From the Dark Chamber:Three Daguerreotypes Brad Richard (bio) "Every object, however minute, is a perfect transcript of the thing itself . . . " - The Diary of Philip Hone, December 4, 1839 "When I began to take pictures . . . I had to make pictures of the dead." - Albert S. Southworth, "Comments at the National Photographic Association," 1873 1. "Young Boy with Dead Crane" - unidentified artist, ca. 1850 He holds death close to his body, the neck's curve limp in his fist, the wings splayed like broken fans, the beak empty, a stilled syllable. If it could stand, its height from black claw to white crest would clear the crown of the boy's hat, and its wings, spread for flight, would span wider than his reach if he were a man. He has been brushed, preened, and posed for this occasion, told he looks handsome, told to hold still and be taken. Never will I let go, he says. Look: this bird, more beautiful than me, is weak, and I, a boy, stronger. Death: why should I grow? 2. "Masked Woman" - unidentified artist, no date Behind the mask lies a face. [End Page 181] A bonnet covers the head, its curves cupping, beside each ear, coiled dark curls, dense orbs. There are frills, but the mask, though pink, is plain, smooth as imagined skin. Holes show the eyes, the eyes you think, of a woman. But what if the face is only a scaffold for the mask? Or itself a mask? Or what if the mask masks the face of a man masked as a woman masked? Dark coils, eyes that tell you you can't imagine. 3. "Dying Boy with Toys" - unidentified artist, no date A man comes to visit, carrying a funny toy: a box with legs that slide out, and a black blanket where he hides his head. What's in the box? asks the boy. The man sits him up in bed to peek through the hole, where the boy finds his mother hunched over her sewing, sitting alone in a window [End Page 182] that only opens in the box. How come you're here? To take your picture. Yes, but why? Your mother wants something to keep. The boy nods: the man didn't lie, the man looks sad. Let's play. All right. Here? No, in the parlor. The man lifts the boy: light as a ball, a pillow, a picture, a ghost of the weight of grown bodies the man has tilted, turning their heads over basins to spill their useless fluids. This small hand kisses his neck, not the clumsy caress of a dead limb whose resistant body he's embraced to set upright, then forcing joints to bend so they fold again naturally. Trembling, he sets the boy on a sofa, a taint of metal haunting his mouth, blood-tinged bile rising in his throat: mercury, he's used to it. Do you like your work? asks the mother, who's followed them. He glances at her busy hands, watches her pricking her thumb with the bright needle, drawing tiny tears of blood. Yes, he lies. The boy's head sags on the sofa's arm. His mother stares. He gets tired. Does he have toys? She shakes her head. When his daddy got real sick, we sold them. She holds the needle in her thumbtip, pushes harder. She sees him watching. If you don't mind, I'll be in the kitchen. Apparatus moved from the boy's room, the distance judged, the plate set, the man slips his head into the dark to look, but there's a tremor in the image, the boy a blurred shadow. He shuts his eyes, swallows, looks again: the boy smiles, calls him to the window. I want [End Page 183] a blue wagon, he whispers in the man's ear. That's easy; what else? A white horse with a red saddle. And a swan, a white swan. And a red drum. I can do that, let me go and I'll do it. The boy holds him harder: All my toys. All my toys, always. And don't tell mommy, but I want...
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May 18, 2023
Raden Andri Primadhi + 3
Open Access
