The Photographer

magazine, and I say that with no hyperbole. With my lighting, that apartment transcended its limitations in terms of its size, scale, and design. I had created art. I had created an illusion.
On Friday evening I descended the exterior steps of the Straubs’ brownstone. Amelia had given me the combination to a small lockbox, which was mounted behind a hedge near the entrance to the garden apartment. Their front door key happened to be on a key chain with two other unmarked keys. I surmised one of the extra keys might unlock the garden apartment. I paused to see if I could detect any activity through the windows, but the lights were out and the shades were down. I had yet to ask the Straubs if anyone was living there.
I walked up the main steps and unlocked the Straubs’ front door. “Hello!” I called out. I was carrying two bags of groceries, which I brought to the kitchen and unpacked. I planned to make chicken Parmesan. The most mundane tasks, when performed in the Straubs’ kitchen, took on a magical quality.
Since the Straubs were out of town for two weeks, I’d planned four visits to their house, thinking I could safely spend a few hours each time. More than that might raise questions. I felt certain that Amelia and Fritz would be pleased for me to spend any amount of time in the house, but even so, it would be best to steer clear of gossip.
I noticed an open bottle of pinot grigio in the door of the refrigerator that had barely been touched. Since I knew it would spoil by the time the Straubs returned home, I poured a glass for myself and drank it. With my second glass of wine, I walked from one room to the next. Up the stairs and back down, absorbing every detail. Each and every vantage point built upon the last, so that the cumulative effect was a transcendent experience. The transitions between spaces, like the sculptural staircase, were isolated but spiritual, and the spaces themselves were earthbound and communal. An interplay between isolation and community.
I set my glass of wine down on a brass end table in the great room. I had yet to pay close enough attention to the silk rugs they’d chosen. I’d seen them in a magazine, listed at thirty grand each. They began as watercolors, painted by Brooklyn artists, and then were woven in Nepal. The Straubs owned four of them. I sat on the floor next to the most beautiful one and ran my hand across the smooth gray surface. It was softer than most sheets and pillowcases were. I put my cheek down on the rug, just to feel the silk against my face. It would be easy to fall asleep here.
I took off all my clothes, including my bra and underwear, and lay facedown on the rug. I felt myself to be fully inhabiting the home of Amelia and Fritz, in the deep recesses of their life. In spite of the many hours I’d spent in clients’ homes, I always hit walls blocking me from entering all the way. I couldn’t see the walls; I could only feel them when I came too close. I was forever hovering on the edge of something.
Early on in my career, I’d sometimes made mistakes, such as resting on the sofa in a client’s study or snacking from their refrigerator. When a client saw me, their reaction was clear. I’d invaded, crossed a line, trespassed, taken liberties.
With my body spread naked on the rug, I felt a sensation of entitlement and power. I had penetrated the walls. I had pierced the barrier. I was claiming the territory as mine. The opposite of the deference and the hesitation that restricted me so often. No one could stop me.
I stood up. Still naked, I found Amelia’s watering can in the kitchen and filled it up. I watered the ficus in the great room and the rubber tree in the front library. My nudity made me feel close to the Straubs—at the very core and center of their lives. I passed by the full-length hall mirror and stopped to observe myself. I posed my figure facing forward, and then in profile. My image, watering can in hand, resembled that of a Greek goddess.
After I dressed, I poured another glass of wine and set to work on the chicken Parmesan—pounded the chicken breasts, coated them with flour, eggs, and bread crumbs, before adding tomato sauce and cheese. The woman who cooked in this kitchen was a remarkable person. If she wasn’t remarkable to start off with, the time spent in this particular setting would alter her intrinsically. We humans evolve to fit our surroundings.
I placed the copper baking dish in the oven. As I was refilling my wineglass … I heard something in the backyard. It was concerning. The downstairs tenant, if one existed, was not home. Who was in the backyard? The Straubs would definitely appreciate my checking on the situation.
I exited out the bifold doors and walked down the spiral staircase. “Hello!” I called out. A leafless cherry tree, dramatically lit, stood in the center of the yard surrounded by brown grass. Outside the garden apartment’s back door was a small patio with two chairs and a side table. The downstairs resident was likely restricted to the patio. Amelia and Fritz wouldn’t want to socialize or share space with a tenant. Would they?
I smelled something unusual. The Straubs would want me to check on a gas leak. They would be grateful for my conscientiousness. I knocked on the back door. “Hello!” Inside, the lights were still out, as they were when I arrived. I knocked again. No one answered.
I tried one of the extra keys, then the second extra key. Seconds later I was inside, standing in the open kitchen. I switched on the lights.
The apartment looked exactly as I’d hoped—as if it had been designed to conform to my tastes,