He was right. Irina had leafed through the Italian edition, but nothing prepared her for the impact of those enormous portraits. Seth drove the three of them there in the family’s heavy Mercedes-Benz, since it was impossible for them to fit either in Alma’s car or on his motorbike. They went at a dead hour of the afternoon, when they thought they would find the gallery empty. The only people they saw were a hobo stretched out on the sidewalk by the entrance, and a couple of Australian tourists to whom the Chinese porcelain doll of a gallery assistant was trying to sell something. She barely glanced at the new arrivals.
Nathaniel Belasco had photographed his wife between 1977 and 1983, using one of the first twenty-by-twenty-four Polaroids capable of capturing the tiniest details with the utmost precision. Nathaniel was not among the famous professional photographers of his generation, and he himself claimed to be only an amateur, but he was one of the few who could afford such a good camera. Besides, he had an exceptional model. Irina was touched by the trust Alma obviously had in her husband; she felt almost ashamed when she saw the portraits, as if she were profaning a starkly intimate ritual. There was no distance between artist and model; they were joined in a tight bond, and out of this symbiosis were born photographs that were sensual without having any sexual overtones. Alma was naked in several poses, and appeared lost in herself, unaware she was being observed. Some of the images had an ethereal, translucent quality, where the female figure disappeared into the dream of the man behind the camera; others were more realistic, and Alma faced Nathaniel with the calm curiosity of a woman alone in front of a mirror, at ease with herself, not holding back in any way, with veins visible in her legs, her Caesarean scar, and a face showing all her fifty years. Irina would not have been able to express the disquiet they aroused in her, but she understood Alma’s reticence at being seen in public under her husband’s clinical gaze. The two of them appeared united by a feeling that was much more complex and perverse than married love. On the gallery’s white walls, Alma was displayed as a submissive giant. That woman frightened Irina; she was a stranger to her. She felt a choking sensation, and Seth, who possibly shared her emotion, took her hand. For once she did not pull away.
The tourists left without buying anything, and the Chinese doll turned eagerly toward them. She introduced herself as Meili, and immediately overwhelmed them with a prepared spiel about the Polaroid camera, Nathaniel’s technique and intention, light and shadow, the influence of Flemish painting. Alma listened to all this with great amusement, nodding her silent agreement. Meili did not make the connection between this white-haired old woman and the model on the walls.
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