Photophobia, a Novella

By Owen Thomas

There is nothing honest about photography. Truth is but a trick of the light. A reckoning is coming to Sol Ridge Vineyards. And her name is Jac.

Conrad Kurtz manages the Sol Ridge Winery, a sprawling, dew-slickened vineyard nestled into the Santa Cruz mountains. Conrad is a businessman and a glorified caretaker of sorts, keeping the grapes growing and the wine flowing until his stepdaughter, Iris, lawfully inherits her late mother’s bequest and takes control, something for which the shy, nearly invisible Iris has no aptitude or interest.

In the meantime, Conrad is king, ruling the land and his handful of subjects – Iris; his chief picker, Señor; Señor’s adorable school-aged daughter, Celia; a small seasonal Mexican workforce; three dogs; and four horses – with the iron-fisted authority and presumption of any monarch. He brooks no dissent, expecting obedience if not gratitude from anyone in his path. Just ask the dogs. Just ask Iris.

Visits to Sol Ridge are by appointment only. Conrad carefully picks his visitors, who tend to be young and blonde. Jac, a photographer scouting locations for a coffee-table book on California vineyards, fits that bill perfectly. Her efforts to visit Sol Ridge for a photoshoot have been persistent but fruitless until Conrad finally gets a good look at her. After that, there really is little question for Conrad but to invite her up to the ridge and hope she spends the night. True, Conrad is perplexed and even a little unnerved by Jac’s dark glasses. She never takes them off, even as the rainclouds coalesce above the ridge and begin to release their burden. He tells himself that Jac is simply self-conscious of the wine stain birthmark, pooling like blood in the hollow just beneath her left eye. But this eccentricity is no deterrent. Conrad’s agenda for Jac is plain to everyone. Iris. Señor. Celia. Even to Jac. Conrad never stops long enough to consider whether Jac has an agenda of her own.

There is history in the soil. There is wisdom in the vine. The light is a wizard of misdirection. It has agendas of its own, casting shadows as it illuminates. Jac sprinkles water from a bottle over a cluster of grapes and takes a photo. Conrad thinks that counts as cheating. She tosses him a smile.

“There is nothing honest about photography.”

"Photophobia" is a novella. While it is available for purchase separately, "Photophobia" is also included in a larger work of short fiction by Owen Thomas entitled "Signs of Passing."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Owen Thomas
• Release date: Oct 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737737643

Book preview

Photophobia

A novella

Owen Thomas

The characters and events portrayed in this novella are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2015, 2022 Owen Thomas

Author Website: http://OwenThomasLiterary.com

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

The novella Photophobia is included in the larger work of short fiction Signs of Passing, by Owen Thomas, Copyright 2015, OTF Literary.

ISBN:  978-1-7377376-4-3

OTF Literary, Anchorage, Alaska.

Photophobia

You’re not what I expected, he said. His accent was soft and blended. A faint flavoring of language. A hickory finish. Not by a country mile.

His eyes slid sideways, away from her, as if to deferentially excuse his attention over the wrought iron railing of the café and across the street to the window of the ice cream shop. She should be left to consider his approving statement, alone and unobserved. 

But, of course, his attention was not waiting across the street. He was as present as ever, his interest in her keen and palpable. His mouth was wrinkled at the corners. But he smelled young, his cologne sharp and acidic.

Really? She leaned back in the chair and sipped her coffee, tucking a thin blonde wisp behind her ear. What were you expecting?

Conrad gave an apologetic smile. He was trying to see through her sunglasses.

Most of the women in your line of work – at least that I’ve encountered – tend to be…

She watched him pretend to be delicate. He pushed a glistening, freshly expelled strand of sausage gristle around his plate with a tine of his fork, through the carnage of egg, around the sopped, rejected corner of toast, as he pondered his words. His fingers were red and chapped, the nails bitten short in irregular planes. She imagined that most people never really noticed the actual fingers. It was difficult to get past the ring, which was remarkable for its plump yellow diamond set between two waves of elaborately stenciled gold. Not a ring the living tended to purchase.

Mmm… He wrinkled his lip. "How to say this… they tend to be… plain. Rather tomboyish, I suppose."

Lesbian, you mean.

He looked up suddenly from his plate, mocking surprise.

Am I wrong? he asked, covering his question with a smirk.

Wrong about women photographers or wrong about me?

Conrad laid down his fork and held up his hands, palms out.

No offense. I find you exceedingly attractive. That’s all I meant.

She forced herself to soften.

There is no offense taken, Mr. Kurtz. I am flattered.

Please, call me Conrad.

She smiled into her cup of coffee.

Alright. Conrad.

What kind of name is Jack for such a lovely creature as yourself anyway?

Jacqueline. She twirled a pinky in the air.

Much more suitable, if you ask me.

A bit regal for my taste, she said. My aunt had a certain yearning for Camelot, I think. I didn’t really have a vote.

"Even so, you can see why I might be surprised. To see you, I mean. I expected Jack to be a man."

We spoke on the phone.

I meant after the letter. Yes, after we finally spoke on the phone, I expected…

A butch photog.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be. I’m used to it.

You like it, I think. Teasing now. As if he were her brother.

How’s that?

You like the way it keeps men off balance.

Jac smiled implacably. Some men.

I’ll bet you have to beat them back with a stick. Or your boyfriend does.

Subtlety was not his strong suit, she thought.

I’m in-between boyfriends, she said, regretting the phrasing more than the candor. She braced herself for the inevitable segue into troilism. A joke, a quip, a raised eyebrow. Or, God help her, a personal anecdote. She saw it – whatever it was – pass over his face. He let it go.

Conrad looked at her directly, smiling, lingering on his reflection in the dark glass lenses. First the left, then the right. He wanted to see her eyes. He wanted her to take the damn things off. There was no need for them here, beneath the awning. The sky was leaden. It was going to pour later.

But he resisted. He returned to business.

So, is there a publication date that you have in mind?

Too soon to tell, she said. A year. Eighteen months. I’m not suggesting anything comprehensive. It’s not like an encyclopedia of small wineries. Just a picturesque sampling.

How many?

Up to the publisher. Maybe a dozen vineyards.

So, none of this has been discussed?

"In general terms. They wouldn’t pay me without some idea. I’m taking some pictures, scouting some wineries. I’ll mock something up, make the pitch. They’ll tell me if they’re interested."

So, this is kind of a… a… he searched for the idea up in the taut ochre awning above him, kind of a coffee-table thing you have in mind.

She sipped. Nodded. Oversized. Glossy. You know. Foldout over-leafs for the panoramas. Lots of close-ups. Last light, first light. The grapes. The process.

No text?

Some text. Mostly pictures.

Who’s writing the text?

Jac shrugged. Not me. I’m just a girl with a camera.

Why SRV? We’re a pretty minor player.

I’m not looking for successful business models. I’m looking for photogenic vineyards. Sol Ridge is up high. I can get the valley. Mt. Chardonnay as a backdrop. Saratoga below. And Cupertino. Dramatic sun. There’s a lot to like about it. She pointed at him, extending her finger through the handle of her cup. You’re thinking about the wine business. I’m not. I’m thinking about the photos.

But Jeez-Louise, Jackie-O, there’s wineries all over those hills. Why Sol Ridge?

Mr., she stopped, corrected herself, "Conrad. I gotta start somewhere. It doesn’t have to be SRV, but…"

No, no. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not turning away free publicity. He paused to look at her, drinking her in. It’s just… its all enough to make a man look over his shoulder. You realize the berries on those vines are like little peas right now? Not much to photograph.

Jac nodded. I know. But beginnings are important. They put the end product in context.

The server collected their plates and stood a black leather folder in the middle of the table between the salt and pepper. Conrad reached.

I’ve got this, Jac said, snapping it up. I was the one who asked you.

Only because I wouldn’t let you come up.

Right. And why is that anyway? She slipped a credit card into the folder.

SRV is not set up for tours or public tastings. We’re almost twenty-five hundred feet up a crappy dirt road. I don’t need a bunch of tipsy looky-loos rolling their cars sideways down into the valley. Visits are strictly by appointment.

Believe me, she said, I tried to make an appointment. I even wrote you a letter you never answered. And when I called, your staff told me it was invitation only. I didn’t have an invitation.

My staff. Conrad laughed and shook his head.

The woman…

That was Iris. She’s not much for people. She’d have said the same thing to the Pope. She can be a little jealous for my attention.

So she’s…

My stepdaughter, he said, tossing his eyes.

Jac crumpled up the empty packet of sugar and dropped it in the cup. You’re married, she said, fully intending the tonal disappointment. She knew it would please him. Does your wife work for the business?

Until she passed away. He held up the back of his hand, thumb hidden. Four years ago. The yellow diamond on his finger was like an old third eye, secretly taking her measure.

The server came and went, snatching the folder.

I’m sorry, said Jac.

Conrad remained still, as if counting to himself until it was safe. He retracted his hand to someplace