In a Flickering Light

Jane Kirkpatrick

 

In A Flickering Light, (WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group, A division of Random House), Jane Kirkpatrick draws a page from her grandmother's photo album to capture the interplay between temptation and faith that marks a woman's pursuit of her dreams in her fifteenth novel.  Jessie Gaebele was a photographer's assistant in 1907 in Winona, Minnesota in this first book of the Portrait of a Heart series.  Publisher's Weekly, in a starred review, called the novel "…exceptionally authentic" with "…exquisite nuance…aching and hopeful."   The story is told over three years through the eyes of Jessie, her employer, F.J. Bauer; and his wife, Mrs. Bauer.  Five actual glass plate photographs are reproduced in the novel with Jessie as the first person narrator of her story behind each photograph.  The first is what Jessie calls "The Subject" and it begins the novel.

 

Excerpt

In my favorite portrait of myself I am wearing an opaque eyelet dress, layered, with the scalloped edges of the hemline barely whispering across the carpeted studio floor. The dress could have been worn for a christening, though its lavish detail would have stolen something from an event where the child ought to be the focus. The child, wearing a long flowing white dress that could be handed down to brother and sister for each successive important day, that's what matters at a christening. The child is what people should gaze upon at such an event, not a mother or aunt or friend wearing a too-elegant eyelet dress.

It could be a wedding dress but of course, it wasn't.

 I find so few photographs of myself that I wish to share with others but in this one, I appear taller than my five feet, two inches, as I've chosen a hat with ostrich plumes swept up in the back and high over my head. The plumes shade my eyes with dried berries that flow out onto the hat's white brim in a cornucopia of fruit. My hair, the color of oiled leather, is coiled up beneath the brim. (My little brother, Roy, says I have hair the color of cow pies dotting the pasture on our grandparent's farm, but that's the nature of little brothers born in the new century, or at least was Roy's creative nature before the accident.) The milliner did splendid work and the white of the felted hat brim brings the eye to the dress, which is what I wanted. The beauty of the dress is the real subject of the photograph.

My mother called it my "kept woman dress." It was no such thing and it pained me to hear her say it. In time, I came to know full well that I'd received favor, undeserved and chose unwisely.  But there are always misunderstandings in families; always sacrifices worthy of making, too, no matter how strained they may seem at the time.

 I'd seen the dress in Choates' window as I walked bundled up against Minnesota's blistering river winds. The dress spoke of spring and newness, something I longed for.  I vowed to buy it. And so I did, saving twenty-five cents a week for six months before I brought it home one fine summer day. Of course I'd asked the clerk to set it aside for me and put fifty cents down so they knew I was serious, that I'd keep my commitment.

 In this photograph, I posed myself at the edge of a bench made to look like marble. Its molding can't be identified as something specific but suggests lush relief and gives interest to the eye, though not enough to take away from the true subject. Morning light radiates through the studio windows.

I'd painted a white board and set it just beyond the arc of the exposure so that the morning rays reflected against it and poured soft beams back onto the dress, keeping the area to my right in shadow. It seemed fitting with so much of my life a chase of shadow and light. Behind me I used the scenic drop of dark woods reflecting against a full moon shining. My face seems almost backlit by that sphere, a feature I hadn't anticipated.  It fascinates me that I can set up a subject, think I have everything perfectly arranged, and then only afterward do I see things I had not noticed before, little things, like spots of light that highlight the tips of my size three black high-button boots or a moon giving unexpected brightness. It seems I turn reflective after the fact, surprised by what was always there that I failed to see. 

I had wanted the soft, natural light to raise the detail of the eyelet dress and the overskirt and emphasize the hours of work that must have gone in to making it; to shade gently on my shoulders and maybe, just maybe, to bring into focus—something one might notice after prolonged viewing—the rings I'm wearing or the necklace.

 I leaned slightly forward, no easy task given the whale bone corset that fits as close to me as soap to skin. I clasped my hands at my knees. At the last minute, I also decided not to look at the camera but to gaze away, toward something I couldn't quite name but knew I wanted. I did not smile. There are times to smile and times to cry and times to be serene.  I see sadness in my eyes. 

Voe opened the shutter, exposed the film, then closed it using my 3A Graflex. I developed the photograph myself.

 I never intended to show the image to him.

 But he saw it there among the other exposures of funeral flowers and family portraits made on New Year's Day. A child had jiggled on her father's lap so that photograph was wasted, but I hated throwing the picture out because I did appreciate the family composition. The prints lay on the table outside the developing room, some of the edges beginning to curl as I'd wanted to save costs so didn't use the more expensive paper.

 He wasn't supposed to be there, recovering from his illnesses and everything else.

 His mustache twitched as his long fingers moved the photographs aside, then stalled at the one of me. He lifted it, adjusted his glasses, then lowered the print to catch my eyes. I couldn't tell if his smile was wistful or shared a certain sense of pride…for his part in my having produced such a precious photograph; or my part in being willing to have myself as the subject. I didn't ask. Instead, I pulled the picture from his fingers, careful not to touch him; and directed his attention elsewhere.

 I could do that and discovered nearly too late that I often had to. 

 

Do Not Reproduce without permission.

Jane Kirkpatrick, author of A Flickering Light (WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group), Book one of A Portrait of a Heart series, is available now at www.jkbooks.com; www.powellsbooks.com www.bn.com;  www.amazon.com; www.christianbook.com; and fine  bookstores everywhere.

The Vanishing Sculptor
By Donita K Paul

Tipper is a young emerlindian who's responsible for the upkeep of her family's estate during her sculptor father's absence. Tipper soon discovers that her actions have unbalanced the whole foundation of her world, and she must act quickly to undo the calamitous threat. But how can she save her father and her world on her own?

The task is too huge for one person, so she gathers the help of some unlikely companions--including the nearly five-foot tall parrot Beccaroon--and eventually witnesses the loving care and miraculous resources of Wulder. Through Tipper's breathtaking story, readers will discover the beauty of knowing and serving God.

Excerpt:
A View from a Tree
 
   Sir Beccaroon cocked his head, ruffled his neck feathers, and stretched, allowing his crimson wings to spread. The branch beneath him sank and rose again, responding to his weight. Moist, hot air penetrated his finery, and he held his wings away from his brilliant blue sides.  

    "Too hot for company," he muttered, rocking back and forth from one scaly four-toed foot to the other on the limb of a sacktrass tree. The leaves shimmered as the motion rippled along the branch. "Where is that girl?"

    His yellow head swiveled almost completely around. He peered with one eye down the overgrown path, and then scoped out every inch within his range of vision, twisting his neck slowly.

    A brief morning shower had penetrated the canopy above and rinsed the waxy leaves. A few remaining drops glistened where thin shafts of tropical sun touched the dark green
foliage. On the broot vine, flowers the size of plates lifted their fiery red petals, begging the thumb-sized bees to come drink before the weight of nectar broke off the blooms.  
Beccaroon flew to a perch on a gnarly branch. He sipped from the broot blossom and ran his black tongue over the edges of his beak. A sudden breeze shook loose a sprinkle of leftover
raindrops. Beccaroon shook his tail feathers and blinked. When the disturbance settled, he cocked his head and listened.  
    "Ah! She's coming." He preened his soft green breast and waited, giving a show of patience he didn't feel. His head jerked up as he detected someone walking with the girl.  

    "Awk!" The word exploded from his throat. He flew into a roost far above the forest floor where he couldn't be seen from the ground and watched the approach of the girl placed under his guardianship. Tipper strolled along the path below, wearing a flowing, golden gown over her tall, lean body. She'd put her long blonde hair in a fancy braid that started at the crown of
her head. A golden chain hung from each of her pointed ears. And she'd decorated her pointed facial features with subdued colors, blue for her eyelids, rose for her lips, and a shimmering yellow on her cheeks. Beccaroon sighed. His girl was lovely.

    The bushes along the path behind her rustled. Beccaroon's tongue clucked against his beak in disapproval. Hanner ambled after Tipper, leading a donkey hitched to a cart. The man's shaggy hair, tied with a string at the back of his neck, hung oily and limp. Food and drink stained the front of his leather jerkin, and his boots wore mud instead of a shine. The parrot caught a whiff of the o'rant from where he perched. The young man should carry the fragrance of citrus, but his over-strong odor reminded Beccaroon of rotten fruit.

        A tree full of monkeys broke out in outraged chatter. Tipper, when alone, walked amid the animals' habitat without causing alarm.

        "Smart monkeys," said Beccaroon. "You recognize a ninny-nap-conder when you see one." He used the cover of the monkey's rabble-rousing to glide from one tree to another where he could hide at a lower level. He had an idea where Tipper would lead Hanner.

        "Here it is," said the pretty emerlindian. She pulled vines from a clump, revealing a gray statue beneath. "My father named this one Vegetable Garden."

        Hanner pulled off more vines as he made his way slowly around the four-foot statue.

    "Vegetable Garden? Mistress Tipper, are you sure you have the right one? This is a statue of a boy reading a book. He's not even chewing a carrot while he sits here."

        "Father used to say reading a good book was nourishment." Hanner scratched his head, shrugged his shoulders, and went to fetch the donkey and cart. Tipper's head tilted back, and her blue eyes looked up into the trees. Her gaze roamed over the exact spot Beccaroon used as a hidden roost. Not by the blink of an eyelash did she betray whether she had seen him.

        Hanner returned.   

        Tipper spread out a blanket in the cart after Hanner maneuvered it next to the statue, then helped him lift the stone boy into the back. Hanner grunted a lot, and Tipper scolded.

        "Careful. . . don't break his arm . . . too many vines still around the base."

        They got the statue loaded, and Tipper tucked the blanket over and around it. She then gave Hanner a pouch of coins.

        "This is for your usual delivering fee. I couldn't put in any extra for traveling expenses. I'm sure you'll be reimbursed by our buyer."

        He grunted and slipped the money inside his jerkin.

        Tipper clasped her hands together. "Be careful. And give Master Dodderbanoster my regards."

        He tipped his hat and climbed aboard the cart. "I always am. And I always do."  

        She stood in the path until the creak of the cartwheels could no longer be heard.

        Beccaroon swooped down and sat on a thick branch wrapped with a leafless green creeper. The vine looked too much like a snake, so he hopped to another limb.

        "Was that wise?" he asked.

        "I don't think so either, Bec, but what else can I do? I  sell the artwork only as a last resort when we need quite a bit of cash. The well needs re-digging." Tipper pulled a tight face, looking like she'd swallowed nasty medicine. "We've sold almost everything in the house. Mother sees them in the market and buys them back. Sometimes I get a better price for a frippery the second time I sell it and sometimes not."

        Beccaroon swayed back and forth on his feet, shaking his head. "She never catches on?"

        "Never." Tipper giggled.

Copyright Donita K. Paul 2009   Do Not Reproduce Without Permission.
You can find The Vanishing Sculptor at www.amazon.com, www.borders.com, www.cbd.com and wherever books are sold.


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