I don’t mention where this story takes place – well, I mention a fictional Hawthorne County, but I don’t place it anywhere. But I can tell you it’s back east somewhere. I’ve spent my life on the West Coast among our coast redwoods and giant sequoias, our lodgepole and ponderosa pines. So, a forest of red maples and American beech and sugar maples… that’s pretty foreign to me outside of reading about it. The forests and lakes here might as well have come from Frost’s poems for me. It was in the 90’s here today – our annual scorching Indian Summer – but thinking about “Ten Pines” has me feeling much cooler.
Remember when they told you, “If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life?” Well, that’s a lie – well it’s mostly a lie. I love my job as Collections Manager at the Hawthorne Historical Museum, but it’s still a job. And especially when you’re dealing with some of the small-town narratives and stories… people can be quite testy about their view of history.
But some days I get absolutely lost in my work and lose track of time completely.
Like tonight.
One of our area’s only big claims to fame is that the famous photographer, Nathaniel Mercer, had his studio just outside of town, on the banks of the North Fork River. Our museum was planning a big retrospective of his work for the fortieth anniversary of his death. The Mercer Foundation had loaned us dozens of boxes of prints and negatives and journals from Mercer and his wife, Jane, for the exhibit.
Of course, everything is based around his most famous photograph, “Ten Pines” – the iconic picture of ten old-growth pines, silhouetted on a hillside. The composition of the piece with the contrast between the sky and fading light giving the whole thing a slightly abstract feeling. I’d argue that’s one of its biggest strengths because people bring what they want to it – I’ve heard a minister say it’s like the crosses on Golgotha, or representative of the Ten Commandments. I’ve heard people declare it’s a polemic on the decaying American family — ten trees as ten generations, with one leaning away from the group supposedly symbolizing modern alienation. Most commonly, the indelible image is held up as representing the loss of wilderness. However, Mercer himself wrote in a journal that he just “liked the way the fog reflected the light” that sunset.
I found that quote when studying one of his journals for my senior thesis a decade ago, so being able to work with so many Mercer artifacts that have largely been kept out of the public eye since before his death was truly a labor of love. Which is why I found myself at 7:35pm, long after everyone had left, leaning over the large table in my office with prints and Post-It notes providing information about the seeming chaos. In the middle – of course – Ten Pines.
“That one there has the wrong date.”
I literally jumped at the voice and turned to see… Nathaniel Mercer himself standing slightly behind me, one arm across his chest, the other rubbing his chin in concentration. I blinked rapidly but realized he was here – or, his ghost was here? And he spoke. Like, words I had heard.
“W-Which one?” I asked, trying to keep my astonishment and fear from unraveling me.
“’North Fork, Winter.’ The date there says 1954. That was the final print date, but the picture was taken in ’53.”
I opened my mouth to say, “You’re wrong,” but then I realized who I’m talking to. I looked at the image in question. More tactfully, I started, “Are you sure? The loan inventory from the estate specifically dates this to 1954.”
Mercer met my eyes and smiled. “That date is wrong.” He pointed to the picture, “Turn it over…”
I noticed my hand was shaking a little bit as I did as Mercer’s ghost suggested. There was… something… very small, faded… I pulled out my loupe and studied the mark… “N. Fork… 1953” I took the loupe from my eye and regarded Mercer. “Huh,” was all I could say. I crossed out “1954” on the Post-It next to the picture and wrote “1953 – on back.’”
He stood there, arms folded, a supremely self-serious smile creasing his face.
“Well, while you’re here,” I said as casually as I could manage, “Any other corrections?”
Mercer stepped right up to the table and leaned over, examining every item carefully. I followed his gaze, but my eyes kept being drawn to his face – here. Next to me. Nathaniel Mercer…
“There, ‘Fog Over Hawthorne, 1938. View from Bell Hill.’ That wasn’t Bell Hill.”
“No?”
He shook his head and frowned. “Hmm, no. Check the shot log on that day.”
I moved to one of the bound journals I had on another table, checked it included 1938. “You don’t know which month, do you?”
“June. The fifteenth.”
I located June and traced my finger down the handwritten dates. I found an entry for “June 15: shot fog after dawn from the bell tower of St. Augustine’s with Jane.”
“The bell tower of St. Augustine Church?”
Mercer nodded with that same smile.
I corrected the Post-It note and stepped back. After a quiet moment, Mercer pointed again. “’The White Fence.’ That’s not mine – That’s one of Jane’s.”
I tilted my head and, again, fought the urge to tell Nathaniel Mercer he was wrong. “That picture is widely credited to you…”
He shook his head, “Check her shot log. January 1959.”
I went to one of the boxes with Jane Mercer’s journals and sifted through the journals until I found “1959.” There on January 17th: “beautiful, sunny morning with Nate shooting landscapes outside of town – white picket fence with melted earth visible around the base.”
“Well, I’ll be damned…” I said aloud. Then I realized the year I was looking at. I skipped ahead in the journal. When talking about shooting “Ten Pines” in October 1959 Mercer had mentioned publicly that he and Jane were out together. I was curious if she had an entry on the date that might offer a different perspective on the famous shot. I found an entry, “October 17: N + I out shooting landscapes. N shot his last frame on the Hasselblad – mushrooms on log, started back. 10 old pines on hill with setting sun caught my eye – should turn out well.” I reread the looping handwriting several times.
I moved to Nathaniel’s journals and found 1959, flipped through to October… October 1, 4, 5… 24, 30, 31. The latter three entries were on a facing page to the first three. I’d known there was nothing about “Ten Pines” in his shot journal – I’d looked for it long ago when I was writing my thesis. My hand reached for my loupe again, and I didn’t focus on the pages themselves, but literally between them. “You tore out that page,” I said to Nathaniel Mercer, my mouth moving before my brain caught up to what I was doing.
“What are you talking about?” he scowled.
“’Ten Pines’ isn’t your shot. That was Jane’s, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t be absurd,” he dismissed.
“My God…” I stared at him and shook my head. “All this time you were taking credit for her picture…”
“She was on that hillside with me. That was my Rolleiflex” he said defensively. “I printed that shot. Me.”
“But Jane took that picture.”
He drew in a deep breath and I readied myself for a furious outburst. But it didn’t come. Mercer breathed out and said quietly, “Yes. Jane took that picture.”
I stared at Nathaniel. “Why?”
He picked up the 8×10 print of “Ten Pines” I had on the table as the stand-in for the real print and smiled sadly. “She told me to.” He looked from the picture to me. “You’re not going to find that in any of our journals.” He looked back at the picture and his smile grew warmer. “Jane was an amazing photographer in her own right, but she never wanted the limelight. She was always content to support me, support my ambitions.”
He set the print back down and picked up a picture he had taken of Jane a few years before she took “Ten Pines.” Her face, fully in frame, in profile, mid-laugh. He sighed as he stared at the image. “I did print it,” he said softly. “We both recognized it as a great picture. She wanted me to put my name on the picture because she knew what it would mean for my career.” He looked up at me, “So, I did. And, she was right – as usual,” he added with a chuckle.
“Now, though,” he set the image down and turned fully towards me, “You’re in an impossible situation. You know the truth. But no one will believe you.”
I motioned towards Jane’s journal and Nathaniel nodded, “You have that, yes, but that’s it – I tore out that page in my journal for a reason. Besides, no one would believe you because no one wants to believe you.” He put his hand on his heart and affected a regal tone, “Nathaniel Mercer, the most famous person in Hawthorne County.” He shook his head again. “People want their stories, their idols. They hold on to it with white knuckles. You know the truth, but that’s a candle in a hurricane.”
He was right and I knew it. I’d known it the moment I noticed the missing journal page. I opened my mouth to say something, but I closed it again.
“But, there is something I would like you to do…” he said gently.
“Yes?”
“We’ve already pointed out ’The White Fence’ is Jane’s. What if you split this retrospective? Keep ‘Ten Pines’ as it is, but the other half could be all Jane’s images.” He looked at the images on the table, “There’s at least one other here that’s hers, and I can help you go through her negatives.”
