At a small wedding, certain details are hard to miss—like who, besides you, is carrying a camera.
It’s a serious rig, heavy with extra lenses. The sort of rig that makes the shoulder dip.
Her posture—deep slouch over wide stance—broadcasts unease. She would like to be somewhere else. She would like to disappear.
You know the feeling.
She’s dressed down in black slacks, a black cardigan, a white shirt. With the dark colors and the lack of ornament, her uniform looks a lot like your own. You could both be caterers.
But this woman, your double, is a guest. This simple fact grants you a freedom she does not have. You are free to take her picture, but it would be weird for her to take yours.
You signed the contract, you cashed the check. You’ll take your shots—eight hundred to a thousand for an event of this size and duration. You will take her photo, come hell or high water. Given tonight’s forecast, the latter is more likely.
It’s an outdoor wedding on a beach on one of the sterling tines of the North Fork of Long Island. The event production is exquisite, with many tiny touches that will look great on Instagram. Only the five-foot vertical shrimp cocktail seems a little gauche. All those pink flippers curling over the rim of the silver salver, offering themselves by the tails like tiny unwitting mermaids. No one touches them.
The wet weather disappoints everyone but you; the day is lit by the kind of light that bounces off driftwood, a light that softens everything and makes your job easy. If it is still your job and not this interloper’s.
She’s here with her husband. Foppish in his bowtie, he keeps crossing your path.
At a wedding it is always a question of who is the center of attention. You have seen many weddings ruined by those who could not tolerate the question, mothers and sisters usually. But this guy is something else. He hounds the camera, needs the lens.
The bowtie sets him apart. The camera sets her apart. They are married, clearly, but they seem to share only this: a great preoccupation with being set apart.
Now the bow-tied man stands beneath an umbrella. His back is turned from the camera yet his posture suggests he knows it’s there; his neck is red with this knowledge, or perhaps it is just sunburn or the effect of a very recent haircut. In a separate chair, beneath her own umbrella, his wife sits, even though it is customary to stand at this point in the ceremony.
Which is quick, on account of the rain. As much is said as can and need be said; from where you stand, not one word is audible. Here come the brides: One wears a white linen suit that evokes a shalwar kameez, the other a tunic of pale gauze over petal-pink pedal pushers and velvet sandals in the same tender pink. They hustle arm-in-arm up the aisle taking huge strides as if they have much ground to cover. It’s good to be young, to have that kind of event horizon. The guests applaud, umbrellas tucked under arms.
The rain relents. There is a new light in the frame—a cloud-break light, call it joy.
Later, on the dance floor, the woman with the camera stands holding a lit sparkler. The ball of lightning burns toward her hands. Behind her, off to one side, her husband stares.
You recognize the look. Anyone would recognize the look. The meaning of the look is not in question. What is in question is the object of the gaze.
He might be looking at the sparkler or at his wife who is holding it. He might be looking at something else entirely. His body is here, but his mind is elsewhere, lost in some imagining that exceeds the frame and cannot be guessed from within it.
So much depends on who belongs in the frame and who does not. Behind the lens you perform feats of extraordinary rendition. This is how you take your revenge: you frame the shot so he appears to be looking at you, only you.