How to Take a Picture of a Sad Queen of Spades

He took the camera and clicked the shutter just as the swans took to the sky. It was a dreary winter day. It's a winter's day, the kind of winter where toes freeze, but the landscape lacks a comforting blanket of snow. The Vltava flowed no slower than on hot summer days. Swans and ducks flocked to the shore, where tourists and natives scattered crumpled bread across the water's surface for the birds to eat, utterly oblivious that the breadcrumbs poisoned those water birds.

The photographer had had enough of ducks, geese, and swans; enough of kitsch pictures of the capital's buildings on an afternoon so dark that only the lights of trams would signal the coming of twilight. He had had enough of laughing children throwing bread to hungry birds. He wanted something more. He needed one last photograph for the upcoming exhibition, and he knew full well that nothing he'd gotten up to that point would impress the visitors.

Some of the scenery was beautiful but lacked depth. They were just pictures on photographic paper with nothing behind the gloss. He let his steps lead him along the river to the park under the Legion Bridge. It was almost empty, with only medieval fencing enthusiasts practicing their skills on the other side. After all, who would enter a park by the river in this weather? Nevertheless, the photographer kept on looking. He didn't know what until he found it.

She was sitting on a bench by the river bank, huddled in her winter coat, but her gloveless hands were flushed with a cold she didn't seem to perceive. In one hand, she clutched the handkerchief she had used a moment before to dry her tear-soaked face. She was no longer crying, but her expression showed that she was not done crying. She just struggled to pull herself together. She stared with glassy eyes at the flowing river. This river had flowed here for centuries regardless of the trifling fate of mankind. She watched the swan floating on the surface with its innate grace and with apparent disinterest in its surroundings, lacking its majesty.

The photographer did not think long. He didn't want to miss the moment. He aimed, focused, and pressed the shutter.

This woman would not be just a pretty face in a picture, although she could have had a lesser artist take the photo. In some less able hands, she could become a cheap make-up advert that wouldn't even make your tears blur. But he was an artist. And she was his inspiration.

This picture would be the highlight of his show; he knew that. Because they would all marvel at her, to learn her secret, to know why she cried.

Crowds of visitors circled the photographs on display. The photographer himself was sitting in a corner, quietly clenching his fists. He knew he was an artist. But he might not get another chance to prove it to the world. He deliberately sat in the corner at the end of the exhibition.

To have an exclusive view of the photograph he'd included at the end. And he smiled with satisfaction when everyone stopped to look at it. Not everyone can appreciate the depth of a work of art. Many of them appreciated only the pretty face and the dark, shiny hair falling in wisps into the blush of the face. But the rest of the people looked beyond, beneath the surface. And they wondered. They wondered who the woman was and what had caused her misfortune. They couldn't know the exact answer, but the power of art was so great that they felt as if they had found it.

And each sought what was closest to his soul.

The young journalist looked into the girl's sad eyes and knew at once that she was tormented by an unhappy love. She watched the lazily flowing stream of water. She wondered how many girls had sat in her place long before her and considered jumping into the icy water. And she envied the swan, for swans are known to be loyal to each other for life. Her partner, would not surely abandon the swan. The swan's partner would surely not leave her for the love or pleasure of another happier woman. The swan didn't understand. The woman in the photograph had already cried too many tears to have the strength to shed more. That's why she just clutched the handkerchief in her tiny, gloveless hand and vowed to finally forget the man and let bygones be bygones.

The elderly greying gentleman and his wife also stopped by the photograph, and the artist in the chair in the corner squinted warily. This was his sponsor. A wealthy businessman who had allowed the whole exhibition to happen. All the success depended on his understanding of the depth of this photograph. If this man in the dark grey suit regarded the beauty on the park bench as just another in a line of hapless heroines of trashy novels, the photographer's career could end right here.

However, the rich art lover saw no cheapness. He glanced quizzically into the pale-faced eyes, saw the girl's sadness, and knew why she was so unhappy. He knew how much the world had hurt her. Maybe the world and the people in it weren't the only bad ones in her story. Perhaps she herself bore some of the blame. And maybe none of what happened could be blamed on anyone. It just happened. And so it was that a beautiful young girl sat on the banks of the Vltava River, wondering what to do next. The owner of the apartment she was living in with a flimsy legally contestable explanation, or perhaps an unkind parent with the reasoning that she was old enough to fend for herself, one of them, or perhaps someone else entirely, had thrown her out of the apartment, out of the house, out of the studio apartment. And she had nowhere to go. She didn't even have enough money to get something to match her current abode, and she had no one to help her. She watched the houses at the river bank, which stood long before there was a bench to sit on. And she envied the swan, who needed no shelter, heating, plumbing, or bed to fold her majestic white wings.

His wife had tears in her eyes as she watched the tormented face of the dark-haired girl in the fur coat. She knew the look. She had worn it herself more than once on her face. The girl had just lost someone close to her. A mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a friend...it didn't matter, but it was someone she couldn't imagine life without. She never imagined that someone could leave, and now he or she was gone. And the lady had to move on.

There was a determination in her eyes, besides the sadness, marking her wanting to move on. Maybe not right away, but she knew that in time, she would have to move on. She knows that many people have lived and gone in the buildings lining the Vltava River before she was even conceived. And the river has always flowed lazily on, as people must always go on. She watched the swan and suspected similar sadness in those black eyes, lined with black feathers, giving the bird that characteristic. For swans remain faithful to each other throughout their lives. When one dies, its mate dies of grief. The swan can't move on, but she, as a human being, must.

A stern-looking woman with a neatly styled haircut in a precisely fitting dark blue costume hasn't been particularly impressed by the exhibition so far. She liked art, and her friend knew the photographer personally, so she made time in her busy schedule. Until now, she regretted it. Her time was very precious, and here, she found nothing to justify such a reckless waste of that precious commodity counted down by minutes and seconds. The kitschy images of swans flying past the National Theatre with the darkening sky in the background were not what she was willing to sacrifice her free time for. So she thought until she came to a photograph of a girl sitting on a wooden bench on the banks of the Vltava River.

The elderly couple had just left the area in front of the portrait, so she remained standing alone in their place and silently gazed into the girl's saddened face with unfeigned fascination. Something terrible must have happened to her. She looked as if her worst dream had just come true. Those eyes, in which tears still glistened despite visible effort, those eyes spoke of unspeakable misery. The woman watching the not-much-younger beauty on the glossy colored paper realized all that the girl must have lost. She had probably just lost her job, didn't get into school, or gotten kicked out of university. She didn't know how to make ends meet with what little finances she had left, and she despaired. Her dream had vanished. She longed to make something of herself, to be recognized and successful in her field. She longed to prove to everyone that she had what it took. And now she would have to go back home to her parents if she still had a place to go and beg for a loan to have something to live by.

People passed the photos scattered throughout the exhibit hall with appreciative disinterest. They looked at them and might even have hung them on the wall above their bed if they needed to distract the endless white mass and brighten up the room. But at the last composition, they paused and gazed at it with awe, reverence, and comprehension. They pondered and guessed, whispered and argued, and they went home with a feeling that only a powerful artistic experience can give you.

The photographer sat with a satisfied smile on his face until the last visitor left. The hall emptied, and he stood alone before the image of his inspiration. The Sad Queen of Spades, the title said.

He did not know her. He would never see her again, and yet he owed so much to her. As far as he was concerned, he could only guess what had happened to her, which was terrible. He knew that the picture reflected not only her feelings but his as well. Every artist puts a piece of themselves into their work, and he was proud to share a piece of his soul with this beautiful grieving being. He didn't delude himself that he or any of those who had passed away knew what had happened to her.

He just knew that he certainly wouldn't change with her. That's the look people get when they've lost their home, their family, everything. But most of all, they've lost hope.

The girl on the bench by the Vltava River didn't notice the photographer behind the fallen tree to her right. And she had no idea that she had just become the inspiration of an ambitious artist. She wasn't interested in art, and she would never, as his star rose, know that she was a part of the photograph that made him famous. She crumpled a paper handkerchief in her palm and, with the skill of a basketball player, tossed it into the wastebasket. She closed her purse, took out a pair of suede gloves, and pulled them over her cramped hands. She glanced at the lazily flowing water and the proudly swimming swan. The swan was happy with the life nature intended for it. The water, too, knew the sea into which it itself flowed, its destination, its purpose.

The young woman in the fur coat pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called her boyfriend to tell him she would be home a little later. She'd stayed at work, knowing what a rush she'd been in lately since getting that prestigious contract. He understood, as he always understood. Perfect and always willing. It was getting dark. The tears had long since dried on her face, her hands had warmed, and the sobs had stopped pushing their way to the surface. Apart from a thinned packet of tissues, there was no indication that she had spent the last few hours crying on the riverbank.

Why did she cry after all? She came here shuddering with sobs that threatened to tear her apart. She felt such sadness; she cried for her perfect life, the life everybody envied. As she signed the best contract in her life, she realized that she hated her job. When she set out to go home, she realized she did not love her boyfriend, who just asked to marry her. It all clicked together, and she realized she would never find the courage to change her career path and leave her boyfriend. She would continue excelling at her job, getting praised and admired, marrying him in a stunning white dress, and becoming a happy mother to a happy family. Because she, as she realized right now and right here, did not dare to change her life.

And now, as tears stopped flowing, the night grew darker, cold grew colder, and her breath returned to its average pace; she felt foolish.

Surely, things were not so bad, were they? What was she thinking? She had just been bethrowed and achieved a big step in her career. Why the hell was she crying? This was the time to celebrate.

All of them would be disappointed if they knew. In fact, even the artist missed the point. Nothing terrible happened to her. They would have been disappointed by the ordinariness and mundanity of her sadness. The Sad Queen of Spades, he called her, and he was right. Because the game of cards is similar to the game of life.

Sometimes, even the best cards are useless if you can't play them.