I pilfered this post from my old blog and wanted to post it here again as I love this photo so much. Unfortunately, I can’t remember where I found it as it was so long ago.

“Prom Night ’62: Alone with Mr. McNamara” should have been the name of this photo. I wanted to write about it but wasn’t sure why, not because of the kitschy aspect; that itself is of course fun but not the most interesting part of the photo. It may be the oddly symmetrical nature; the brick pattern on the wall in relation to the well, the conical ruffled dress and upward sweep of the pine trees.

There’s a few elements going on: the staged setting is at once congruous and incongruous to each of its props; she’s standing at a well, made of a brick-patterned cardboard within another brick enclosure, a river of gray crepe paper is draped over more brick and just beyond the door opening is yet another brick ensemble. Brick leading into more brick–a sort of sloppy Ikea display or a tossed sketch in Escher’s trash bin. It’s hard to tell if it’s really a set of stairs or another background–did she come through there? Or was she always there?

Not an uncommon prom photo, perhaps of the time, but it’s somewhat sinister, the unharmonious mixture of artificial materials and the girl–smack in the middle, dressed to kill, not a hair out of place, perfect pink with white gloves and a tiara. It’s as if her geometry teacher had wandered in the room and said “Hey let’s have a photo!” The girl looks caught in the headlights–somehow she ended up alone with Mr. McNamara.

“Beautiful, beautiful, you’re a perfect inverted Isosceles triangle”. He says and sighs then runs his hands over the ruffles of her dress. We need to get her out of there quickly! A mad rush from stale colors and pencil worn fingers! She steps back and falls into the well, pink taffeta slips over the edge and she is gone. The teacher is alone now, he looks over inside the well, it’s empty, a slew of old straws, paper cups, popcorn and corsets litter the bottom.
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When the girl sat down to be photographed, Herman knew immediately his day was to be miserable–the studio was boiling hot due to his furnace overheating and the girl was mousy and unkempt and sure to photograph terribly. She might as well have been a wet dog that was lugged into from the sea by its owner; damp and disheveled and loved only for its temperament.

She had come to the studio at the request of her father, he was about to set her out in society and he wanted her to look glamorous but proper, thus the pearls and frilly blouse. Herman didn’t have the heart to tell the man, his daughter’s hair was like a horse’s tail, her skin the texture of walnuts. But the moment he draped the black cloth over his head and looked into the lens–an angel appeared. He hair changed from a lump of seaweed to a billowy gathering of spun gold.

Her dress became less of a maid’s uniform and instead grew wings, blossoming into white goodness. Her eyes, that before bore the weight of a thousand drowned sailors, now appeared smoky and seductive beyond her years and Herman imagined them following his naked form as he strutted around the bedroom. She had an ethereal beauty and he feared if he coughed or raised his voice, she would vaporize and he would be left with an ordinary girl sitting on a stool.

He fiddled with the glass plates and thought; this girl could very well be my bride! How does it matter that he was already married, had six children, had a financial tie in with his in-laws and was forty years older then girl! This was of no concern now, as his loins were on fire and he must have her, he must. He tore the black cloth from his face and strode over to the girl. He would kiss her, caress her, but instead looked down.

Her white cotton shirt was soaked at her armpits from the heat in the studio. Her hair had turned into a swallow’s nest and her skin had an overall glossy sheen like that of a recently washed floor. He smelled a repugnant odor of old mushrooms in the studio and at once felt sick and ran to the window for air. He saw the father approaching the studio’s steps and wasn’t sure what he would tell the fellow. He turned around and looked at her again and she sat still, smiling across the room at him in her homely aura. He quickly placed the black cloth over his head and once again looked into the viewfinder. Ah, there she was, a creature beneath a specimen glass, still, lovely and perfectly posed. He could possibly marry the image behind the glass. He imaged it wouldn’t be too difficult to lead life beneath a black cloth, hold the hand of the girl and see beauty through his lens. Yes, quite a possibility.

He decides he wants to drive to Montana, that the clean expanse of land will clear his head. But he wants to do it in style, so he dons a crisp white shirt, a silvery silk vest and a proper black dinner jacket. He forgoes a bow-tie and decides it’s irrelevant and that the open collar shows more trust somehow. His hair is unruly but he decides this doesn’t matter much as the wind from the cornfields will blow it to high heaven anyway. His trousers are a little musty and look sloppy when he put them on but he decides no one will see that part of him as he’ll be driving much of the time.

On the road, he stops and buys cigarettes and beer and signs an autograph for a twelve year old boy drinking a Slushie. He is surprised twelve year olds watch his films at all and makes a note to possibly makes a children’s comedy the following year. Later after too many cigarettes and beer, he stops by a  replica of a western town. He buys a souvenir ashtray and a beer mug which he will keep on the passenger side of the car. He stops at a tourist photography stand called ” Old West Daguerreotypes” and poses for a photograph. He doesn’t need to don the worn and cheap period costumes as he is wearing his own. The man who photograph him doesn’t recognize him and chats about the weather and the crop turnout that year. He hands him the photo and Sean turns and walks down the dusty street, the bottle of beer sloshing at his side. He drives on happily, the expanse of land behind him.

(This photograph is for sale at my Etsy shop, objetpetita)