William Bayer - Blind Side

"That's what's left of the village." He raised his finger above the distant mountains.

"The moon was just about there. .

"Moonrise, Hernandez": Ansel Adams's greatest picture, a photograph swooned over by school kids and sophisticated collectors alike. The picture had been printed over nine hundred times, but still the prints were so greatly desired they fetched close to ten thousand dollars whenever they came up at auction.

"to take a picture like that-the thought of it!" Frank looked at me, then down at the ground.

"Don't think you know, but for years I've been jealous of you. Guess most every photographer has. Jealous too of Ansel for 'Moonrise.' Jealous of Cartier-Bresson for the man leaping over the puddle. Of Kertesz for the man carrying the picture while the train passes on the bri@g@. Of Caponigro for the running deer. Those are the miracle pictures, the ones no matter how good you are, you can never find they have to find you. I've thought about it a lot, why they come to some and not to others, and I've decided I shouldn't be jealous; they've enriched my life too much. I've also come to the conclusion that people don't just stumble into shots like that, that they come to the great photographers because the great photographers are ready.

I was with you, remember, when you took the PietA. You were ready. Were you ever……

When we reached Santa Fe, he called Mai, told her we wouldn't be back till late, then took me on a tour of the town. We strolled around the Plaza, then looked into the galleries on Canyon Road.

Most of what we saw was garbage: sentimental paintings of Navaho women and illustrator-type coWhoy scenes. The prices shocked me when I considered the fact that the galleries wouldn't charge them unless they were what people were willing to pay.

After dinner at a Mexican place, Frank took me back to his studio. While he disappeared into his darkroom to finish up some work, the full force of what he'd said coming down from Taos suddenly hit me hard.

He was talking about killing or being killed, and sacrificing Rakoubian as if he were a pawn. I didn't know if I was ready for stuff like that. I picked up the phone on his desk and called Kim in Key West.

I caught her just as she was about to leave for work.

"Geoffrey, what a terrific time to call. I was starting to get depressed about tonight. How's it going? It's so humid here, you sweat from just thinking about going out." The notion of her sweating turned me on. I imagined the gloss on her forehead, the faint aromatic flavor of her skin.

"Frank thinks we can do it," I said. "Great! Is he willing to join us?"

"Yeah. Only problem is-it could turn violent, he says. I don't know if I'm up to that." There was a pause before she spoke. "Don't worry about it. "

"I am worried."

"Frank's our hired gun."

"Yeah . . . ?"

"So we'll let him take care of the violent parts." She paused again.

"Hey! I miss you, lover-boy!"

"And I miss you."

"It's hard to sleep alone."

"Hard for me too." "Come back soon, will you?"

"Looks like we'll be meeting in New York."

"All the better," she said, I cause I'm really starting to loathe this place. I'd love it, of course, if I could lounge around the Pier House pool. But waiting on tables … Well, it won't be long now. When you and I are done with this thing we'll own Duval Street. Got to go to work, Geoffrey. But I want to leave you with a thought. Instead of letting the danger scare you, see if you can let it turn you on. Go with it, the why you did with Dirty Adam. The way you did that first night down here. Remember how you ripped my clothes and left my brains on the floor?" She laughed.

"Fun, wasn't it? Well, taking Darling's money can be fun for us too." She made a kissing noise.

"That, Geoffrey, is a big sweet kiss. And please give a hug to Frank for me, even though I haven't met him yet."

After we hung up, I sat behind Frank's desk. Talking to her made me feel good. She was so vibrant, alive, and she was right about letting the danger excite me. All I had to do, I found, was just to think about it in a certain way.

When Frank came out of the darkroom he showed me the latest work of Leo DeSalle and Nelly Steele. He did all their black-and-white printing. Several times he paused to explain the pains he'd taken to achieve a particularly sensitive effect.

The two famous photographers made good strong pictures. DeSalle was the old master, working in the grandview landscape tradition, while Steele, his young lover and prot6g6e, made perfect tender little still-lifes.

"Leo doesn't bother with the darkroom anymore. He's done it all, and he'll keep doing it till he dies-climbing around the rocks like an old mule, setting up, then burying his head under the focusing cloth. But Nelly cares about everything, every tone, every nuance. Which is why, in time, she'll surpass him. And if she's smart, she'll leave him for someone else."

There was something poignant in Frank's observation that dovetailed with the comments he'd made on the site of "Moonrise, Hernandez." He was a master printer and a master analyst-he had the ability to see straight to the core of a situation. Looking again at his own work, I wondered why he tried to obfuscate what he saw. There

a density in his pictures that blocked access to their g. He showed the viewer something new, but he beckon him past the surface of the paper with his passion. 4'Can't imagine trying to bring this off without you, Frank," I said.

"But still I'd like to know why you want in on such a dirty deal." He searched my eyes.

"Money. "Come on! It can't just be that."

"Why not?" He looked almost angry.

"Hey! Don't make me feel bad I asked a question,"

"Sorry," he said. And then: "Your question cuts pretty close. "

"I understand. Look-maybe ou don't see it, but in a way you really do have it all. Great family. Great wife. You live in one of the most desirable places in the country. You and Mai are artists, you make your own hours. Maybe you're not as rich as DeSalle, but how many artists are?"

"Sure," he said, "I know all that. But it's not enough anymore. I'm forty-four, I'm tired of struggling. I'm sick of worrying-can I afford to have the car fixed? pay the grocery bill? send Ali to college? I'm sick of printing DeSalle's pictures, then reading articles about the superb prints of Leo DeSalle. I want to be a full-time photographer, take my shot, see how far I can go. And I want the same for Mai because I think her besi-work's still ahead. That's what it's all about, Geof@coring the money to buy the time to pursue our own work for a couple years."

But after midnight, as we drove back to Galisteo, the scent of pifion trees heavy in the night air, he told me something else: "What I was saying up at Hernandez sometimes I wonder whether I'll ever be ready the way you were."

':Ready for what?"

, to take the great picture when it comes."

"Come on, Frank!". His self-pity bothered me.

' !'in a highly competent

"No, Geof-I mean it. I know photographer. But maybe I'm better at something else?"

He went quiet after that, but a few minutes later, when he spoke again, his voice was different.

"Maybe this thing you've brought me, this blackmail thing-maybe this'll be my 'Moonrise,' " he said.

Again in the morning the fiery sun stoked up the cold dry fields. Mai drove the girls to the bus, while Frank and I sat outside working up a plan.

We plotted out the next steps: Kim's and my trip to New York, what each of us would do, who'd say what to whom, demonstrations we could make of our seriousness of purpose. I phoned Kim in Key West twice that morning, and both times I put Frank on to speak with her. He asked her questions about Mrs. Z. Listening in to his side of the conversations, I could tell they were getting along. ."I think this partnership just may work out," Frank said after he spoke with her the second time.