she mean by real? Marlene wondered.

“I want you to have depth. I want you to see the world and have a photo to prove it. If you can do that, I’ll commission it for $20,000 no questions asked.” She reached into her wristlet and pulled out a card.

“Here’s my office address. Show me as many photos as you like within the month. But I want your best photo on the very last day.” And with that, she strutted out the gallery in her black leather pumps.

Marlene could hardly understand what just happened. She couldn’t decide if this was a golden opportunity or a setup for failure. Either way, she made her choice. She was determined to capture the best photo she could. She looked down at her splendid white notebook. She didn’t believe anything that she wrote was useless. She saw her descriptions as things to admire about life. Things to purposely seek out. She pondered all of the possible findings waiting to be documented. She knew she was up for any challenge.

What happened to it? Her luminous notebook has been replaced with an inky black that has an aura so opposite of what was once her. It disturbed Marlene. When her mind became more stained with her captured images, so did the pages. Countless papers, books, and notes cluttered and dispersed around her. She enraptured herself within the mysterious works of Robert Frank, Weegee, Man Ray. She would study them and try to emulate the mastery they managed to achieve. But she didn’t feel she did. She wondered if she could ever achieve what they had. Their photos looked back at her. Making fun as if they were saying “You don’t know what you're doing. You’re not real.”

She searched through the blackened pages of the notebook. She turned to her first description of the first photo. Twenty-nine days ago. The frog that couldn’t stop staring at her. The very beginning of her dwindling credence.

Marlene began her quest by finding things that she normally wouldn’t take photos of. She sauntered around the park trying to find something interesting when startled by a little figure that jumped out in front of her. A frog. Marlene hated frogs. She couldn’t stand the slimy skin, swollen eyes, and the fact that they do nothing but stare. Perfect! She bent down slowly, careful not to scare it. She pointed her camera lense and clicked away. She was disgusted the whole time. After the shoot, she watched it hop off. She continued on and found muddy, withered shoes underneath a park bench. She found a broken, abandoned bicycle with a busted tire. She took several photos that day, and she was proud of herself. They were different from her regular tastes, but she liked them. Although they were making her feel different than the usual flowers and laughter. She didn’t know what it was, but she was intrigued by her discoveries.

When Marlene got back to her place, she began to develop the photos. The interesting finds were clipped and hung to dry. She studied each photo starting with the frog. She still found it creepy but for some reason, she stared at it with a sense of fascination. She wrote:

“The Frog”

Grainy, beady-eyed creature. It stares.

When she finished jotting down her observations, she closed the notebook. Suddenly, she noticed something peculiar on the cover. A pitch black mark polluting the white shield. Marlene went to the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and went back to scrub the black off the cover. But it wouldn’t come off.

“What the?” Marlene asked herself. “Darn. It's stained.” She checked her hands for any dirt or leaked ink but there was nothing. So how did it get there?

Marlene went to Ms. Becker’s office at the end of the week. It’s as spotless and neat as she expected. Portraits of people decorated the walls observing Marlene. They were the most powerful portraits she had ever seen. Every face has been through some sort of journey. Faces filled with wisdom, strength and life. She knew Ms. Becker's work was great. And very intimidating. Marlene found her sitting at a broad mahogany desk, filtering through photos like a magazine. She knocked on the doorway to get her attention.

“Morning Ms. Becker.”

Ms. Becker looked up with a cold expression.

“Do you have photos for me?”

“I do,” Marlene said. She handed the portfolio of newly taken photos to her. She went through them rather quickly. Then handed them back to Marlene.

“Not good enough. I want more. Try again and come back next week.” And with that short meeting, she went back to her desk, looking bored and uninterested.

When Marlene got home, she studied her photos again. “

More of what? What does she want to see?”

She was determined to figure it out.

Marlene sat in the dark pondering over all the photos she took that month. Every day she went out and pushed herself more and more. Facing rejection from Ms. Becker every week.

“More Marlene. More!” She hated those words just as much as the word hideous. She went back to research more artists to figure out what a real photo was supposed to look like. She didn’t understand. Marlene hyper focused on the black book that continued to mock her. From every description she wrote down, her beloved book was doomed to get darker and darker. Week after critical week, her energy waned and her handwriting diminished to gruesome scribbles. “MORE!” was all she ever thought about.

On day thirty, she trudged the long walk to Ms. Becker’s office, defeated and photoless. There was no way Marlene could be the photographer Ms. Becker wanted her to be. It wasn’t her. She wondered who determined what was real in the first place. Ms. Becker? When she reached the dreaded office, she burst through the doorway to find Ms. Becker searching through more photos at her desk. Still bored, still complacent.

“Marlene. Pleasure to -”

“I don’t have the photo.” Marlene interrupted.

“Oh,” Ms. Becker moaned “And why would that be?”

As Marlene looked into her eyes, all she wanted to do was run. But she knew she couldn't. She knew the only way her thirty-day, empty handed discovery could possibly be justified was to stand up and finish her challenge once and for all.

“Ms. Becker. The night you came to my gallery opening, you asked me why I chose my subjects. And I told you that they made me happy. Then, you proceeded to disregard everything that I wrote in my journal. I tried shooting the thing you wanted me to see, and I tried capturing something real! But everything started to change as soon as I did!”

“How?” Ms. Becker asked.

“Look. I may come off as someone stuck in their own world to you. But like these photos, I am way more than what you think I am. I’ve completely engulfed myself into finding something I’m not sure even exists. It may not be your definition of real, but it’s mine. And you know what I think is pretty hideous? People who can’t realise that the word real takes on many different forms and many different meanings. My subjects have and always will be real to me!”

Ms. Becker did something that Marlene didn’t think she was capable of. She grinned. She opened the drawer of her mahogany desk and pulled out a yellow, rectangular paper and placed it in front of her. Then she turned her chair and grabbed the camera resting on the window sill.

“Look here,” she guided.

Marlene looked into the camera and FLASH! A big, bright light went straight into her irises. A neat, crisp polaroid slid from the camera. Ms. Becker pulled it out and showed it to her.

“I can see there is a very distinct difference between the girl I met a month ago and the artist I see today. This is depth. This is real.”

Marlene looked at the portrait. It was her. The real her. Ms. Becker swept over to Marlene, yellow paper in hand and plunged it out for her to take.

“Here. $20,000.”said Ms. Becker.