Overexposed: A Novel

prologue

I spent years cutting myself out of photographs.

All through elementary school I’d sneak down the steps of our huge white house in Highland Park, hiding my mother’s sewing scissors in my pocket. Sitting on the basement floor, I’d turn the pages of her albums and carefully lop off my early faces. I removed myself from boisterous Solomon family reunions, garish weddings filled with hordes of out-of-town Jewish relatives eating heart-shaped chopped liver, and the series of my kiddie birthday parties held at the circus, bowling alley, and doll infirmary.

Late one night my mother stormed in and caught me, demanding to know why I kept ruining her memories.

I don’t belong here, I told her. Besides, I look hideous.

You’re crazy. She seized the evidence and turned her perfect face toward the stairs, shrieking, You were always so pretty and happy!

It was an ongoing argument between us. She insisted my childhood was filled with joyous Kodak moments, that I loved being the only girl, posing between my kid brothers and showing off the frilly, pastel dresses she favored. But two decades later I can still feel those lacy collars scratching my neck and the pink leather shoes with tight straps strangling my big feet, leaving marks that hurt for days. No wonder I wound up in black sweats, oversize T-shirts, and worn sneakers . . . on the other side of the camera.

My life really began the fall morning I joined my junior high’s yearbook staff as a photographer. Skipping all my classes, I couldn’t stop secretly snapping candids of my teachers, classmates, and enemies. Ironically, being a picture freak, my most antisocial fetish, made me popular. Soon everybody I knew in suburban Illinois was striking poses before my lens, begging for portraits of themselves, praising my clever eye.

When I turned fourteen, envious of the elaborate bar mitzvah thrown for my brother Ben, the exalted oldest Solomon son, I coerced my father into building me a darkroom in our downstairs walk-in closet. Working alone in that dim, cramped hovel was the most at home I’d ever been. In the middle of the night, under the orange glow of the safe-light, I’d get stoned and pore over all the head shots I’d taken, people collecting.

At fifteen, I got a camera tattoo on my ankle and lost my virginity on the darkroom floor to a Deadhead named Derek, surrounded by strips of negatives and toxic chemicals. For my Sweet Sixteen Mom gave me a thick gold ring and a set of Chanel No. 5 perfume and body lotion, but I preferred the acid smell of fixer and stop bath on my fingers.

Right after high school graduation, I grabbed my Rebel K2 lightweight Canon—with retractable flash—and fled to college in the big city. Landing my first job at a hot glossy, I bumped into Elizabeth Mann, who became the most vivid person I ever captured. How unsettling to view my vexing friend now, replacing me in the plastic-covered sheets of my family’s album, stealing my position, my mother’s Russian Rose lipstick, and the antique white wedding gown that was promised to me.

part

one

chapter one

new vision

August 9, 2000

We met the day I replaced her.

I was sitting at my newly assigned desk after hours, still psyched out of my mind to be an art assistant at Vision magazine, when she ran in, startling me. She was a tall, gangly brunette, older than I was. Taking off her raincoat, she draped it across a chair, along with her leather handbag, as if she owned the place. She was wearing a V-neck ash-colored sweater and gray pants. There was a rip on the bottom of her pant leg, and her flats were caked with mud.

Jane’s gone already? she asked after my coworker.

Left a half hour ago, I said.

I couldn’t tell if she was a hotshot editor from upstairs or just a peon like me.

Damn. She said she’d loan me twenty bucks. Her eyes were red; she’d been crying. Nobody fucking warned me the unemployment checks take six weeks to start. I have to get to Boston. She was half talking to me, half mumbling to herself. Then she picked up the phone, dialed, and said, Right, like Dad can check himself in. There’s a train at seven. Call me back here, at 555-1394. I’ll wait. She hung up, then looked me up and down as if just noticing I was there. You must be Rachel.

I didn’t recognize her from anywhere. I’m sorry . . .

I’m Elizabeth Mann.

So this was the notorious hotheaded Elizabeth everyone couldn’t stop talking about all day! I’d been dying to meet her. Obviously the father she’d just mentioned was the famous Life photographer William Mann. Why couldn’t he check himself into a Boston hotel? Was it the Four Seasons or the Ritz Carlton? Jane said Elizabeth was launching her own career as a shutterbug with an upcoming solo exhibit. Aside from getting Cindy Sherman to sign her book Untitled Film Stills at Barnes & Noble, I’d never spoken to a famous female photographer before.

I stared up at Elizabeth. She had an oval face and a slender Roman nose, with limp, shoulder-length chestnut hair the same shade as mine. My hair was longer and feathered on the sides with Cleopatra bangs; hers was parted down the middle. She was plainer than I’d pictured. No makeup or color in her cheeks. She looked about my weight—size eight on a good day. Taller than me, even without heels.

I bought your father’s book for my brother, I blurted out. It’s incredible.

Which one?

Oh no. How many were there? I felt stupid. "Blind Streets."

Everybody gets that one. Her dark blue eyes seemed to take in everything. Weariest eyes I’d ever seen.

Jane said you’re showing at a Soho gallery. What an achievement. That’s like my life’s dream. Congratulations.

They’re only doing it as a favor to Dad, she said.

I was taken aback by her humility. Or was it bitterness? I’m sure that’s not true. When she didn’t say anything else, I added, Well, it’s great to meet you. An honor. Maybe she’d critique my work. Or help me figure out how to get my prints into a gallery. Please call me Ricky.

Rachel’s a fine name. Biblical. She sat down in Jane’s chair. Why ruin it?

What business of hers was my nickname?

I wanted to know why she’d really wound up leaving Vision, the most prestigious magazine resurrection in Condé Nast history. Elizabeth’s abrupt defection on Friday had thrown the top brass into a tizzy, according to Jane, leading Elizabeth to pick my résumé out of the slush pile and offer me up as a last-minute replacement. Had she been fired? It would be shortsighted of her to give up such a cool gig. Yet I admired her independence. I bet she was a true artist, sick of being a subservient assistant. She couldn’t be swayed by materialistic limitations or masthead hierarchies.

Or was there a man in the picture?

Change your mind and want your old job back? I joked. I prayed she didn’t. How could I compete with her pedigree?

Nope. Now it belongs to little twenty-four-year-old Rachel Solomon in her new designer suit, she said, distracted, drumming her fingers on the desk, watching the phone.

How did she know my age? From my résumé? I wondered if Elizabeth had spoken to Jane, my mousy coworker, about me. Now I felt paranoid, trying to remember everything I’d spilled about fighting with my crazy intrusive family and the sick love triangles I was constantly dissecting with my shrink.

So how old are you? I wanted to know.

I’m a twenty-nine-year-old spinster, Elizabeth said with a smirk.

What a weird, sexist term. Though she was dressed kind of like an old maid, in earth tones and baggy fabric. Or she was so antichic she was chic, in that WASPy I have a life, I can’t be bothered with frills kind of way. I feared I was trying too hard, coming off like a suburban wannabe.

What was it like, being at the relaunch of such a famous old rag? I asked.

Fashion people are inane and tawdry. She reached over to finger the sleeve of my blouse. Is this silk? Where’d you get it?

Saks. I stopped before divulging that my mom had it sent from the branch in Highland Park, along with the pumps and a stash of Givenchy panty hose: $14 each, ten pairs. That was the paradox of planet Solomon. I couldn’t afford a taxi from my Village apartment share to the real Saks, but I had $140 worth of my mother’s fancy hosiery. I heard you grew up in the Village. Lucky you. My folks are originally from New York, I said. I was switched at birth. I should have grown up here.

Nothing wrong with being a Midwest doctor’s daughter, she said. Wish I had two older brothers.

"I have two younger brothers, I corrected. This must have been the reason Jane had asked me so many questions all day. I bet Jane was Elizabeth’s lunch date and spy, gathering a dossier on the new girl who’d taken Elizabeth’s desk. What else have you heard about me?"

Jewish photojournalism grad who thinks she’s the next Diane Arbus.

Ouch. Nothing like reducing my religion, degree, art, and naked ambition to a cultural stereotype. Well, better to resemble Arbus than one of her subjects. If I shot Elizabeth, I’d give her bangs to shorten her long face, put blush on her cheeks to highlight her decent bone structure, and pencil in the gap in her left eyebrow. Then again, my well-groomed childhood girlfriends aspired to be dental hygienists, nurses, or brides. I longed to be a bitter screwed-up urbanite showing candids at a chic Soho gallery, just like Elizabeth.

You don’t have any siblings? I asked.

I have an older sister I’m trying to reach right now. With that she picked the phone, dialed, and left another message. It’s me. I have to catch this damn train to get him in by ten. I’ll wait five more minutes.

Get him in where? I gathered that Elizabeth had come back here because she was broke with nowhere else to go. She looked even lonelier than I was. I’d taken out some cash to split a bag of Jamaican weed with my best friend and roommate, Nicky, but that could wait since our stash wasn’t depleted yet. Ten bucks would be enough for the subway home and the dinner I planned to eat by myself at Dojo. I handed Elizabeth twenty-five dollars, five more than Jane was going to give her.

Without looking at me, she stashed it in her pocket. I’ll pay you back next Thursday.

Whenever.

That’s right, Elizabeth said. You’re a rich girl.

The job pays three hundred a week before taxes, I said. I didn’t want her to know my father was helping with my rent.

Oh, yeah, Jane said you’re playing suffering artist.

This chick sure had balls. But I’d detested the fakers in Jewburbia who’d fawn, Hello, gorgeous and That’s so fabulous to my face, then trash me behind my back. Even when it stung, I preferred raw honesty.

Well, for a little hamster, Jane sure has a big mouth, I said, pulling a pack of Marlboros from my purse and lighting one, getting lipstick on the filter, slowly sucking in.

Little hamster. Elizabeth chuckled. Her whole face softened when she laughed, making me feel as if I’d won a prize. She stole a piece of Juicy Fruit from Jane’s desk drawer, then reached over to the ashtray and put out my cigarette, the way my brother Ben did.

I can’t believe the daughter of an oncologist is a smoker, she said.

Were there any details I hadn’t told Jane? I had to stop giving everything away.

Jane’s not so bad, Elizabeth said. Her father’s a drunk, like mine. She thinks that’s why we keep screwing the wrong men. Not that I go in for all that Freudian garbage. She paused, obviously assuming I did.

What? Her famous father was a drunk?

I bet you left a trail of broken hearts in the heartlands, she said.

Wait, she screwed idiots too?

I met that cute staff writer Peter Heller at lunch today. What’s his story? I asked, betting Elizabeth would spill the real deal about everyone around here.

So Heller found you already. She seemed amused.

He asked to see my work.

That means he wants to fuck you.

He said I had a good eye.

Means he wants to fuck you soon, she said.

She’d trashed him too fast; I sensed a subtext. Did you ever go out with him?

She shook her head. Let’s see what you showed him.

I hesitated, feeling a little intimidated.

You ask the opinion of the office Lothario, but not me? she challenged.

I didn’t want her to think I was one of those annoying girly girls who only lit up when a penis walked into the room. Reaching under the desk, I pulled out the grad school portfolio I carried with me everywhere and turned to the last photo. It was a close-up of an innocent-looking girl in an NYU T-shirt, afternoon light falling across her face, the Delancey Street sign in the background. I’d caught the girl locking eyes with a six-foot male Marilyn Monroe impersonator just as Marilyn winked at her. My parents had met on Delancey Street.

It’s called ‘Culture Shock,’ I explained. You don’t like it?

Downtown street scenes. Elizabeth rolled her eyes. How original.

Hey, I just gave you twenty-five bucks. Can’t you fake it? I asked. Look at the student’s expression when she sees Marilyn. I pointed. It’s like she’s not sure if the two of them are allies or archrivals or doppelgängers.

You learn all that crap at NYU?

If you think so highly of NYU, why did you recommend they hire me?

I hate entitled Upper East Side Ivy League snobs nailing the coveted positions here. Wanted to discover a humble hayseed. Wish I grew up in Illinois.

You can have it.

She impatiently paged through my portfolio, making me nervous. She turned back to the final shot of Marilyn and the student. This one isn’t terrible, she finally declared.

She almost liked me.

Could be timely. Don’t NYU classes start next week? You have an eight by ten?

Sure. Wired about my new gig, I couldn’t sleep last night. So I got stoned and printed ten in my bathroom at four A.M. I pulled a smaller version from the side pocket.

"Drop it off with the photo editor at the Post. She jotted down the editor’s name and address on a piece of scrap paper. Say Elizabeth Mann thought this might be timely, since NYU’s term is about to start."

Really? Are you sure? I hear they started using digital.

Film’s okay.

Not a contact sheet?

Just leave the print. She turned it around. Write your name and address on the back.

When the phone rang, Elizabeth picked up. Finally. Thank God. Yeah, meet me at Penn Station. I know, but he won’t go to the hospital unless we take him. . . .

Oh, it wasn’t a hotel, it was a hospital. I wondered if my father or brother Ben could help diagnose the problem over the phone, or prescribe something. Trying not to eavesdrop, I wrote my info neatly on the back of the photograph. Listen, thanks so much for your help with . . . , I started to say. But when I looked up she was gone.

Two days later, Ruth Lott, the New York Post’s photo editor, called to say they were using my photograph to illustrate a story on the overflow of out-of-town NYU students this term.

Oh my God! Where’s Elizabeth’s number? I asked Jane as I rushed through the company Rolodex.

Congratulations on selling your first picture, said Jane.

Had she been listening in on my phone conversation with the Post editor?

I can’t believe they’re buying it. I just wanted to tell Elizabeth . . .

She already knows, Jane said. You get two hundred fifty dollars for the cover of Friday’s arts section. You can pick up early copies at the office at eleven P.M. Thursday night.

I looked at her, confused.

The editor’s a protégée of William Mann’s, she explained.

So I had only made my first sale because of dropping the Mann name. Was this Elizabeth’s way of paying me back? Wow. I really owe her big-time.

You might regret saying that, said Jane.

chapter two

the disease game

September 29, 2000

When I was a little girl, I’d stand at the doorway of my father’s den, pretending I had chest pains and needed him to save me. He’d swoop me up in his huge arms, then touch me with the silver tip of his stethoscope to hear me inside. Your heart is perfect, he’d say in his deep doctor voice, making everything better. Two decades later I still longed for his approval, his magic medicine.

Since the first night of Rosh Hashanah fell on Saturday and my mother had sent me a free plane ticket, I flew to Illinois for the weekend. Mom picked me up on Friday night at O’Hare. She looked happy I was home for the Jewish holidays; ever since I’d finished my MFA over the summer, she’d been hounding me to give her the date I was moving back. The answer was never! Tonight I was breaking the news that I’d taken the job at Vision magazine and planned to stay in New York forever.

During the hour drive to our house, it was hard for me not to give away the news. But I waited until dinner. We gravitated to our old seats at the oblong oak table, which seated seven though there were only five in the family. I always thought Mom left room for her mother and father, who’d both died when she was little. My father reigned at the head. I sat to his right, closest to the door.

Disease? asked my brother Ben, sitting across from me, trying to initiate the sick game they’d shoved in my face my entire life.

Do it later, I insisted. I was the firstborn of the three Solomon kids, fourteen months Ben’s senior. I had just flown six hundred miles. I was ready to make my announcement.

Okay. My father cleared his throat. Sixty-year-old fat lady with mitral endocarditis, blood growing strep bovis.

Colon cancer, Ben jumped in.

You’re faster than your old man already. My father forked string beans onto his plate. Seventy-eight-year-old cachectic Malaysian male with pneumonia and hemoptysis.

Listen, can we not do this while we’re eating tonight? I asked. I couldn’t wait to see the reaction on my father’s face when I told him I’d landed my first real job. It was important I tell him in person. He’d be as proud of me as he was of my brothers.

Just coughing up blood, said Danny. He was fifteen months younger than Ben. We were all too close in age, fiercely competitive since birth.

Tuberculosis? Ben asked.

AFB negative, my father said.

Pulmonary embolism, Danny offered.

Bingo, my father said. Pass the salad.

My mother passed it. She looked pretty in a purple satin dress, her hair redder and pouffy—she’d been to the beauty salon. As usual, the light was too bright; I turned the dimmer switch on the wall so it was a little darker. To help her, I took out the soda and heated the garlic bread in the microwave. I placed it on the lazy Susan by the lamb chops, pasta, and pizza. Instead of disappointing anyone, my mother chose to serve everything. She loaded a platter with turkey, offered it to my father. He grabbed the bigger leg with his hand.

Go back to the Lower East Side, she told him.

What did I do? He looked at Ben and Danny.

Try silverware, she said. And you know Rachel hates the game.

I’d always hated their games: insect dissections, lab experiments, and animal amputations left in the refrigerator. Plus the actual human skeleton, assembled like a jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen floor. Or the rats, rabbits, and tarantulas skittering around. By the time I was ten I was eating alone upstairs, homesick in my own room.

What’s wrong with the game? asked Ben. Since he’d started medical school, he’d become even more myopic, a parody of my dad.

She can’t win, said Danny. He was also premed, following in Ben’s footsteps; they were turning into my father before my eyes.

Ben and Danny had my mother’s red hair and freckles and my dad’s thick glasses. I was the dark one, and the only girl. My mother, with her pathological insistence on finding good in all tragedy, claimed I’d won the gene lottery: I got her perfect eyesight and my father’s bunionless feet. But Danny was right about our ongoing sibling battle over who was the favored child. With no penis, bris, bar mitzvah, interest in cooking brisket, or premed cred, I couldn’t compete.

Then again, that’s assuming she wants to win, Danny added. What no one else knew was that he also took pictures, which he’d develop in my darkroom at four in the morning. Everyone else slept soundly; we were the two insomniacs. But I was sworn to secrecy.

Taking advantage of the lull in gross-sounding symptoms, I cleared my throat. "So I have news to share. I’ve been offered a full-time position on the staff of Vision magazine."

Mazel tov, honey. My mother draped her arm around my shoulder. Are you going to take it?

Yes! Of course! I already started.

Isn’t that a really old magazine? asked Ben.

They’ve relaunched it, I said.

"You know, Vision was the magazine between January 1913 and December 1936," Danny said. Reading several newspapers a day and memorizing every fact in the encyclopedia was how he’d learned to keep up with us. By five he was reciting pages from Professional Guide to Diseases, the easiest way in our house to get Dad’s applause.

I turned to my father, who didn’t say anything. When I’d started at NYU, he’d yelled, You’re doing this to spite me! Landing a real job in his old city meant I was going to stay. He hated my being in New York. I knew he’d try to stop me.

This calls for a celebration, my mother said, taking champagne from the refrigerator. Moët, the expensive stuff. She often kept a bottle chilled, ready for good news. She uncorked it, an expert bartender, though the Solomons were eaters, not drinkers. She lined up five crystal glasses, filling each halfway.

I was lucky, I said. This woman Elizabeth quit at the last minute. Can you believe someone would throw that kind of a job away? Though she’s a photographer too, with her own show at a Soho gallery.

You can still go to law school, Dad said. I’ll pay for it. We need a lawyer on our side.

I glared at him, stunned.

Paging Dr. Solomon, Danny said. She doesn’t want to be a lawyer.

This guy Powers at U of C admissions owes me one. My father bit into a sour pickle. His wife had a double mastectomy, and some bozo wanted to do the reconstruction before—

She’s not going to law school in Chicago. My mother cut him off.

She’s going to be a tattoo freak in the East Village, which is really just the Lower East Side; the Realtors are lying. You know, Leah, they’ll never let her in a Jewish cemetery. A decade later, Dad still wasn’t over the tiny body art on my ankle. I would have gotten a nose and lip ring too if I wasn’t so freaked out by