y sister Gwendolyn does not approve of my being gay, although she would never admit it is so. She presents herself as the exemplar of refinement and now open acceptance is fashionable in her circle. God knows, she has often enough plied me to use my influence and ask my 'friends' for favors or advice. She has not arrived at her good taste from any discerning instinct, but has derived it entirely from my guidance.

When my lover was yet alive, there was Gwendolyn's incessant snit, concerned as she was with how I might spend my portion of our inheritance. When my niece was born, Gwendolyn was in near hysterics that Josh should unnaturally inherit my wealth when it should have been destined for her daughter, since I was gay anyway and would produce no progeny. She could see no other sense. Josh died fifteen years ago on the German autobahn. Enough about that, he is not the subject of this story.

Lorraine, my niece came to Philadelphia to study at Bryn Mawr College. Gwendolyn called to make me aware that she would prefer it if I didn't disturb her, my niece, with visits and introductions to my friends. It was her way of warning me off - don't pervert my daughter.

It was Lorraine who sought me out, a sense of family duty, and I admit I was quite touched. She is a most beautiful woman, the image of a Maxfield Parrish model, or a Gibson girl. Uncommonly thick, light brown hair that she wore long and braided, and round, dark brown eyes, those were her best features. She clearly resembled my mother, who was a beautiful woman, although mother was somewhat heftier.

I have always suspected Lorraine's early visits, often with a girl friend in tow, were in hope that I would show her some colorful nightspots. Sadly, Philadelphia is devoid of such places as one must venture north to New York to find.

"Mummy says you lost your leg just so you could have an excuse to use the cane," she said to me on our first of many outings, the audacity of an in-your-face freshman. A good thing, it is, that I enjoy being challenged and never feel threatened by any question as to my personal behavior and decisions. I took immense pleasure in escorting her, and sometimes her friends, to concerts, to the theaters, to the museums, during her four years of schooling in my city, and answered all her questions willingly. I firmly believe I contributed to her maturity and worldliness. And I did introduce her to certain friends of mine, which included the Mayor.

"You know, of course, that this is a prosthetic right leg," I said.

"Oh yes, and that you lost it in Viet Nam. Were you drafted?"

"No."

"So then you didn't have to go! Mummy is right, you lost it to foolishness. Why did you go?"

In spite of our family's wealth, I felt compelled to work, to earn a living, and when no one would hire me, I paid my own way to Viet Nam to prove myself as a photojournalist.

"My sister has forgotten her heritage," I explained. "We are descended from Quakers on our mother's side. We have actively defied every war into which this Country has passionately thrown itself, from the time of the Revolution. Despite great grandpa Morris's active role in the underground railroad, he did not support the Civil War as a sensible way of ending slavery."

I had gone to Viet Nam with a sense of social righteousness, to bring home the disturbing truth of the war's ugliness, and in so doing, contribute to the war's speedier conclusion. I arrived in Indochina convinced of my destiny to be famous and took away from that experience a newfound sense of mortality, but very little fame.

Gwendolyn has a very different social sense, which she manifested by marrying well into Long Island gentry. Still, I love my sister, and certain I am that she loves me, but there have been trials. This most recent one centered around Lorraine.

After graduating, Lorraine met and married a surgeon at Jefferson Hospital and so she remained in Philadelphia. Of course, I was at the wedding; Gwendolyn could not deny me that, just as I had been at my niece's graduation. And then I saw nothing of her for the next two years; although, I was to receive the occasional letter from her when she traveled, written with a ball-point pen that failed to tastefully suit the fine blue stationery, imported from England, yet she never called when she was at home.

The next time Lorraine came to visit me, it was to introduce me to my grandnephew. The child was hardly more than a month old and I did the appropriate ooing and cooing that was expected of me, but in truth, I am not much attached to babies. Can't make sense of them. Don't care for the smell of them. Ugly fat folds of flesh that poop and puke on themselves. Now if they were completely covered with fur, I might then find them cute.

It was for more than the introductions that she had carried her child into my home; Lorraine was hoping that I might take their photograph. I was astonished. Never before had a family member taken an interest in my art. As much as I was complimented by her request, I had to decline, although I did this without giving any evidence of my disdain for babies. Besides, I had semi-retired from photography, giving all my Nikon cameras and lenses to the Tyler School of Art and keeping only my Leica with just one lens for simplicity.

"But you are so good, Uncle Victor!" she said, admiring a photograph on my wall. It looked just like a Biblical scene from an epic movie, a cast of thousands, swirling lines of men with backpacks, climbing steep cliffs on rickety ladders "This is fantastic! Where is this?"

"It is the Serra Pelada gold mine in Northern Brazil, and I didn't take it. That was taken by Sebastião Salgado. He liked one of mine and I liked this one of his, so we worked out a swap." I hung very few of my own works, sequestering my works to my study and bedroom.

"Well, you're every bit as good as he is." She was trying to spur me on with compliments.

"But it would be gauche to hang the art work of a relative on your walls. Why don't you just go downtown to Bachrach?" This was the very thing she wanted to avoid. It was, in fact, what everyone else had done, she explained. There had been a rash of newborns among her peers. She had wanted something more 'artistic' and unusual. Well then, if not me, who, she asked.

Later that week, while the nanny tended to the child, Lorraine picked me up and together we went into Center City. The Schumacher Galleries has preserved it's storefront from the previous century and is the oldest continuing art gallery in the city, although the Schumacher family hasn't owned the shop for a score of years. The place is now owned by Ruth Persky, a Jewish matron, who, peculiar to her race, will not haggle. A few carefully selected American Impressionists occupy her sidewalk windows. The ground floor is devoted to oils and watercolors. The third floor has two private rooms where you can sit in comfortable chairs and attendants bring the works of art from storerooms for your private viewing. The second floor usually has drawing and prints, but at the time of our visit, the second floor was entirely devoted to an exhibition of Erwin Petschauer's photographs.

I sent Lorraine ahead of me to the second floor while I sought out Madam Persky to discuss accounts and promises. Having done my job of tormenting Ruth, I took the elevator to the second floor and found at least a dozen people milling about admiring Petschauer's artistry. Lorraine stood next to a tall and lean man as young as herself and was sharing her opinions of the photograph before them. The image on the wall was the rusting hulk of an old car overgrown with weeds.

"No, I wouldn't call it beautiful. I don't understand what could have possibly been in the photographer's mind to warrant taking a picture of this old jalopy."

"What! You do not see beauty in the sculptured fenders, in the texture of the rusting sheets of metal?" he answered her in his beautiful basso voice that belied his slender frame. It was a voice that, if he bellowed, could overwhelm a stadium, but here he kept it to a mellifluous whisper - and yet it resonated. "Is it then that you do not appreciate photography." His Teutonic accent was only slight.

She winced. "I like photography just fine."

"But you do not like this work?"

"Yes, well, technically it's very clean. The photographer is obviously a good craftsman. The composition, the balance, it is very good."

"But?"

"But the subject matter - I don't understand the photographers affection for junk cars and burnt out factories."

I couldn't restrain a chuckle that made Lorraine aware of my presence.

"Victor! Victor come here." Her hand reached out for me. She turned to the slender fellow and said, "now here is an artiste, an exceptional photographer. His work is better than anything they are selling here."

He looked at me and presented a smile almost too big for his face. "We do indeed have here an artiste, a superior photographer."

"Erwin, you embarrass me with your lies," I replied and we shook hands.

"You know each other?" Lorraine asked.

"Lorraine, I have the privilege of introducing you to Erwin Petschauer, the maker of all these magnificent pictures." She was visibly embarrassed.

"Erwin, it is my honor to present my niece, Mrs. Lorraine Gilbert."

"Oh, I'm so sorry for what I've said - -" she began to say.

"Your niece! I don't believe it. She is too lovely to be any kin of yours." He took her hand and floated a kiss an inch above the back of it.

Lorraine was stumbling through her apologies, so I changed the subject to lunch and took them both out as my guests.

At lunch we discussed art and photography - what else? When lunch was over and I was cradling my glass of sweet sherry, Lorraine her third glass of the house white wine, and Erwin his glass of Scotch, I presented my plan. I explained to Erwin that my niece required a portrait of herself with her child.

"But she does not like my work!" he said, but with unconcealed confidence that no other opinion than his own mattered in regards to his art.

"It isn't that," Lorraine said, "but I guess I don't entirely understand it. Why the old cars? Why the pictures of crumbling industry?"

"Yes, it was a pity none of your portraits were in this show," I inserted.

"Well now, perhaps if I had seen the portraits," she said.

Erwin remained aloof, a patient man. He would not interrupt someone else to interject his own thoughts, which was quite unlike my niece and myself. But we were now quiet, waiting for him to say something. It was obvious he enjoyed this attention and took the time to sip from his glass before saying, "I will show you my portraits, but I will show them to you only because I think you would be an excellent subject, and I want you to want me to photograph you."

Lorraine looked as me, as if to ask, 'have I already agreed to something?' I put my hand on her wrist and told her, "I have already determined that Erwin here would be the best for the chore you have in mind. I am without a doubt that he most assuredly will do you justice. So firm is my faith, that I have brought the two of you together, and I will pay for it."

"Oh no, Uncle Victor, I won't hear of it."

"Nonsense. I have not yet bought the child or you anything. This will be my gift to the new mother." Then, turning to Erwin, "and when you have finished this assignment, Erwin, you will see to it that no one else but myself will see the bill."

"Professional courtesy?" he asked.

"Professional courtesy," I replied. "And I shall want a copy for my collection."

"For a price," he said, but gave me a sly smile that told me he knew his debt to me and would not abuse it by asking for much money.

"Well I'm glad the two of you have made up my mind, but I still have questions," Lorraine said. "All his photographs were black and white, and a bit smaller than what I want."

"And the one I make of you will also be black and white, and no larger than eight by ten," asserted Erwin.

"Well, that just won't do."

"Mrs. Lorraine Gilbert, let me explain. I only use one camera. It is an eight by ten format view camera. I do not use an enlarger. I only make contact prints. And I do not work in color, because colors lie." With his deep voice, the words came from his thin lips as if from a prophet of the Bible. His opinions were delivered in the tone of a command, yet he remained relaxed, leaning back in his seat, seemingly indifferent.

Erwin sat in the back seat while Lorraine gave us each a lift home in her car. "She is very beautiful," he reiterated.

"It's not polite to talk as if I'm not here," said Lorraine from the driver seat.

"You look like the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite painting - those soft features, that red hair."

"Red? It's brown," I corrected.

"It's auburn," Lorraine corrected me.

"Whatever," he replied.

"So why is it you only make eight by tens? she asked. "Why not use an enlarger, or what if you want to make small pictures for someone's desk or wallet?"

"What is this?" There was anger in his voice, but it wasn't genuine. "Do you want me to take snapshots, or do you want me to create great art? You want snapshots, then go ask your husband to make the picture, or go to Sears." I was pleased he didn't suggest me. And then he went on with the subject, absentmindedly, while studying the scenery through his window. "Do you know how far light travels in a nanosecond?" He didn't wait for her answer; he was now giving instruction. "Light travels nearly a foot in one nanosecond. After millions of years a particle of light migrates from the dense soup at the center of the sun to finally escape from its surface. That particle of light then takes over eight minutes to -" and he began peering at his feet, going so far as to turn sideways and stretch his long legs out to their full length behind her seat. Then he changed his mind and looked at the back of Lorraine's head. "Eight minutes to reach this planet and hit your hair. And if your hair absorbed all of it, it would be black, but that which it does not absorb, the so-called auburn, bounces off and travels the meter, that is the three feet to reach my eyes, about three nanoseconds from your beautiful hair and into my eyes, where it ceases to travel."

"A nanosecond must be pretty short," Lorraine remarked.

"It is one billionth of a second," he replied. "And when I photograph a thing, that thing has assisted me in the creation of art, for that thing had to exist, to be in the way, to reflect the light into the lens. And inside the camera, when that particle finally comes to rest on the film, it alters the film. The subject has contributed to the creation. When you look at my portraits, they will say to you, this moment in time and place once existed and here is the evidence. Film is a fossil, the result of light having reflected off of what once was. The people and things in my pictures announce to the world that they too once existed and you are looking at the evidence."

After we had dropped Erwin at his studio in West Philly, near to Drexel University, Lorraine drove me back to the Main Line.

"Did you understand what he was talking about?" she asked.

"I happen to know you like Ansel Adams."

"Yes?"

Adams did straight, unmanipulated black and white photography, not unlike Erwin's work, but don't ever tell him I said that."

"You're going to allow him to photograph me? I don't think I even like him very much."

"He has given you his card. You are free to make use of his services or pass. You wanted my opinion in this matter and I have introduced you to Erwin Petschauer. I am convinced great things will come of him, and you know I'm rarely wrong in these matters."

"Why do you like him? He certainly seems full of himself."

"He reminds me of Josh. You never met Josh."

"Mummy would have had a fit."

"And you were very young when he died."

"Was he a photographer?"

"He was an actor."

She didn't say anything more. I think she was afraid of embarrassing herself. Nothing would have embarrassed me.

For the next month I did not see or hear from either Lorraine or Erwin, I did not know what had become of my arrangement. Meanwhile, I became distracted with the search for a good lawyer. My wealth was in property, in Chester, Delaware, and Bucks Counties. These are beautiful counties that are quickly being spoilt by development, consumed by population. Once before I sold property with the stipulation that it would not be turned into endless acres of townhouses or another shopping mall. I thought the fellow I sold the property to could be trusted, but he was merely a front for a developer. This last time I was more cautious and saw to it in a contractual agreement that the property would not be developed. They were to restore the fieldstone house that has resided there for more than two centuries. They restored it by turning it into a community center and commenced to surround it by a community of townhouses. I intended to take that developer to court, to ruin him, if I could.

And then Erwin showed up one afternoon with no warning on my doorstep. He was short of cash and had me pay for his cab. Under his arm he toted what was evidently his latest masterpiece, as yet still wrapped in plain brown paper.

"For me?" I inquired.

"Yes, for you, but at a price."

I made Erwin comfortable in the living room and brought in a bottle of Champagne for the unveiling. It was magnificent. It was Lorraine seated on a floral patterned couch, her face nearly in profile as she partially tilted her head to admire her son, who was breast feeding from a perfectly shaped and succulent appearing tit that was projecting from a half-opened terry cloth robe. Her long, disheveled hair framed her features. As with all his works, it was eight inches by ten inches, on this occasion oriented lengthwise, and matted so that you could just see the edges of the negative in the print, to prove he had used every millimeter in this composition. Every shade of gray could be found in that picture, including the darkest black, which was her wide pupils, and the brightest white, being the glare off a facet of her diamond engagement ring that adjoined her wedding band. It was a very tender portrait. Whereas his outdoor shots had a clarity that came with bright sunlight, this indoor shot, using natural light, had an affectionate softness.

I did not begrudge the price Erwin demanded of me for this print and the copy he had presented Lorraine on the day before. He didn't ask for money, but took instead a small square photograph I had of the head of a bronze cherub that appeared to be rusting. The photographer remains anonymous; I had found the piece at an auction. As much as I loved that little cherub, I was convinced I could win it back in some future negotiation.

I never suspected that anything was wrong, but did wonder why it was that Lorraine never called to thank me. It was not my place to call her and press her for a thank-you. It was Gwendolyn that called.

"Do you have any idea what you have done?" she bleated across the phone lines. "Her husband is outraged! Do you really think a photograph like this is appropriate for polite society? What could have possibly been in your mind?"

"I think the portrait is a beautiful testament to motherhood."

"And what do you know about motherhood? Didn't you once say to me 'that life didn't begin until the children left home and the dog died.'"

"Gwendolyn, how do you remember these things? I am certain I wasn't being serious at the time."

"That is the trouble with you, Victor, you are just too cavalier. I can't even imagine how your photographer friend even got my dear Lorraine to pose in that - disastrous manner?"

"Ah, he has great charm and can be very persuasive."

"Well, in that case I guess we can at least be grateful that he is one of your friends."

"What does that mean?"

"You know - one of your gay buddies."

"And what, pray tell, ever led you to believe that Erwin Petschauer is gay?"

There was a brief quiet and then she said, "you mean he isn't gay?"

"Oh but how I wish he was."

"Now Victor, don't be disgusting," and the phone went into a long and ominous silence.

"You don't think . . ." she began, but could not finish.

"Think what?"

"You know, that she - and with him . . ."

"Why? Just because she allowed herself to be seen breast feeding doesn't make her a strumpet."

"But -"

"But what? In any case it is none of my business and none of your business."

For the next two years I did not hear from my family, except at Christmas, Easter, and my birthday. I learned that Lorraine had been made to feel humiliated by her husband and the few friends in whom she confided. Her picture must have been packed away in a closet or the attic, but my copy filled the space on my study wall formerly occupied by the rusting cherub. But then Lorraine was never expected to come visit me again, so I had no worry as to who would see it. The years go too quickly.

My court case did not go well, that is to say I could not evict the builders who scratched out the forest of hardwood trees and scraped away what was formerly farmland. At my lawyer's insistence, I settled out of court for an additional sum of money. So I grow richer, but feel poorer as so many of my friends disappear into the abyss. For some it is old age, for the younger ones it is too often AIDS. My own health remains fine as I take frequent long walks with my cane and camera. Old age is not for sissies.

And then Lorraine called to invite me to dinner. But it isn't for dinner that she wanted to see me. It is about that photograph, again.

"You're a member of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, aren't you?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Did you see your mail today?"

"Not yet, hold on." The mail was waiting for me on the floor inside the front door. I sorted through it while walking back to the telephone and there it was, Lorraine's image, feeding her baby, on the front of the museum's Members Calendar, an exhibition of four Philadelphia photographers opening September fourteenth in the Berman-Stieglitz Gallery at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Erwin Petschauer was one of the four, and they were using Lorraine's image to advertise the event. My initial feeling was why hadn't I been invited to contribute? Lorraine begged me to do whatever I could do to have Erwin withdraw the picture, but I knew it was too late.

I declined the dinner invitation.

That night came Gwendolyn's call, not unexpected.

"We'll sue."

"We won't sue," I said. "He's a friend."

"She'll have to move."

"Nonsense. She'll just have to patronize the arts and her friends will think she's a little eccentric."

At Gwendolyn's pressing, I went to visit Erwin the very next day. He no longer had the studio in West Philadelphia. When I found his new apartment in Society Hill, he was not at home. It was a week later when he at last returned my messages and we met for lunch. My treat, of course.

"Victor, I am sorry. There is nothing I can do," he told me. His hair had grown long and he wore it tied back in a ponytail. "I am sorry for you, Victor, but they should be grateful. Your family is too bourgeois." His deep mellow voice could be heard by everyone in the restaurant.

"Bourgeois!" I answered, "and you the wayward son of German burghers -"

"Austrian!" he corrected.

"Hitler was Austrian."

"Ja," he agreed, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Let's not forget who's paying for lunch. My family has supported the arts for generations and it's often been the wayward sons of Europe whose own parents want them to grow up to be engineers."

"I'm sorry Victor, I wasn't being serious."

"I know that."

"But there isn't anything I can do, you know that too. And I'm sorry to say it gets worse for your lovely niece."

"Worse?"

"The museum bought a copy of that print."

I couldn't contain a laugh. My heart wasn't in my mission.

"Also," he added, "that very picture will grace the cover of a book that I have coming out in the Spring."

This was too much. I ordered Champagne to celebrate his good fortune. But what would I tell Lorraine, or my sister?

All their worry was for naught. The exhibition opened and the critics gloated on Mr. Petschauer's talent for the sensitive observations of his eye and lens. But more importantly, the beautiful wife of Doctor Gilbert, whose tender portrait of her breast feeding her son, became the must have dinner guest in high society.

And here my story ends, with Lorraine happily ensconced in the company of some of the driest and most insensitive people I have known. Gwendolyn never mentions the incident, not even to thank me - except last week. She called and asked if I could procure her a copy of the print to decorate her drawing room.

I caught up with Erwin packing his belongings and moving from his Philadelphia apartment.

"I'm off the Paris," he said.

"Paris?"

"Victor, I cannot stay in Philadelphia. I am being overwhelmed by the city's rich folks to take their pictures. I don't want to take anymore pictures of rich folks. I have to get away from here." As for the print that Gwendolyn wanted, he had a copy, as yet unframed, that he dropped into an envelope and presented to me asking no price.

"And the photograph of the little cherub?" I inquired.

"The cherub? But that is mine."

"I'm willing to buy it back."

"O Victor," and he extended his arm for a handshake. I put my hand in his and he took it with both hands. "Victor, you've been very good to me. This photograph of Lorraine, it has been a turning point, it has launched my career. I have money now."

"I'm happy for you. You deserved it."

"Yes, I deserved it, but you also made it possible for my work to be seen. You had confidence in me before the others, and you always gave me good advice. I can't give you your little cherub; it is already packed and deep in the trunk. But I will send it to you from Europe. You can have it back."

That was the last I saw of Erwin. He doesn't need me anymore. And as for me, I'm just growing old and lonely.

© Bruce Bentzman