Best Intentions Read Online Free PDF Page B

them.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’m not staying,” Ben says lightly. “I just came for a quick cup of coffee.” His face is slightly ruddy, his angular features just asymmetrical enough to make his good looks intriguing, open to interpretation. At forty-one, he is lean and muscular—he still rides a bike everywhere he goes.
    â€œDon’t be silly. How have you been?” I ask casually. I haven’t seen Ben since last spring, when Deirdre broke it off with him. In fact, Deirdre and Ben have broken up and gotten back together so many times over the past two years, their desire for each other chronic and insoluble, that I no longer believe in either state and thus refrain from offering judgment or encouragement. A photographer, Ben flies all over the country on assignment, often disappearing for days at a time with no word, a nomadic man with a nomadic heart. Famous for his black-and-white portraits that highlight every line, every pore, every sorrow and vanity, he is a master at exposing a subject’s innermost self while maintaining a formal aloofness. The juxtaposition is his trademark, a lure to everyone who thinks he can conquer it, win him over, everyone who thinks he will be the exception.
    â€œI’ve been great,” he says. “Busy. Traveling too much, but that’s nothing new. How about you?”
    Before I can answer, Deirdre rushes in. “Did you see Ben’s portrait of Branson in yesterday’s magazine section?” she asks, anxious to score points for him.
    He smiles at her indulgently, too confident in his own talent to need her public praise, but basking in it nonetheless.
    â€œYes.” I vaguely recall glancing at the full-page image of the mogul’s stark, aging face. It was certainly not what I would call a flattering image. “I can’t imagine he loved that picture,” I remark. This is not at all how I thought this breakfast would go and it is hard to shift gears.
    â€œMaybe not,” Ben replies, pushing his auburn hair off his high forehead. “Most people are too embarrassed to admit that what they really expect is an airbrushed version of themselves. Then again, I don’t think they quite know which is the more accurate reflection, the one they see in the mirror or the one they are confronted with in black and white.” While he speaks, Deirdre leans into him with the eagerness of one who cannot take possession for granted. Some part of their bodies has been touching since I sat down, their hips, their elbows; I cannot see their legs beneath the table but I am sure theyare intertwined, in play. It’s hard not to feel extraneous around them, as if you are simply a dull and distant background, a bas-relief to highlight their intransigent attraction.
    â€œI’m always surprised people agree to sit for you. I don’t think I want to see myself that clearly. I need a little bit of denial to get out the door.”
    â€œIt’s a mixture of curiosity and conceit. Most of the people I photograph are used to being in control. They assume they’ll be able to exhibit only the public version they want seen. But it’s actually harder than they realize to hide your true nature. I just have to be patient. The trick is to offer up a little piece of yourself and wait for them to respond in kind.”
    â€œSo it’s an act of calculated confession. Don’t they feel betrayed?”
    â€œIt’s been said all journalism is seduction and betrayal. I’m sure Sam would agree. Photography isn’t all that different. My responsibility is to the finished product, not to the subject. Only second-raters and sentimentalists get the two confused. The other person knows the game going into it. If they choose to pretend otherwise it’s not my fault.” Ben talks the way he photographs, observing everything from a distance. He was on the debate team at Yale, he likes the give-and-take. Sometimes I