Overexposure

Lily had a way of making herself invisible. Call it photographer’s instinct; call it stealth. She was close enough to not only snap photos of the incident, but to actually hear every word of the conversation. Or, better said, the heated argument.

She was sitting among the cliffs of Moshup Beach. It was in the town of Aquinnah on Martha’s Vineyard. The beach was vacant, serene. That is, until two men stopped near Lily. From their vantage point, they couldn’t see her tucked between the craggy rocks.

The man on the left was angry. So was the man on the right, although he was calmer.

It took a moment, but Lily finally recognized them both. One was the Press Secretary of the United States, Scott Underwood. The other was the famous actor and heartthrob, Alan Eliot.

“You can’t just walk away from this!” It was Scott who was shouting.

“You’re not hearing me. I can and I—”

Scott shoved Alan. “I’m hearing it, I’m just not buying it.” 

Alan warned the man not to do that again.

Scott laughed. “I’ll ruin you.”

With her DSLR in silent shooting mode, Lily trained her camera on the scene and began clicking. At times, she zoomed in on their faces. Observing how the sun was bouncing off the near-white cliffs and the ocean’s whitecaps, she adjusted the aperture to eliminate overexposure.

How did I end up here? I should leave but if I do, I’m certain to be discovered.

Lily was transfixed by what was transpiring before her eyes. And she was more than a little frightened.

What if I were discovered? One of those men – especially the aggressive one – might even kill me. He’s powerful enough to cover something like that up. I’d become the insignificant photographer who knew too much.

Even with college expenses, she was able to save enough money to take a long-desired trip to Martha’s Vineyard. Her mother provided the funds for the hotel on the beautiful island. Lily was majoring in photography and using the trip for an assignment.

Lily looked around for signs of others. Then she turned her attention back to the scene just as the actor dropped to his knees. 

“I’m begging you, Scotty. Don’t do this.”

Is he crying? Yes, he’s crying. The infamous Alan Eliot is on his knees, crying.

Scott knelt before Alan, pulled him into him and held him tight. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just don’t understand.” He pulled away and stared Alan in the eyes. “I love you deeply. You know that.”

Alan’s lips tightened. His jaw twitched. He wiped away a tear. “I have too much to lose. And, if I were honest, I don’t think this life is for me. Not anymore. And the lying—”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Scott leaned into Alan and began kissing him passionately.

Alan jerked away and stood. Scott followed.

“But I do. I do know what I’m saying.” Touching his lip where Scott’s mouth had just been, Alan’s blue eyes lifted to the other man’s. There was resolution in his stare, and it seemed he was hiding his irritation. Lily concluded that this was no hasty decision.

“Then we die,” Scott said. “Because I can’t live without you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Scotty. You have—”

Before he could utter another sound, Scott pulled out a pistol and touched the barrel to Alan’s forehead. 

Alan froze.

Several tense moments passed. For a minute or so, Lily held her hand to her mouth. 

Then Scott turned the gun toward himself and pulled the trigger. The last photos that Lily snapped were of the blood splattered all over Alan’s blue shirt, of him running from the scene into the ocean and then along the beach, and of Scott’s body slumped in the sand. Her hand shook the entire time. Salty tears reached her lips.

Lily scrambled up the cliff in record time. When she reached the top, she slumped into the grass to catch her breath. Her camera lay beside her near her hand. Once her breathing slowed, she looked at it as though it were a one-eyed ghost staring at her with its deadly secrets.

That night in her hotel room, she watched the news. They had it halfway right when they announced that Scott Underwood had committed suicide. The president said a few words about his shock and sadness over the incident.

The police weren’t as easily placated as they were aware of the extra set of footprints leading away from the scene into the water. They were half expecting a body to wash up.

The next morning, Lily had the news station on again while she tossed items into her suitcase. No connection to the suicide was made when Alan Eliot was interviewed about declining a big movie deal. He stated that he was taking a much-needed hiatus from work for an undetermined amount of time.

Lily checked out of the hotel and drove away. Minutes before class was to begin, she pulled into the parking lot of the Massachusetts College of Art & Design; MassArt as it was generally referred to. Due to traffic, she had not had any time to stop at her apartment and unpack from her trip. 

She raced across the grounds toward her classroom. Professor Becker had little patience for tardiness. She wondered if he should be the one she could talk to.

She had no sooner settled into her seat than the professor began discussing history.

“Does the name Ralph Morse mean anything to anyone?” 

There was zero response from the class. Then he began talking about Einstein, of all people. Einstein in a photography class.

Okay, we’ve seen our share of photos of him. Wait until you see what I have photos of. And who’s Morse? The main character in the Endeavour series?

Lily was trying to figure out the best way to market her photos. Talk about exposure. Not to mention money. She didn’t know what to do. Who to approach. The local news? The New York Times?

“What most people don’t know is that when Einstein died,” the professor continued, “one photographer – just one – had the presence of mind to rush to Princeton and take photos of Einstein’s office. Ralph Morse of LIFE magazine. True story.”

A student raised his hand. “Why was Einstein at Princeton?”

The professor hid his annoyance well. “You understand that just having Einstein standing in the hallways smoking a pipe would’ve been a huge feather in the cap for Princeton, right? But he didn’t just stand around. He was involved in the Institute of Advanced Study.”

“Oh. Doing what?”

The professor explained that Einstein gave lectures on the campus. “He was not, however, a professor.” He elaborated by stating that there was a period of time when Einstein and Oppenheimer were at the university at the same time. 

“Imagine that.” Noting the confused look on the student’s face, Professor Becker added, “Oppenheimer headed up the Manhattan Project. You know, the team that created the first atomic and hydrogen bombs that ended World War II.”

The student’s face brightened with comprehension.

Curious about where the professor was going with this information, Lily asked, “What about Einstein’s death?”

“Yes.” The professor continued, explaining that Morse rushed to Princeton and took photos of Einstein’s office, of his casket being loaded into a car, and pictures of the family at the funeral. 

He clicked on a projector and a photo came to life. “These are the images the photographer took that day.” He went through several black-and-white photographs of Einstein’s office, his desk, pipe, and papers.

Lily grinned. The guy was a hot mess. His desk was total chaos. Papers scattered everywhere. Probably a reflection of his mind and all the stuff that went on inside. Yet, he was able to combine that mess into brilliance. Amazing!

“You might ask what the significance is of these photos. On average, they’re somewhat blasé, no?”

Lily thought the photos were pretty cool. Especially the photo of the chalkboard with physics equations scribbled all over it. The equations were sectioned off in various boxes and she wondered why he had done that. Were they different topics, or entities of the same thing? She figured that capturing the place where Einstein spent his last living moments was impactful enough all on its own.

“You have probably never seen the photos because they weren’t released until nearly sixty years after they were taken in 1955. One of them was, but the others were archived.” 

“What?!” Several students exclaimed this at once.

“That’s right.”

As the story goes, Einstein’s son saw Morse at the funeral and casually asked what his name was. He later contacted LIFE and requested that the photos not be released while the family was in mourning.

Lily plunged her back into her chair. Her face went ashen.

A conversation between the students and professor ensued but Lily heard none of it. She thought about the photos she had taken. Alan Eliot had children. He had a wife, a life, living parents. Anyone who could Google or read Wikipedia could find that out.

Lily tuned back in to the professor.

“My point is, Morse was a well-respected photographer. Over the years, he took countless significant photos. Did that one incident make or break him? Did he let it?”

In other words, should we invade the privacy of others at their expense, and for our gain?

“I call it ‘potential overexposure’.” Judging from his grin, Professor Becker obviously enjoyed his own joke.

But can I ignore the significance of the potential money I could make on my photos?

The men she photographed had been in a relationship with one another. Obvious. The world was not aware of that fact, and it would have devastating consequences for both parties were it known. Not so much because of the fact, but because it was hidden and both men were living a lie.

It was the lie that made it a salacious scandal.

Lily thought about Einstein’s family. About the loss they must have felt over losing such a significant member of their family. The son was so distraught that he asked that Morse’s photos not be published. So distraught that the images would feel invasive to an already grieving family.

How would Alan Eliot’s family feel about his previous relationship? He apparently wanted to close that chapter. 

Lily’s photos would breathe life into it, and the topic would never die. What about Scott Underwood’s family? Lily cared somewhat less about that since he was dead, but she did need to factor that in.

I guess the real question is, do I have enough confidence in my photography prowess? Do I think this is the event that will define me? Should it be as though I was never there? Do I have a right to ‘overexposure’?

After class, Lily showed Professor Becker some of the landscape photos she had taken on the island. He was impressed.

“I especially like the way you use light and shadows.”

She mentioned that she appreciated his lecture on Morse.

“What did you think of Morse’s photos?”

“I really liked them. You could almost feel Einstein there.” She paused, thoughtful. “Before you brought this up, I would have probably been like Morse. I wouldn’t think about the consequences of the pictures. But they’re powerful, aren’t they? Or they can be. I would initially only feel pride for the accomplishment. Of being in the right place at the right time.”

“No question that pictures have the ability to wield great power. And now?”

“You made me think.”

He patted Lily’s shoulder. “Good. Then I did my job.”

Back at her apartment, Lily sat at her computer. In her ‘Photos’ folder, she created a subfolder entitled ‘Never-Maybe 2024’. That’s where the Alan-Scott photos went.

She grinned and closed the lid of her laptop. She was meeting friends at a local bar.