Portrait of Unknown Woman: Coney Island

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I.

While riding the F Train bound for Coney Island, I notice a woman facing me. Although her features are familiar, I can’t place where I know her from, or if I know her at all. She moves her head up and down in a metronome rhythm as I slip on my glasses for clarity. I notice her eyes move without seeming to see anything, as if she is mulling something over, or going over some past sequence of events in her mind, but remaining unable to make a connection. When she looks at me, I quickly turn away.

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II.

During winter, Coney Island’s desolate beach and boardwalk offer great opportunities for photographs. The darkness takes on new depth in ways I can’t explain with words, but which are clear to me through my camera’s lens. I checked the weather before leaving, then confirmed with my subject to meet me at our designated spot near the boardwalk.

My idea for this shoot is to set my subject halfway between the breaking waves and my tripod. Using the ethereal gloaming of the winter sky as backdrop, my subject, dressed in a dark sweater dress, will contrast as the delicate rays of the winter sun pass through thin clouds. The cold wind whipping on her face turns her light skin red. If all goes well the subject will appear frozen-like with only the fire glow from her charcoal eyes illuminating the photo and echoing the dark water crashing in just behind her. Miranda, my subject for this shoot, was recommended by a colleague at the university. She was a model for her studio art classes. During our meeting the week before at the Cobble Hill Cafe, I showed her my portfolio, and we discussed the shoot. We exchanged ideas about makeup and hair and she suggested certain outfits which might suit what I was after. Jokingly she suggested a series of nude winter shots at the frozen beach. I told her it was the clothes covering the nude I’ve always found most interesting. On the side of her face above her eye was a pretty deep scar. I could see it underneath a layer of makeup which only made it more visible to my eye. When she caught my eyes scanning her face she quickly sat up, turned to the side and leaned so her hand rested over the blemish. These small details make no difference to me as an artist. My interest lies in illusions, and in perceptions, not some facile idea of perfection. I place my subjects in the middle of what appear to be storms, or representations of turbulence. I direct them to try to appear calm and relaxed as they look at my camera and imagine the viewer looking back at them, wondering what is happening beyond the frame that enables their calm in the apparent storm. What dangers have they known which have taken away their fear? My desire is to capture the subject at that moment of transition. The fine line between an oncoming disaster and the place of better understanding. The surrender. As long as I can control the variables, the imperfections of the subject add to the success of a composition, especially in this case: evidence of harm Miranda had endured which she’d survived. She didn’t need to try to hide it from me. But I didn’t tell her this.

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III.

When the subway door opens, two people shoot up and quickly exit, leaving me alone with the woman across from me. I think about asking her if I look familiar. My curiosity is getting the best of me, to the extent that I decide to speak to her. I gather my things and sling the weighted backpack over my shoulder. I step casually over to the stanchion, halfway between where I sit and where she is sitting. She wears a heavy knitted scarf, and a black sweater dress with black tights and suede boots. Like a makeshift headband, her gold-rimmed sunglasses push her hair away from her face. I notice the socket around her right eye is bruised. On her lap she balances three overstuffed plastic bags tied tight. Each one has only a tiny piece of plastic sticking out from the knot she uses as a handle. Between her and the subway door is an empty baby stroller. I feel like I am trying to recall the end of a bizarre dream. I clutch the pole tightly and watch her movements for clues. She tilts her head to one side as she looks up and sees me staring at her. With a slow, deliberate movement, she lowers her sunglasses over her eyes and leans over to grab the stroller. One of the bags falls to the floor. I step forward and reach down for it where it sits at her feet and offers it to her. She reaches out her hand and takes it.

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IV.

The meeting with my student from my Photography Composition Class left me uneasy. I sent her an email warning her that the university had certain expectations. Missing 12 of 16 classes would require me to fail her. In my email I explained that she’d have to pull an A+ on the final exam for me to even consider giving her a D- for a final grade. At best, that would allow her not to have to pay to do the class again. I checked the University’s Health Department website to see if mental illness challenges exempted her from attending classes in person. She replied to my email and requested a meeting to explain her situation. Because of the expense, she couldn’t live in the dorms. She and her boyfriend lived near the subway but it would take her two hours to drop their kid off at her friend’s house near Coney Island, then take two trains from there to arrive at school. If planned in advance it was possible, but her partner always had their car and never communicated with her as to when he would be home. He worked for the Metropolitan Transit Authority. He would get texts at all hours about downed power lines and switch problems and never knew when he’d be home. With increased storms, the texts became more frequent. I thought of Miranda with her dark eyes against the waves crashing in behind her. When the boyfriend finally arrived back at their apartment, he wanted to go to sleep. He said he was not available to look after their two-year-old son. Last Thursday, the morning of the review for the class’s final project, he pulled up after a late-night emergency and forgot his cell phone at the repair site. She was fuming and insisted on taking the car. All he needed to do was call and she’d arrange to have her best friend, Anna look after their son. Anna was a fashion model from the Czech Republic so only worked a few days a week. She loved looking after their son, and sometimes he would call her maminka, mommy in Czech. She thought that was so cute. Her boyfriend said that university is for liberals, and they no longer run the country. He wanted her to quit playing games with useless learning and get a job to help with rent. He said she was failing most of her classes anyway, so if she pulled out now, they could recoup some of the tuition. Rent was already a week late. It would help. He had his own bank account and she never understood with all this late-night overtime why rent was a week late. They argued and she insisted he stay awake and look after their son. She’d take the car and on the way home would pick up his cell phone. While calling his number to find out if the crew had found the phone, he yelled at her to put it down. He insisted that she not take the car and said he was going to sleep. Feeling empowered by the realization that the end was near, she called. She resisted when he swiped at the phone to grab it out of her hands. After a struggle she pulled the phone away from his grip. It slammed into her face causing a gash above her eye. She called. A woman answered in a whispering tone. She was home and he could come by anytime. The voice had an accent. It sounded like Anna.

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V.

The cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I wrap my arm around the subway pole to steady my balance, slip it out and tap the screen. It is a text from Miranda. Her train is being held up because of switch problems. They made an announcement that emergency crews are working on it but it could take some time. She apologizes and will text me once it starts moving. She is sitting in a tunnel in the dark, she says.

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VI.

My student leaned across the desk, pushed her sunglasses through her hair and adjusted them atop her head. A small band-aid stretched across a gash closing the two parts of skin. Her one eye was blackened and badly bruised. When she caught my eyes scanning her face, she quickly straightened her back, then asked me for one more chance. If I awarded her that and let her present the final project, she promised it would be like no other I’ve ever seen.

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VII.

After taking the bag from my hand, the woman with the stroller doesn’t really acknowledge my gesture, just tucks it between her belly and the other two bags. It is at that moment I remember an article I’ve read a few weeks before. It is about the butcher-on-the-bus phenomenon. It involves a distinction on episodic memory between familiarity and an unsubstantiated impression that an event was experienced previously. Sometimes we can recollect some information on the episode in both the space and time in which it was acquired. The butcher-on-the-bus phenomenon occurs when one believes that a person is familiar upon seeing their face in an atypical context, like the common butcher we see all the time in his store but when we see him on a bus, out of context, we fail to recall any information about that person whatsoever. I often experience this when I see my students outside the classroom. I know that they sit in the third row from the left, usually wear baggy pants and always blurt out the answer. But if I see them dressed more formally in their work clothes, out of the classroom context, I absolutely cannot place them.

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VIII.

As promised, the photo series she presented in class for the final exam was nothing short of a work of profound art. The other students who attended my classes on a regular basis presented work that was expected. Compositions which exploited the latest technology, but did nothing to elevate the art of photography, or deepen an understanding of the human condition. I’d have to give them good marks as they did what I asked for, but nothing about any of it was surprising or fresh. However, my failing student’s work could end up in a Chelsea gallery. She recreated scenes from her ‘messed up life,’ which became the name of the series. Each of the 12 compositions told the story of why she was unable to make it to my classes. Some of the photos were violent, some were quirky, but collectively she created a window into the dark world she lived in. The first photo in the series introduced three subjects sitting around a table playing cards. They would be interspersed throughout the rest of the series. The first photo was titled the cards I’ve been dealt. I sensed that she showed me in her compositions what she couldn’t tell me at our meeting. It’s as if she laid out her cards on the table, and now it would be up to me to decide. On my way from the class to my office I thought about my work at the university. Was my responsibility to the department head? She mentioned it would be a bad precedent to pass a student who barely showed up. She said it wouldn’t be fair to the other students who participated in all my classes. I understood this, of course. But what if she was the next Nan Goldin or Diana Markosian? Did I have a responsibility to her as an artist superseding my role as her professor? I could imagine attending her opening at a gallery.

As I walk over to her, she turns to her friends and says to them that he was my professor, and... It was up to me to decide what the next line was. I looked back at the email about the policy towards attendance and grades. It was vague enough. I slipped on my reading glasses and leaned in close to the first photo of the three women playing cards. They struck me as sisters. Each one had a cut above a bruised eye. An email suddenly appeared in bold letters reminding us we had three days to get our grades in. I looked back at the photo to find some flaw to justify something less than an A+. There was none.

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IX.

The train slows as it lazily pulls into the last stop. She gathers her three bags and puts her hand on the stroller. I think about helping her by moving the stroller closer to her seat, but my body stays affixed to the pole. It is at that moment a bright flash of sunlight pours in through the dirty train window and illuminates her face. A moment of episodic recognition moves through my temporal lobe. I close my eyes for a moment to let the process of recollection set in. I need to stay focused and let it fully develop before it flies out to the ether and beyond my grasp. A vision passes through me as I remember seeing her on a stage. The warm colored spotlight bathed her face in a soft ethereal glow. Her hair was pulled back off her face. She balanced a fiddle between her chin and shoulder as she looked out at the audience. Her charcoal eyes settled on me watching her as she played. A swirl of music poured from her strings as powerful as crashing surf.

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X.

Before submitting my final grades, I laid out her 12 photos across my conference table. I texted a colleague I trusted to come in and let me know what she thought. She lifted the last photo to get a closer look, then turned back to look at me as I waited for her response. She loved how the student put her own life on view. The honesty of what she revealed was painful. She wondered where one goes from here? How is it possible for anyone to leave this mess and focus on their studies? She lifted up one of the photos. It showed a mother holding a child while standing knee deep in garbage. One foot was shackled by a chain that was attached to a pipe under the kitchen sink. I explained to her that it was problematic because the student barely came to any classes. She leaned in closer to the last photo in the series and said it supports the idea that great artists don’t need teachers. It’s a waste of their time. They just need a school on their artist bio and more opportunities to exhibit. The wall clock indicated a few minutes before noon. I gathered the photos and slipped them into my overstuffed backpack between my camera and tripod.

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XI.

We pull into the high modern shed of the renovated train station alongside a replica facade from the old Coney Island station. Like the laying on of God’s giant hands over me, the grand terminal opens as a greeting structure for the curious going into a modern illusion of America’s Playground. Balancing the weight of the three bags, she rises from the bench and grabs onto the flimsy stroller. She turns her head towards me as a pulse-like signal runs through my visual cortex. I drop quickly to my knees and withdraw the 12 photos. I flip through them to the last one and hold it in front of me. The last photo in the series shows a woman exiting through a door and pushing a stroller with one hand. In front of her stretches a long desolate boardwalk. The subject is directed to jump straight up in the air but not to let go of the stroller handle. Her hair is tied in a bun so it does not fly up. This gives the illusion everything is normal except she is elevated 12 inches from the boardwalk’s wood planks. As she jumps she turns her head slightly toward the camera. We see only half of her face. The sky is overcast but a single ray of sunlight illuminates the woman’s one eye. The one parameter for their final project was all photos had to be shot using natural light. What she achieved with limited sunlight took patience and a commitment to small details which made a transcendent composition. I watch as the woman with the stroller crosses the street. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, golf-ball-like chunks of hail beat down on the street. She doesn’t change her gait to hurry and get to shelter but keeps walking with her bundles and stroller. The battering sound on the roof of the grand terminal grows more intense. Like in a metronome rhythm she climbs the ramp to the empty boardwalk. With the food stalls and cotton candy stands shuttered and closed for winter, the balls of ice falling from the ominous sky look like a scene from the apocalypse. As I walk out from the protection of the Stillwell Avenue overpass, I withdraw my cell phone from my back pocket. The hail pounds my head as the 12 photos flash like Tarot cards through my visual cortex. I watch the familiar woman turn left onto the desolate boardwalk and finally out of my vision. I send the last final grade to my department head. As I look up at the wall mural of Grandma’s Prediction Fortune Teller, I receive a text from Miranda that the woman who was planning to take her place for the shoot is cancelling at the last minute. She doesn’t want to be out in this weather and has to get to her band’s rehearsal on time and it all is just too much. She is still stuck on the F train but called another friend who lives in Coney Island. She is coming back from university and is probably already there. She is not a model but a student of photography and very comfortable in front of the camera. She needs the money so will do it in this weather. Miranda tells her to meet me on the boardwalk next to the cyclone. She is picking up her son at the father’s girlfriend's apartment at 4pm, Miranda writes, so she might be with a stroller. If I keep my eye out, I should be able to see her.

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