Steve's Photo Site

Part 6: The Great Day

by Steve Wells

In which the Falling Plate Camera Club exhibition is opened to the public and in which the identity of the mystery photographer is revealed.

-o-O-o-

It was a cold night with diamond stars. Not that I was looking at them! I was huddled in a great overcoat as I made my way to the exhibition. My eyes were firmly downcast as I pulled the coat about me and walked quickly, trying to avoid the ice. The stable block was brightly lit and a great fire warmed the place. Even Henry's chemical stains didn't look too bad in the light from the fireplace.

The whole crowd was there, all in their Sunday best. Even Josiah had tried, but the effect of a military uniform, which had been new more than half a century earlier and then on a figure of radically different shape, was not altogether flattering. Still, his gold chain flashed in the firelight.

A few members of the public had wandered in to inspect the pictures. Either that or to take advantage of the fire. So cold was the night that I couldn't find it in me to complain. One, particularly, was of note; tall and bearded and he spoke with a Russian accent. I wondered whether he could be Bronte.

I introduced myself "The name's Proudfoot, Sir. Isambard Proudfoot, and whom do I have the pleasure of welcoming to this exhibition?"

He looked at me and smiled. "Kandinsky". He turned away and continued his study of Henry's chemical stains.

Well, at least I knew it wasn't Bronte. By now, Quinton was holding forth about the pictures by the mystery photographer.

"You see, ha ha, photography is a modem medium and is, therefore, appropriate for modern subjects. Oil paint on the other hand is an old medium suitable for more traditional subjects. Yes?" He paused and then went on. "Now, these portraits by Mr Bronte have clearly taken their subject from the old school - a school which, I am sure you would agree has been very successfully tackled by Mr Rembrandt. This is not photography. It is a misuse of the medium don't y'kncw."

In order to distract him someone asked about his opinion of Henry's chemical stains. Quinton found himself trapped. His audience waited. They smiled.

"Er well, what we have here is a debate between the primacy of the medium and the issue of subject don't y'know. In a painting", he gestured towards Bronte's photographs, "one tries to ignore the medium. It matters not whether the subject is represented in oils or in the tesserae of a classical mosaic. Rather! In more modern media the issue is precisely that: the media... and here we have images which glory in the medium. Har har." He was now rolling. Nothing could stop him. "Here in these glorious images the form of pure photography is revealed... and what l hear you ask, is pure photography? It is the chemicals, those glorious smells, those stains oft reviled, but here gloried in for their very perfection." He paused for effect. "This, ladies and gentlemen, is the photography of the future. Rather!"

Tumultuous applause greeted this remarkable statement. Several members present congratulated Henry.

Kandinsky was looking even more closely at the images. It was years later, when I saw a painted copy of one of Henry's pictures in an art gallery, that I realised that this was the Kandinsky who, long after our exhibition, claimed to have invented abstract painting.

In the midst of the excitement a carriage drew up outside and the mayor, Alfred Withersnach, entered the room accompanied by his entourage. Mrs Withersnach looked carefully at the pictures while the mayor said pleasant words about everything. Glasses of rum punch were passed round and cheese sandwiches and pork pies made a suitable repast.

The time for the opening had come.

Alfred Withersnatch cleared his throat, "Friends, I come here as the civic representative to welcome the muse of photography into this august midst..."

"Jolly Good... 'august midst'", Quinton whispered, making a note of the phrase in his pocket book.

"...and what magnificent photography have we here?. In these days of glorious machines I think it is important to recognise that the art which has sustained our civilisation throughout the days of Empire... and even before,.. has remained with us transformed from the frescoes of Michelangelo into the photographs of Falling Plate Hall. Now, it falls to me to choose the photographer who will win this glorious prize..." He looked round expecting to see a great silver cup or a rose bowl. Instead he was shown a small brown bottle. Reading the label he continued. "...who will win this glorious prize:, this bottle of Silver Bromide. This glorious bottle of Silver Bromide. So appropriate that this most modern of media should eschew the outdated tradition of silver cups.

He made a point of scanning the pictures carefully. He walked up and down and seemed at moments about to make a decision but then moved off. For a long time he paused in front of one of my landscapes, but shook his head and moved on, In front of Quinton's pictures he was heard to whisper "...the spout? that way up?..." He held his head sideways in front of Henry's images. Finally after much consideration he stopped in front of Bronte's work.

"This photographer, Ladies and Gentlemen, seems to me to have both used the medium well and indeed to have captured then true essence of the subjects. Why, this picture of Councillor Evans almost seems about to talk. I award the prize to...", he squinted at the label, "...to Ellis Bronte."

Henry stepped forward. "Would Mr Bronte care to claim his prize? There was a pause as everyone looked round for the mysterious Mr Bronte.

Then Emily stepped forwards. "Actually, I made those images. I was afraid you wouldn't take me seriously if I entered under my own name."

"I thought you had spent a long time in the dark room", mused Henry.

Quinton screamed and ran from the room shouting that at last he had proof that women can't have a creative soul. He was never seen in that town again, though a book written by him did surface some years later. lt was entitled "Falling Plate Hall and the Proof of Branwells's Genius". It was not reprinted.

The mayor passed the bottle of Silver Bromide to Emily and everyone congratulated her. Everyone said that, of course, they had known from the beginning that it was her work. But none congratulated her as profusely as my own son Alan Proudfoot.

-o-O-o-

Sir Isambard, having completed his story, began to feel drowsy. Soon the expected even breathing could be heard over the cracking of what remained of the log fire. Pausing only to drain my glass and to note that the decanter had somehow been emptied, I made to move quietly to the door. The creaking leather chair, however, revealed my intent.

Sir Isambard woke for a moment. "On your way so soon? Ah well. Best to be moving: it is a foul night outside. Emily will show you out."

At the door Lady Proudfoot found my hat and coat and waved me off into the swirling snow.

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