I didn't set out today to write a sappy column about how brave my friends have been. But they are brave, braver than I can conceive. One purpose of this column is to let them know that we stand with them and always shall.
Another purpose is to appeal to anyone, anywhere, with any knowledge that may illuminate this matter, to come forward now and tell the authorities what you know…
Yeah, Waldo could really lay it on when he had a mind to. Reading his piece, I sense he genuinely cared about the handsome young Fulraines, truly did grieve with them, was appalled by the crime committed against them… not only because it was so terribly cruel, but also because it contradicted his world view.
Waldo Channing, you see, saw the world in terms of social events – beautifully assembled parties, exquisitely hosted dinners, lavish weddings, luxurious homes, chic resorts. He savored urbane gatherings, suave displays of wit, most of all that odd symbiosis between people of wealth and people of achievement, society and celebrity, money and fame, summed up in his favorite phrase (purloined, perhaps unknowingly, from Stendhal): ‘The Happy Few.’
It's a phrase that turns up again and again in his columns through the years in numerous and varying contexts:
"‘The Happy Few’ were out in full-dress force last night, at the opening of Symphony…"
"After the party, the Charles Dunphys, Brownie Dillers, Babe Keniston, her veddy good friend, Timmy Knowlton-Smith, and others of ‘The Happy Few’ assembled in the back room at Rob's for nightcaps, laughter and lotsa giggles…"
"The fun masquerade party over at Andy and Barb Fulraine's was well attended by members in good standing of our ‘Happy Few.’ Dot Bartlett took first prize for ‘best headdress’ with her amusing…"
Ad nauseam.
But still I must concede this to Waldo – when he really cared (a rare event), he was capable of setting aside such drivel and writing from the heart.
The other photo of Barbara: I am studying it again as I sit in my rental car parked across from the Doubleton Building at the corner of Harp and Spencer Avenues – the very building where I believe it was taken more than twenty-six years ago in a back-room photographer's studio on the seventh floor.
Despite the numerous times I've looked at it, this photo always amazes me. Time, I think, to confess that it is this picture that has brought me back to Calista, that is the driving force behind my quest.
Please imagine: a black and white posed studio photograph of a beautiful woman, glamorously lit as if by Horst or some other skilled Hollywood photographer of the 1940s.
Imagine her dressed in lustrous black leather riding boots, dark fitted jodhpurs, and, except for a pair of long, laced pigskin gloves, otherwise totally bare above the waist.
Imagine her leaning forward in this amazing state of dishabille, one raised foot resting on a bench, engaging the camera with beguiling eyes.
Imagine precisely rouged lips (the lipstick showing black in the photo), loose, dark hair cascading in waves across pale shoulders, perfectly proportioned breasts surmounted by taut upraised nipples, while long, multistory black pearl earrings dangle seductively from her finely modeled ears.
And if all this is insufficient to hold your attention, imagine The Lady holding a long, narrow riding crop, bowing it slightly as if to test for stiffness and strength, while she gazes at you-the-viewer – the voyeur! – with an expression combining amusement, desire, hauteur, and, perhaps too, the barest modicum of scorn.
The picture is compelling not only on account of the beauty of its subject and the fetishistic manner in which she's been attired and posed, but also because of the exquisite photographic technique with which the image has been rendered. The lighting has been designed to highlight each engaging detail – sparkling eyes, glossy lips, delicate areolas, the very texture of the lady's skin. And the illumination of the background wall has been contrived so that vectors of light and shadow converge to make delicious contrast with her luminous naked upper body as well as the dark riding attire she wears below.
I'm certain this picture was taken with a large-view camera under studio conditions, perhaps with the photographer hiding his head beneath a cloth. A signature stamp graces the bottom of the print, raised in fine silver script: Studio Fesse. A pseudonym, of course, one he used on this particular brand of work. His actual name, I happen to know, was Max Rakoubian, still listed on the register in the Doubleton Building lobby.
A black attendant with jaundiced eyes takes me up to seven in a very old, silent cage elevator. After I step out, the elevator descends like a waterlogged raft sinking slowly in a lake.
I make my way down a hushed corridor lined with pebbled glass doors bearing the names of firms: FESTIVE FOLLIES; HYDE INSURANCE; MARITZ INVESTIGATIONS… PHOTOS BY MAX.
I knock on MAX. No response so I turn the knob and walk in. There's an odd aroma in the reception area, not the photochemical smell I expect. I hear the hissing on the other side of an inner door. I move toward it, call out:
"Anyone here?"
"Yeah," a male voice responds.
"Okay if I come in?"
"Suit yourself."
I push the door open, and the smell hits me at once, a foundry smell, hot metal and gas.
A sweaty, muscular man in his thirties, stripped to the waist, face covered with a visor, is applying a welding torch to a sculpture in which a number of skeletal figures, men, women, and children, are entwined with one another in an agonized group embrace.
"Sorry, can't shake hands," he tells me. "Hope you don't mind pigeons. They fly in on hot days. One comes at you, my advice is duck. 'Less you like pigeon shit on your face."
The windows are wide open, the sound of the city – street noise, car horns, distant sirens – makes a din against the hissing of the torch. Two pigeons flap about near the ceiling, while another stands attentive on the windowsill as if deciding whether to depart or stick around.
"I'm looking for Max Rakoubian."
The sculptor grins. "Max's been in the ground eight years. I'm Chip, his son… one of them anyway. I took over his lease, never bothered to change the name on the door."
"Or downstairs."
He grins again. "Kind of a tip of the hat to the old man, you might say. Me being the only one of his bastards ever gave a shit."
He finishes his weld, closes the valve of his gas tank, puts down his torch, and pulls up his visor.
"Bet I know why you've come," he says, wiping his face with a rag. A good-looking guy despite a couple days beard growth, he reminds me of one of those underwear models, the brawny kind with surly mouth and soulful eyes.
"Wanna know whether I got some of Pop's old ‘art studies’ sitting around. Willing to pay top dollar for them, too."
"Not exactly."
He gazes at me. "Well, I doubt you dropped by to see my work."
I turn to the sculpture. "Interesting piece."
"It's for a Holocaust Memorial. Commissioned by a synagogue in Van Buren Heights."
"The one on Dover?"
Chip nods.
I introduce myself. "I'm more interested in your father's work, Chip, but I didn't come looking to buy more of it. Just want to ask a couple questions about a photograph I've got." I hold up my eight-by-ten envelope.
"Woman with a whip?"
"How'd you know?"
Chip peels off his gloves, wipes his face again and then his chest, pulls on a black T-shirt, and extends his hand. We shake.
"Don't know which one you have there, but they're all pretty much alike. Different models, different poses, sometimes with some poor naked slob down on his knees groveling or licking the lady's boots. But the idea's always the same. Women rule. Dominatrixes. I know a lot about that, see, ‘cause my mom was one of ‘em. Which was why Pop adored her." He gestures toward my envelope. "Let's see which you got."