“I don’t know. I just... waited. Until it felt right.”
“That’s not something you can teach.” Fiona moved to the Margo photograph, studying it. “This expression. ‘Quiet amusement,’ you said?”
Stella blinked. “How did you?—”
“It’s written in your artist statement.” Fiona pointed to the small card beside the series. “I read it three times.”
She turned to face Stella, and her eyes were wet.
“This is professional-level work. Do you understand that? This isn’t student photography. This is art.”
“It’s just pictures of people eating sandwiches.”
“It’s not just pictures.” Fiona’s voice cracked. “I’ve been a photographer for twenty-five years. I know thedifference between someone taking pictures and someoneseeing. And you—“ She stopped. Pressed her hand to her chest. “You see, Stella. You really see.”
“Stella Walsh!”
They both turned. A man was approaching through the pavilion — mid-sixties, paint-stained jeans, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. Stella recognized the travel coffee mug in his hand before she recognized his face.
I TEACH ART. WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?
“Mr. Reeves,” she said.
“Great to run into you here.” He stopped beside them, gesturing at the display. “I’ve come back three times to look at this series. The Bernie triptych gets better every time.”
“Thank you.”
“Horror, panic, victory.” He shook his head, smiling. “You captured the entire human condition in a man waiting for coffee.”
Fiona was looking between them. “You know each other?”
“We met once,” Stella said. “When Bea gave me a tour of the school.”
“And I’ve been counting the days until September ever since.” Mr. Reeves extended his hand to Fiona. “You must be the mother. Must be where she gets the eye. Well, half of it anyway.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I taught Tyler years ago. He’s turned out to be really something else also. He had the eye, too. I've followed his work in the journals for years."
Stella glanced at her mother, whose eyebrows rose, and couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re a photographer too, correct? Commercial work, right? Product photography?”
“Yes.” Fiona shook his hand, still looking slightly dazed. “How did you?—”
“She told me during her tour. Said you did a campaign for an Australian surf brand that was everywhere for a while.”
“That was years ago.”
“Good work is good work, regardless of when.” Mr. Reeves turned back to the display. “Your daughter has something special. The technical skills can be taught — and I plan to teach them — but the eye? The instinct for the story underneath the moment?” He tapped his chest. “That’s born. She’s got it.”
Fiona stared at him. Then at the photographs. Then at Stella.
“She does,” Fiona said quietly. “She really does.”
“Advanced Photography, first day of school,” Mr. Reeves said to Stella. “Don’t be late. I have plans for you.” He raised his coffee mug in farewell and wandered off toward another exhibit.
Stella and Fiona stood in silence, surrounded by “The Shack Breathes.”
