Underexposed

I couldn’t help but feel like a grave robber with an “Antiques Roadshow” obsession. Entering that old house and just taking things.

“Annie, I really don’t want to do this.” 

It’s funny that it should happen now. It finally came. The story of a lifetime. In Argentina, there are these caves, the Cueva de las Manos, the Cave of the Hands. It's one of the greatest discoveries to hit anthropology and now, a new piece of the puzzle has come to light. A new cave, a new discovery.

“I know, but your mom was adamant about it.”

My editor got the call. They had discovered another area within the complex of the surrounding caves, and they were sending me, all expenses paid, for a single photo. Imagine seeing walls with Paleolithic images of animals and hunting expeditions. Then, there are the hands. Up and down the walls and covering the ceilings of the caves are hands. Rows and rows of red, black, and yellow hands. Each hand. A memory, a life, a story.

“Plus, everyone will be there.”

It was supposed to be this cathartic experience. I was going to be close to a group of people, separated by thousands of years. I can imagine taking my hand and holding it close to a hand print, thinking, "was it just art or did he want to be remembered? Do you think he thought maybe someone like me would trace their hand on his someday?"

“Are you listening to me?”

I can still hear my editor’s voicemail echoing in my mind. “Elias…it’s Terry…Yeah…Your mom has been trying to get a hold of you…Your great aunt Elly has passed away, and she says she needs you to come by the old house to help her… No worries, I can give the story to James.”

It’s not a story, Terry. It’s a revelation.

Now, I’m in my car driving with Annie to the old house.

“You know, I didn’t even know her that well.”

“But that’s not the point, you’re going there to support your mom.”

“I know, but I'm having these weird vibes going there. I remember she couldn’t stand me. Mom would tell me to stay away from her and everything was stuffy and gross. It’s weird because the house was huge.”

“How old were you?” she asked.

“Fiv—”

“Five! No way you remember that.”

I shrug my shoulders, reluctantly giving into her retort. “Okay, maybe I don’t remember everything that happened,” I said. “But don’t you think it’s weird going through some dead lady’s things?”

“Don’t talk about your great aunt like that.”

“I’m just saying who needs dibs on two hundred hummels?”

“You don’t know if she collected hummels.”

“C’mon. Eighty something year-old woman, living alone, no children. Look, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take the hummels if you take the mink coat with the hundred-year-old Ricolas that are stuck in the inside pockets.”

Annie shifts her body to the window and crosses her arms. I was incorrigible. 

“I’m done talking with you.”

We turned the corner on Beech Street. I knew it was the right street, but we couldn’t find the house. There was this one house, but it couldn’t be this house. It was too small and rundown.

Annie glances up and down at the address that’s scribbled on the back of a Chipotle receipt. Double check, triple check, quadruple check. “379 or is it 376? I can’t tell.” 

I recognize my brother's car in the driveway. We drive up the block to find a spot. The driveway could barely fit one car, let alone my four other siblings' vehicles. 

The yard was unkempt, and the path leading up to the house was covered with knee-high, shriveled grass and the white painted brick wall had green algae cascading down its side.

Sigh. I began pacing back and forth. Would I see my old memories? Or worse, would I see the truth? 

I knocked on the door. “Honey, thank you for coming,” said mom. I wish I could tell her I wanted to be there. Yet, the house was darker than I remembered, and I couldn't stand seeing the old flower wallpapers peeling off in the hallway entrance. “Sure mom, I’m glad I can be here.”

“I wanted you guys to go through her things and take anything you want before I take it all to Goodwill.”

We were there to take something back to remember her, but everyone was circling the living room like a carousel. It was less of a living room and more like Aladdin’s cave. No one was touching anything.

Along the walls in aunt Elly’s living room were pictures. Hundreds of pictures. Pictures overlapping each other, pictures covering light switches, outlets, even windows. Every space was a photograph and a multicolored push pin. From Tibetan monasteries to Somalian refugee camps to neighborhood lemonade stands, each one told a different story. But all the photos had a common denominator. 

“Mom, who’s the man in these pictures?”

“That was JoJo, your great uncle. You probably don’t remember him. You were just an infant.” She stared at one picture as if she was dusting off a memory. She took a deep breath and looked at me.

“He loved you...very much. I remember you were crying. No, not crying, wailing. And we couldn’t get you to stop. You see, I was a new mom, and I didn’t know what to do. So, he says ‘Let me hold the little guy.’ I don’t know why or how, but you stopped crying.” She sighed, “He had this effect on people. He had this power or aura, whatever you want to call it, that seemed to bring out the best in people. “

She grabs the picture from the wall. "He did that for Aunt Elly. That’s why she took it the hardest when he was gone.”

She hands the picture to me. 

“He brought the best out of her.”

"Is that why she’s not in any of the pictures?" I asked.

“No, she never, ever liked having her picture taken,” she said. “She was the artist and JoJo was her model.”

Among the towers of newspapers and minefield of knickknack, I decided to brush away the rubbish like an archeologist. I now knew what I wanted to look for. It’s here and I know where I would hide it.

I reach above the bookshelf.

I feel it’s cube formation and cold metallic body. Its compact and light. Its sleek and has a black exterior that looks as classy as a tuxedo. The 3.5 twin lens on its body shines like a Rolls-Royce that glistens under a Manhattan streetlamp. Built to last, compact, amazing optics, durable, simple, German. No doubt, it’s the most beautiful camera built.

“Annie! It’s a Rolleiflex.”

I couldn’t contain myself. Imagine the treasures inside. Looking at the exposure counter, I realize there’s one shot left. This was it. The golden ticket, the “one ring”, the Maltese Falcon. There’s a roll of film that was left inside for decades. Waiting in the dark, never knowing if it’d see the light again.

Let me make sure it works.

“Baby, let’s go outside for a moment. I need to show something?”

We hurry to the backyard, and I can see Mom peek through the window as I pose Annie by the old beech tree. 

We’ve taken hundreds of pictures together. She instinctively knows how I like it. She tilts her head to the side to let the light reflect off her red hair like a copper waterfall. Her hand rests on her hip, and her crooked smile is both innocent and seductive. Nothing more beautiful than a single flower by an old tree. Perfect.

I rotate the level on the side of the Rolleiflex camera that releases the shutter and then click.

*

If I could explain it, I’d say it’s less of a darkroom and more of a science lab. Shelves are stocked with beakers, thermometers, bottles of photo processing chemicals, lens filters, magnifiers, trays; Anything MIT had, I’m pretty sure I had.

Inside the darkroom, I couldn’t see my hands. But seeing WITH my hands was just enough. I could feel around the Rolleiflex, disassemble the camera and unravel the reel like a blindfolded marine and his AR-15.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, so I switched on the safelight. Its red light draped over the darkness.

After processing the film, I couldn’t see the negatives even against the safelight. I don’t even know if any of the pictures have survived. Perhaps they’re underexposed and I’ll never know the truth.

I grab the tongs and dip the white glossy photographic paper into the red 8 x 10 tray with the developer chemical solution. An image appears.

The white stop bath ends the development. And now, into the black tray fixer to make the prints permanent. One to start, one to stop, one to keep. 

Unfortunately, most of the photos didn’t make it because the quality wasn't that good. But then again, I’m not looking for quality, I’m looking for answers.

The first picture I hang to dry. Glancing every once in a while, as I prep the two other photograph papers. 

A face, a copper waterfall, a crooked smile. Yes, it’s my Annie. My Celtic model in front of the old beech tree.

I dip the next photographic paper into the trays. 

Bicycles. People walking on cobble streets. Faces were obscure from the slow shutter speed from in a window of a cafe. Now, a reflection of a lady holding a Rolleiflex in front of a cafe window on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Who knew someone could encapsulate their whole life in a single shot?

I look into the paper box, there’s only one sheet left. 

I dip the last sheet of paper into the solution. I sent the timer for a few minutes, but it feels like decades. Something begins to appear.

The woman, she has aged many years. It’s been a long time since the Boulevard Saint-Michel. She stands in front of an old beech tree and in her arms, someone’s world is just beginning. Fingers become hands. Hands become arms. Arms become an infant boy. She smiles as if he's her world. She takes his hand and waves to the camera. 

“Elias…this is Elly.. your mom has been trying to get a hold of me…But I wasn’t ready. Not ready to lose my JoJo. I know you would have come to the house if you knew I never meant to be cold to you. But I want to you to know I’ve always loved you and I want you to have this picture of us.”

“It’s not a picture, Elly, it’s a revelation.”