Anne Trubek is Associate Professor at Oberlin College. Her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, Mother Jones, The Believer, Dwell, The Chronicle of Higher Education, AGNI, Gourmet.com and elsewhere. Her book, The Sweet Sadness of Writers’ Houses, is forthcoming from The University of Pennsylvania Press.
I am looking at my favorite photograph of my summer house in Nantucket. It is not a particularly pretty picture. It was taken on a cloudy and gray day. You cannot see the beach, or the moors, or much of the house itself. What you can see is this: in the foreground a man, dressed more like a European tourist visiting a church than a beachgoer. He is wearing jeans and a beige pull-over sweater. A large camera bag is slung over his right shoulder. He is standing near the bushes, bushes I know to be prickly and filled with poison ivy. He is holding a large camera in front of his face. The camera is pointed at a rather ordinary-looking shingle-style house.
I, the photographer, am standing behind the man. I am taking a picture of him taking a picture of my house.
I am looking at my favorite photograph of my summer house in Nantucket. It is not a particularly pretty picture. It was taken on a cloudy and gray day. You cannot see the beach, or the moors, or much of the house itself. What you can see is this: in the foreground a man, dressed more like a European tourist visiting a church than a beachgoer. He is wearing jeans and a beige pull-over sweater. A large camera bag is slung over his right shoulder. He is standing near the bushes, bushes I know to be prickly and filled with poison ivy. He is holding a large camera in front of his face. The camera is pointed at a rather ordinary-looking shingle-style house.
I, the photographer, am standing behind the man. I am taking a picture of him taking a picture of my house.
