In less than an hour, I had my Cramer’s Extra Rapid Dry Plates, my chemicals, even a ruby lantern for my dark room.
“And do you have your dark room trays? The old books will tell you to use porcelain, but then you must worry about breaking them. We can order rubber pans from back East, but they won’t be here for some time.”
I could not bring myself to tell him that I had picked out two porcelain platters that nearly emptied my pocketbook, then reconsidered and returned them to the shop where I had purchased them, and instead bought an outlandish amount of paraffin wax and inexpensive fabric with hopes of sealing a container of some sort.
“Whatever you have will be fine, I’m sure. But you know what has worked wonders for me? I cut up an old rain coat and used the India rubber cloth to line several wooden trays. They aren’t pleasant to look at, but the solutions don’t damage them, and they practically bounce if you drop one by mistake.”
He was nothing short of a godsend! Everything about him was gracious, and even his shop was cool and quiet, with the fresh aroma of lilacs in a vase. (While I do not usually concern myself with such superficialities, I admit it was a welcome change from the dust and roughness we had encountered most of the day.) Along with his practical advice, Mr Redington gave me a photography catalogue, from which I can order a vast array of products and tools.
“And might I ask what kind of camera you have?”
A pitiful photographer I must have seemed?—?I have yet to set eyes on my camera, and could not recall the manufacturer’s name. I had purchased it through Bradstreet Mercantile, as it was the only place I could find a camera that could be delivered within the week, and I could not bear the thought of waiting for one to come all the way from San Francisco. All I could say for certain is that it takes four by five plates, and I was regretting the small size. I confessed all this to Mr Redington.
“No, no, you don’t strike me as a studio photographer. I suspect a field camera such as that will suit you perfectly. They are lighter to carry and quicker to set up. And the truth is, Mrs Forrester, a camera is nothing more than a shrinking box with a glass lens. All the difference comes from the eye that looks through it.”
(I did have to wonder later how Mr Redington could be so sure I preferred the out of doors to the portrait studio. My pondering caused Evelyn to laugh out right. “Good Lord, Sophie, do you ever look at yourself in a mirror?”)
My only disappointment is that I have allowed Evelyn to convince me to stay in the city for the night. We are at the Quimby House, a pleasant enough hotel from what I have seen of it. Evelyn is of course in the dining hall, socializing, while I have already bathed and put on my sleeping gown. My head aches from all the talk with strangers, and I long for solitude.
I would so much rather be at home now. I fear how quickly the season slips away. Many of the fruit trees are dropping their petals. The flower gardens around the city are in full bloom. Time has become suddenly precious and fleeting.
May 24
I save all such notes for my field books, but I must mark this everywhere I can. A male Rufous humming bird! I was granted only the briefest look at it this afternoon, yet I am fairly certain. It passed by the front porch of our house in a quick dart, so close to me that I could hear the furious thrum of its wings. My eyes followed it beyond the honeysuckle, where it paused for a moment at the budding wild rose bush. I ran down the steps then, as I did not want to lose sight of it, but it flew off toward the parade ground and out of my sight so quickly. Yet for an instant, perfection reigned?—?the way it hovered in the brilliant afternoon sunlight, dark wings a blur, the red feathers of its throat set afire. It positively glowed.
May 25
I do not strive to be mysterious. It is not that I am unwilling to share my purpose, but more that I am ill-equipped to put it to words, and I am afraid the other women read into this an unkind secrecy. Yet how can I describe something so specific yet ethereal? If I could describe it perfectly, there would be no need for the pursuit. Isn’t the service of art to bring into focus something that cannot otherwise be defined? So that a sculpture does something words cannot, and, dare I hope, so too a photograph.
Mrs Connor came to the house just as Charlotte and I were unpacking the crates of supplies I had brought back from Portland.
“My dear woman, you do yourself ill gadding about.” (As if I spent my hours in dancehalls!) “You must be worried sick for your husband, and your heart broken from the loss of the baby. Shopping in Portland! Rearranging the pantry! You should rest, and make peace with your condition.”