by Evie Blake
Valentina drops the enlargement into the stop bath and waits. She looks at her watch and counts. She is in the crimson confines of her darkroom inside the apartment. It was always her mother’s hiding place, away from her and Mattia, and probably their father. Now it is Valentina’s. Although she only uses it for work, not liking the memories the space evokes.
Valentina often uses film and enjoys developing photographs the old-fashioned way, yet she has never been fond of her darkroom. She has never liked small, dark spaces. She clicks her fingers. Another twenty seconds before she can fix it and turn on the lights.
She leaves the print in the fixer for five minutes, trying not to peek. She doesn’t want to look at it until it is fully developed. She starts rearranging the row of prints hanging above her. Taking them down and examining them. Wondering if they are good enough to exhibit. Theo said they were, but she’s not sure herself.
For as long as she can remember, Valentina has taken pictures. Her mother was a fashion photographer, just like she is now. Valentina was given her first camera when she was eight years old. It was a Kodak Duaflex II from the sixties, which her mother used in her work. It can still take pictures and Valentina has kept it all these years. Although she grew up in the digital age, her mother insisted on teaching her how to use film cameras and develop pictures. She is primarily self-taught (well, mother-taught). Despite going to college to improve her skills, she has never been one to follow the crowd. She experiments constantly. Theo says that’s why she is so good. She shoots from the heart as well as the head. When she sets up a shot, even for a professional shoot, it is primarily instinctive yet at the same time meticulously orchestrated.
Valentina has a passion for the details in life. She notices small things that most people would not even acknowledge: the texture of a lip, a wisp of loose hair, the angle of an eyebrow arch, the length of an eyelash, the apple roundness of a cheek or the slenderness of an ankle. She finds these details, or close-ups, extremely evocative. Often she will create a frame with her fingers and choose a spot on her lover’s body – the stubble on Theo’s chin, for example – leaning down close and examining its exact pattern until he prises her fingers off him, teasing her for her obsession.
Valentina examines her latest work. After several years of shooting women for fashion magazines and looking at female bodies, sometimes so scantily clad they are practically naked, she has begun to feel the urge to make a more creative study. She loves the beauty of the female form, and even though she is not gay, she still finds looking at women erotic and stimulating, pushing her to try to create sensual images.
Using the medium of film, and shooting in black and white, she has so far only taken pictures of herself. She intentionally steers away from models, and has been too shy to ask any other women she knows. Up until this last batch of photographs she has remained clothed, dressing up in some of her mother’s old outfits from the sixties. She knows she looks just like her, and the images are unnerving. Valentina’s aim is to create a world of fantasy images where women become unreal, juxtaposing innocence and lust and seducing the viewer so that no matter how prudish they are they cannot deny the beauty in desire.
This new series of photographs was taken in Venice. She has always felt drawn to this city. Its poetic and sensual overtones constantly bewitch her. In fact it feels more like home to her than Milan. She shot her pictures in the early morning. She found an abandoned palazzo and began by taking pictures of the morning light streaming through the gaps in the boarded shutters. She moved outside then, squeezing through a narrow doorway that led to the canal. It had been raining the previous day in Venice and the water level was high. She crouched down by the edge of the canal and began to take pictures of the murky water. Despite the sunlight illuminating the surface, it was impossible to see to the bottom it was so dirty. So full of secrets, Valentina thought. She could smell the decadent scent of Venice, putrefied salt water. The thick opaqueness reflected back her face. She looked so serious.
She shifted position and a tiny part of Venice crumbled into the water, peppering its surface. Through the ripples she could see her legs, and she took pictures of their reflection. She began to make out other parts of her body. She took off her jacket and took a picture of one of her bare arms. It seemed as though it did not belong to her any more, this pale, slender waving line, beckoning to her. The girl in the green water was no longer Valentina, but another girl, who looked the same but unlike Valentina wanted to be seen. Look at me, she appealed. Her pale face, dark eyes beseeched her. Valentina took another picture, and another. She closed in and her watery self undressed for her. Here was a shot of the inside of a bent knee and upper thigh, teasingly cut off. Another of her stomach, creased from crouching, her belly button like a black seed floating on the water’s surface. She zoomed in on one breast as it floated upon the water like a white bloom. How long she was taking pictures of the naked girl in the water she didn’t know. She was completely focused on her work. It made her breathless and excited to be doing this. She never felt this way when she was doing a fashion shoot.
Gradually the sounds of the day around her began to reemerge. A vaporetto passed by at the top of the tiny canal, causing the water to lap and break up her imagery. Valentina’s erotic girl disappeared and suddenly she saw herself again, crouching by the canal, her eyes wild and her body naked. Hastily she put down her camera and retrieved the clothes that were strewn all around her.
Now she leafs through the prints. They look even more erotic in the red light of the darkroom. She has no memory of taking her clothes off that morning, and yet of course she did. How else would she have been able to create these watery images of her fantasy woman of Venice? She picks up the last image. It is a close-up of her bottom half crouching, from her waist to her knees. Her stomach is rippled by watery reflections of light and dark, and below, between her legs, is a dark, dark shadow of suggestion. The viewer senses she is naked, yet they cannot see her private parts clearly. The water keeps them hidden. Valentina can’t help feeling turned on as she looks at this image. She wishes that Theo were with her in the darkroom so they could make love.
She puts the pictures aside, begins to rub herself gently, fingering her nipples, and then stops suddenly. The negative. She is too curious about Theo’s gift to continue. She takes the print out of the last tray of water and blots it with a towel, taking it with her out of the darkroom and into the bathroom. She plugs in the hairdryer, puts it on low and air-dries the print. Gradually an image emerges. It is frustratingly hazy and at first it seems to be of nothing at all, just shadow and light. She turns off the dryer and walks back into her bedroom. She is still wearing only her dressing gown over her stockings. She places the picture on her bureau and stares at it as she throws off her dressing gown and puts on her bra, lifting and tucking her breasts inside its lacy underwire.
Well, what is this, Theo?
She can’t work it out at all. Is it some kind of landscape? She sees an outline that looks like the curve of a valley between two hills, but that is all she can make out. There is something about the texture of the landscape, though, despite the obvious age of the picture, which makes her think that in fact it is not what it seems. She can’t bear it. She has to know.
She picks up her phone and considers calling Theo, but that would be breaking her rule, and only a few hours after he left. Besides, she doesn’t like telephone conversations. For her the phone is purely functional, for work and the organisation of her schedule. She stares at the screen of her phone for a minute, thinking. She leans the photograph up against the lamp on the bureau and steps back. And something hits her. Something about the curve of that landscape. Of course, it’s not a long shot at all, but a close-up. She should know that after all the hours she has spent looking at women’s bodies. This is the outline of a naked back. But whose?
Now she really is curious. In fact she is so intrigued that she does something she has not done since the day Theo moved in, despit
e all his mysterious disappearances. She decides to have a little look in his desk, just in case there is some kind of paperwork explaining where he got this album, or explaining who the model is. He need never know. There has to be a point to this present, and she can’t bear to wait until he gets back to find out. What was it he said? I believe it’s time for you to have this.
Although the study is supposed to be a shared room – this is her apartment, after all – it has in fact become Theo’s domain, just as the darkroom is hers. It is at the back of the apartment, and overlooks a small communal garden belonging to the whole building, as well as providing a glimpse of the red tower of old Sant’Ambrogio, whose cloisters are Valentina’s favourite place of refuge when she wants an hour on her own to think.
She opens the door and switches on the light. She is surprised to see that Theo has some new art on the walls. Pictures he hasn’t shown her. The last time she was in here, there were only a couple of paintings up. Now there are about five, hanging this way and that, looking as though they have been thrown up there with no thought whatsoever. Given Theo’s curatorial background, Valentina is perplexed. She looks at the art and feels even more confused. She knows Theo’s taste. Modern, either German expressionism or minimalist abstract, yet two of the pictures are the opposite of this, and they are copies. There is for instance a copy of a Watteau painting, and she knows for a fact that Theo dislikes rococo. Well, it is none of her business in any case. She really isn’t that interested in Theo’s art collection. She makes her way to the desk, which in contrast to the haphazard walls is neat and ordered. The bulb in the desk lamp is gone and the overhead light is inadequate, so Valentina pulls the cord by the window to raise the blinds. As daylight floods the room, she notices a small toolbox under the desk. She opens it, but there is nothing inside it to help with her investigation concerning the photographs; just a pair of pliers, wire, glass cutters, and a small hammer for hanging pictures.
As she stands with her back to the window, leaning over the desk, Valentina feels a prickle on the back of her neck. She swings around and sees a man in the communal garden. Could he be a new neighbour? Somehow she thinks not. He is staring up at her blatantly. She drops the blind quickly, aware of her near nakedness, and looks through the slats at the man. She notices he has a camera in his hand, and that he hasn’t moved. He is tall, with a shock of thick blond hair, and instinctively she knows he isn’t Italian. Why has he got a camera? It’s a grey, rainy day, hardly the weather for taking pictures. It feels as if he is waiting for her to come out to him. Was he taking pictures of her?
To her surprise, Valentina isn’t angry. In fact she feels a little aroused by the idea of the man in the garden watching her walking around semi-naked. Unwillingly, yet again she wishes Theo were here. What has her lover done to her? He has turned her into a sex addict. The thought amuses her. Really, she doesn’t need that much encouragement.
She sits down in Theo’s chair, drums the top of his desk with her fingers and stares at the jumble of art on the walls. She really does want Theo here, so that they can make love on the desk again. That was what they did within the first hour of him moving in. She had offered him the use of the study, since he had to do so much writing, and brought him in here to show him the space again. Yet after weeks of living in each other’s pockets, the day Theo officially moved in she became bashful and nervous. Her rational mind was aghast. You have asked a man to live with you. You are giving up all your privacy! Yet she couldn’t stop herself from doing it. The chemistry between them was so intense, it literally felt like sparks were flying in that dusty, dim room. She remembers she was wearing one of her mother’s sixties outfits, in preparation for a party they had been invited to. It was a little navy mini dress, with a slit from where it fastened at her neck, all the way down to the small of her back. They were standing right next to each other as she showed him the bookshelves stuffed with art books her father had left behind. Her skin was prickling with anticipation. He slipped his hand inside the back of her dress, and leant down and kissed her on the lips. She will never forget the sensation of his hand on her skin that day; something snapped inside her as if her whole body was opening up like an offering.
Valentina sighs and closes her eyes, replaying the scene in the study. It was so spontaneous and enticing, the way he picked her up and sat her on this very desk. With consummate skill he continued to kiss her, while carefully removing all the items from the top of the desk. Then he pushed her gently on to her back on the leather-topped table, and devoured her until she was singing inside with ecstasy and desire. How long will she have to wait now until he is back? And even then will he want to touch her after he hears her answer to his request?
She pushes her fingers inside her G-string. She sees Theo in her head, and imagines it is his finger touching her. As she takes herself further and further, she imagines that the blond man in the garden is in fact Theo, returned, watching her from afar. He loves her so much he needs to take pictures of her. She hears him calling to her, his voice in harmony with the birdsong rising from the garden. She sees herself opening the blinds, and the window. She imagines Theo climbing in, placing the camera on top of the desk before kneeling down in front of her. He spreads her legs wide apart and buries himself between them, and she is pulling on his black hair, gasping in abandon. She is letting Theo do something to her that she has never let him do before. She is opening up to him, trusting him. And then she is coming, and her imagined lover lifts her up and pushes himself inside her. They are on the desk, just like they were before, reliving their old passion, making love like two people possessed.
Afterwards Valentina sits in the dusky room, hugging her knees and revolving around and around on Theo’s desk chair. The art on the walls becomes a carousel of colour and energy. She thinks about the stranger in the garden, and wonders why she imagined he was Theo back again, in fact not gone at all.
She grasps the edge of the desk with one hand, stops spinning, her eyes alighting upon one of Theo’s newly acquired paintings, a copy of a Dutch Master. Another strange choice for him. It is a painting of a woman in a Dutch interior, black and white tiled floor and panelled walls. She is standing at an open window, holding a letter up to the light, her head turned away from the viewer as if she is aware of their prying gaze. She is like me, Valentina admits to herself; she is trying to hide her feelings. No other lover has ever had such an effect upon her as Theo. To be able to make her come just at the thought of his touch.
Could she do it? Is it possible that she could welcome Theo’s parents into their apartment in the role of his girlfriend? The idea of it makes her chest tight with dread. She stands up suddenly, pushing the chair back from the desk so that it makes a hideous scraping sound on the marble floor. She is pathetic. All he wants is to call her his girlfriend. He is hardly asking her to marry him. It’s a normal enough request after living with someone for six months. Antonella calls herself someone’s new girlfriend almost every couple of weeks. Like Theo said to her earlier, it’s no big deal. And yet to Valentina it is. If she is Theo’s girlfriend, then she is his. She can’t let that happen, ever again, for Valentina belongs to no one.
Belle
SHE RECLINES ON HER BED LIKE AN ARTIST’S MODEL. SHE is naked apart from her black stockings and lace garters. She puts her hand on the dip of her waist and trails her finger up the hill of her behind, down again and up the slope of the side of her chest. She is in profile like a valley landscape. She can sense him behind her, taking off his clothes. Gazing at her back. She doesn’t need to look to know that he is folding each item neatly, one by one, before putting them on the seat of the armchair. The Doctor is precise in every way, particularly in his lovemaking. She closes her eyes and imagines she is in a movie. No need to talk. All she needs to say is in her body.
A warm hand is placed upon her shoulder and she knows that the Doctor is ready. She turns around and he is facing her, glorious in his nakedness. She takes pleasure in really look
ing at him. Her husband has never allowed her to do this; since she became Belle, she wouldn’t want to. Always they undress in the dark, and she believes that she now knows the Doctor’s body better than her own husband’s.
‘Are you sick, Belle?’ the Doctor asks her.
She nods.
‘Would you like me to make you feel better?’
She nods again.
The Doctor smiles and opens his big black bag. Belle moistens her dry lips with her tongue. What is he going to take out? She is a little frightened, although she knows in her heart the Doctor would never hurt her. Despite the fact that they never acknowledge it, Belle and the Doctor have moved in the same social circles for years. He calls her Belle, not Louise, and never hints that he might know her true identity, which of course he does. What other woman in Venice sports such a stylish black bob as Signora Louise Brzezinska?
The Doctor starts to take instruments out of his bag. Each one gleams hard, cold and metal.
‘Do you want me to make you better, Belle?’ he asks again.
She nods and the Doctor smiles at her benevolently. He picks up a severe-looking type of forceps and examines it before putting it back down again.
‘Well turn around now, like a good girl, and I will see what I can do for you.’
She turns her back to him again, the image of his medical instruments, shiny and bright, still in her head. He has never done it before, but maybe this time he will touch her with one of those things. The thought is frightening and thrilling at the same time.
