The Girl I Used to Be by Heidi Hostetter (that summer book .txt) 📕

gave nothing away, cordial and polite, but not friendly. “I understand you’d like the opportunity to photograph my granddaughter.”

“A wedding portrait, Grammy,” Libby gently interrupted. “I mentioned this before.”

“Yes, I remember, but I’d like Mrs. Goodman to speak for herself please,” Mrs. Brockhurst replied. “I’m sure she knows how.”

“I do.” Jill ignored the butterflies and straightened in her chair. Libby Brockhurst may be the bride, but the wedding was very much her grandmother’s to plan. “Libby and I share a spin class, as she may have mentioned. I showed her my work one day after class and shared an idea I had for her bridal portrait. Libby liked it and asked me to come here to meet with you.”

“I see. That was very resourceful of you.” Mrs. Brockhurst’s gaze shifted, though it appeared to be more curiosity than judgment. “Tell me about your background. I’m sure you won’t mind me remarking that you look quite young to have much career experience. How long have you been interested in photography?”

And because Jill had always met a challenge head-on, she decided to be truthful. “I’ll be twenty-seven years old in November. I have a business degree from Rutgers—”

“A business degree? Not an art degree?” Mrs. Brockhurst pressed. “Why not an art degree, if photography is what you have planned as a career?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, as Jill’s Aunt Sarah used to say. Jill squared her shoulders and answered this question truthfully as well. “I’ve always been interested in photography, but a business degree looks better on a résumé and back then my future was uncertain.”

Majoring in art wasn’t an option for Jill, though she would have loved it. The very idea of spending entire semesters abroad languidly studying the Old Masters was like a dream to her. Imagine, passing whole days doing nothing but wandering great cities, awaiting inspiration. But that wasn’t in the cards for Jill; her reality was very different. She worked two jobs to pay tuition and cobbled together a patchwork of student loans and work-study to pay the rest. Work had always come before anything else, and unyielding budgets were a way of life for her. Opportunities to study abroad weren’t for kids like her, and it was hard not to feel resentful at having missed them.

“So no, I don’t have a formal art degree,” Jill concluded. “What I do have is creativity—imagination and a fresh perspective. I think that’s just as powerful.”

“I’m sure you’re talented,” Mrs. Brockhurst allowed. “My point is that a formal art degree provides the foundation of one’s craft. Technique is a difficult thing to learn on one’s own.”

“I agree. I’ve taken photography classes at the community college and workshops at Parsons School in Manhattan. But I believe the most important thing a good photographer can bring to her work is a critical eye, and I think I have it.” She brought her portfolio to her lap. “May I show you?”

Mrs. Brockhurst inclined her head. “Please do.”

Jill had spent three full days organizing—and reorganizing—the photographs she wanted to present in this meeting. Now was her moment. She unzipped her leather case and opened it to the first image. She rose to place it on the desk then reclaimed her chair. Other photographers might have elected to explain each piece, turning the pages as they went, but Jill purposefully decided not to. Mrs. Brockhurst knew enough about art not to have it explained to her, and Jill wanted her work to speak for itself.

Even so, the wait was nerve-racking. Jill sat quietly, squeezing her hands together in her lap while Georgiana Brockhurst flipped through the pages and examined her photographs. After what seemed like forever, she paused at one of Jill’s very favorite ones.

“This one here.” Mrs. Brockhurst tapped a neatly manicured fingernail on the image. “Tell me about this.”

Mrs. Brockhurst had chosen the photograph that Jill had shown Libby, that day in the coffee shop. Libby had loved it, and the story behind it was the reason Jill was in the Brockhurst study now, interviewing for the job. So it was a very good sign that Mrs. Brockhurst had paused to notice that one.

“It was taken at the end of a week-long workshop at Parsons last year. The assignment was to bring a fresh perspective to a traditional composition. I chose bridal portraits because they’ve been photographed the same way for years and I knew I could do better. I wanted something that you might see on a runway or in an upscale fashion magazine. I found an old warehouse in Brooklyn and got permission from the owner to shoot there.”

Jill straightened, remembering how excited she had been to find the space. While the rest of the class had headed for the lush green spaces of Central Park or to the gritty industrial tunnels of the subway, Jill had wanted something different. Even after the others had finished shooting and returned to the studio to develop, Jill hadn’t found a place that spoke to her. When she finally did, her imagination sparked, and she worked straight through. Fueled by the euphoria of purpose and creativity, she finished a week-long assignment in record time. Finding that space and turning in the finished photograph was the happiest she’d ever been.

“Interesting composition,” Mrs. Brockhurst murmured.

“The space inside the warehouse was absolutely amazing. It’s a pre-war building so the windows are floor to ceiling, but the wind comes from the naval yards, bringing smoke. The soot on the windows filters the sunlight in the most amazing way. And the floors,” Jill gushed, unable to contain her excitement, “the floors are original hardwood, warped and scuffed from almost a century of use. The woodgrain is beautifully layered, and the texture shows up with the right exposure. The brick walls are old and crumbling but the color of the brick is warm, and it absorbs the sunlight—that almost never happens.” She breathed, then paused, suddenly aware of the flush on her face and the juvenile excitement