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Make your own flashcards that can be shared with others.Learn with extra-efficient algorithm, developed by our team, to save your time.My first husband was, among many things, a very good portrait photographer.
He quickly learned the considerable merits of bracketing—taking several shots at the same angle with different settings.
Once he’d settled upon what he determined to be the correct light exposure, he’d bracket left and bracket right in order to assure that he had captured several planes of depth.
I dove deep into the crevasse of married life he’d dug for us.
His age, and the fact that he’d traveled the world, cowed me.
Almost 40 years later, the photos prompted recollections of many events and by twisting my memory’s lens right and left, I was able to cull down the scenes that rendered an accounting of how this man had shaped me.
Many of the stories, brought forth by my shifting expressions on paper, made the memoir cut.So, when he insisted that I get a tubal ligation, I agreed.At my young age, I certainly couldn’t fathom kids of my own. Determined to display convincing devotion to our marriage, I dialed the number of the clinic, made the appointment, and even confirmed the day before.Part of his job at Y&R was to peruse hundreds of model’s head shots for whatever product they were shilling to the public.That’s the main reason he took up photography: he felt he could get to the essence of a woman’s face better than 99 percent of the jetsam floating across his desk.He’d fathered three children by two different wives; I was his fourth in what would become a succession of five.I spent my brief time with him secretly wondering, on an almost daily basis, what on Earth he saw in me, bolstered by the fact that I sensed his interest in me was waning.It stared back at me: sharp, unambiguous, the lighting dead-on perfect. My mouth is slightly open with saliva pooling in the corner, not yet sure of words. I flipped the 8×10 glossy over so I wouldn’t see what shame looked like, and, shoving it aside, I knew this event would never make it into my book.My fingers are laced together under my chin as though I were offering an agnostic prayer. Today that photo lives a comfortable life on a very high shelf.A face can be shot from an infinite number of focal points: the tip of the nose, the hollow of the cheek, the bowed flat of the forehead.This fascinated him—the potential beauty of a specific perspective, and how a perfect pooling of light could illuminate objective reality in innumerable ways.