I try to do with photography what Trish Romance does with watercolours. I’m sure you’ve seen her houses—they look illuminated.
My favourite is a canvas called Winter Fantasy.
Well, I’ve found a house that resembles that Georgian brick home, with its white portico and glassed-in conservatory. I’m trying to catch it in just the right light.
I got the inspiration to use time-lapse photography to take pictures of the house under different lighting conditions—even architects know that light alters space and changes perception.
But seeing as it’s early October, I have limited daylight, and want to catch the house at that golden moment when the light creates just the right mood.
“ It seems like a lot of bother to me,” Gus grumps, as he helps me set up my equipment in the drive leading to the house.
Gus is a life-long friend—you know, the kind who grows up with you and still sees you through the portal of all your youthful indiscretions?
“I could give you the rationale,” I tell him, “but then we’d be late for your appointment with the realtor.”
Gus and Katie are finally tying the knot and Katie’s already set her sights on a lovely Victorian charmer right up the road in Elora.
Gus does not want to be late for that meeting.
He rubs his hands briskly. “Kind of nippy for early October, don’t you think?”
The air smells like apples and I imagine snow clouds on the horizon—but realistically, winter is still at least six weeks away.
“All set,” I announce.
He gives me the thumbs up and heads to the SUV. I follow reluctantly, turning back for one fleeting glance at my own charmer—unfortunately for me, she’s far outside my price range.
Gus meets with the realtor and puts in an offer. Then we stop at the restaurant in town for lunch, and I drop him back at his office.
I then retrieve my equipment.
Unlike Gus, I haven’t yet found my Katie—I know she’s waiting somewhere.
I can almost sense she’s close enough to touch, but for now, the world’s hiding her from me.
Back home in my Toronto apartment, I make supper for one—a steak, a baked potato and corn.
Of course, a glass of Wolf Blass Yellow Label helps—especially after the steak emerges from the broiler a little dry and overdone.
After tidying up, I head to the darkroom—actually, my laundry room—set up with red light and developing trays. I prepare the emulsions and develop the film.
The first few shots are nondescript—nothing exciting there—but in the next frame, I get a surprise. A beautiful girl is looking back at me.
It’s a face—a close-up. Did she blunder into the shot by mistake?
The next few frames give the lie to that—she’s smiling and waving at me. She’s dressed in the style of a bygone era—the hem of her dress touching her shoes.
Is this a joke? I wouldn’t put it past Gus to set me up on a blind date with the photo-shoot as a teaser.
I do a slow burn and punch in Gus’s number on my cellphone.
“Hey Pal,” his cheerful voice greets me, “We got the house.”
“Congratulations!”
“Yeah, thanks. Well now, all that remains is for us to get you a woman.”
That reminds me of why I called.
“Speaking of women, did you pull a little prank on me today?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, James.”
“The girl in my photo-shoot—was that your idea?”
“You got a girl in your soup?”
I take deep breaths.
“You may think that’s funny, but you ruined a whole day of shooting.”
“Wait, take it down a notch, Pal—I don’t know what you’re talking about. I had nothing to do with some girl in your photos—honest.”
Now, I’m really puzzled.
“I guess I’m over-wrought. Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.
“I’m not,” he chirps back.
“Well, celebrate with Katie and give her a kiss for me.”
“Sure Pal—get your own girl,” he laughs.
Then, he adds, “Hey, maybe you should meet that mystery girl in your photo shoot. Are you sure you haven’t been wishing on a star? I hear that works.”
“Good night, Gus,” I say, ringing off to laughter.
I go back and check the photos.
The girl is definitely dressed in the style of the mid-1800’s. It’s weird. So, I decide to develop the rest of the roll.
Then, I get a real shock. Near the bottom of the girl’s picture, in graceful, Spenserian handwriting, is a simple message: Hello.
This is impossible, I tell myself. Then, I begin to shake.
How the hell did she do that?
I sit by the fire all night pondering the dilemma. Finally, I’m so exhausted and drunk I’m barely able to drag myself off to bed.
If this is some kind of prank, it's a damn good one. The line has finally blurred between my Winter Fantasy and the reality of living alone without having a girl like her—real or not.
