Subject and Body

Pitch-black, deep darkness, extending as far as the eye could see. Or, perhaps, was it just pure white light? No, no. Certainly darkness, void and devoid of meaning. I had felt the flashing light, just before the darkness engulfed everything. In that very instant, I felt it. A piercing gaze, that not only looked at me — but also through me. Fantasizing, and contemplating. A light that idealized me, immortalized me, and captured me. One of those gazes you'd receive, with plenty of luck, one or twice in a lifetime. A gaze only writers, painters and the great artists could offer. Static, I phased across the infinite. Entire lives, possible futures made incarnate invaded my retinas with the mere click of the camera’s shutter-release button. Finally, I felt the light leaving my eyes, taking with it all that could be denominated as my soul. My body — now a husk — never again identical to what the photons had captured in that instant, fated to desire achieving such greatness once again — and equally fated to fail.

“Where… Where am I?”, I made myself repeat.

A sensation next to death itself embraced me. My heart stopped, and I could feel it through the weight that condensated in my chest. All other sensations disappeared, not literally, but in spirit.

The pleasure inherent to breathing — that of air flowing into your lungs, hitting all the right spots, resetting the two-or-so minute timer inherent to human life — it existed no more.

The pleasure inherent to sunlight — that of receiving a warm hug from something so far away— that was also no more.

At some point, however, I noticed that my surroundings were no longer the empty and void abyss of inexistence— it was my world, our world, and it had never left.

The one thing that had changed — it wasn’t the world, which had become a black pit of nothingness. It was me who had changed.

It was fair, however, to think that nobody could possibly change so much after being photographed. Regardless, I insisted that I did change. For a moment, I thought I saw myself through the eyes of the one snapping the picture — I had better posture, charming looks, a piercing gaze and a hairstyle that flowed beautifully as the wind blew, never getting in front of my face. An ideal form — a lie — photographed in an instant.

That same instant was, then, immortalized as a step of my very existence. Inexplicably, I felt as if I had become the one in the picture.

“Nice! It’s got to be a good shot…”, Rio exclaimed, satisfied. “You know, I’m quite proud of my skills as a photographer”, she boasted.

“Is there anything you aren’t good at?”, I asked, jokingly.

“Well… There probably is, but… Akito, I feel like there’s nothing in this world that can’t be learned”, she concluded.

“So you’re one of those people who believe anything can be achieved with enough effort put into it?”, I tried to explore her thoughts on the matter.

“Not exactly. I just mean that I’m open to learning about anything. The only thing stopping anyone from learning about anything is the lack of willpower”, she explained.

“Of course you’re the one telling me this, prodigy-girl…”, I commented.

“Tsc, tsc, tsc. That’s where you’re mistaken, Akito. To know of or about something doesn’t necessarily mean you’re instantly good at it. There’s teachers who are better at teaching than doing the thing they teach, as there are music composers who aren’t good with every instrument. To do something well at a certain moment involves such a large number of factors, that it can almost entirely be attributed to luck at that point”, she practically lectured me.

“Okay, I lose”, I admitted, still pondering over the feelings I got when I was photographed. It had, after all, been my first modeling session in a while. “How’s the shot?”, I asked, noticing that the picture had been printed and was ready to be looked at.

“Hmmm… Sadly, you won’t find out! He-he”, she laughed. “This one is my commission, I’m keeping it in my wallet”.

“Fine, fine”, I soon realized it would have been useless to fight her for it. It wasn’t worth the trouble just to see my own face on a piece of paper. Then, I restarted my walk along the shoreline.

“Hey! You’re not even a little bit curious?”, she asked, surprised by my reaction. “Come on, not even as for why I’m keeping it for myself?”, she quickly walked to get beside me as we resumed our walk-and-talk.

Despite her disapproval, my extensive curriculum in dealing with my sister told me that the best way to deal with such provocations was to be completely unfazed by them. I was quite sure the same rules could be applied there.

“Not at all. You said it, it’s yours. I don’t mind”, I doubled down.

“Come on!”, she insisted. “What if it’s totally messed up!?”, she asked.

“I don’t care. Use it however you see fit”, I insisted.

“You’re no fun…”, she seemed to give up, even changing her walking pace.

We continued our stroll, and I couldn’t avoid the feeling that something was different. To be more specific, the weirdness was caused, mostly, due to a lack of feelings altogether. The variance in my breathing, in my heart rate, and my will to smile — it was all gone.

"Hey, would you take a picture of me too?", she asked, crossing the imaginary line between the sand and the sidewalk, and getting in front of me.

Momentarily, I thought about just how far ahead of me she was. In other ways, too. Was I really about to walk straight, up until the end of the beach?

"Sure, why not?", I replied, and she passed me the camera.

She posed, and I saw her through the camera lenses. Those were in surprisingly good shape — and she was, too. Her image, distorted, destroyed and recreated through the lenses and the plays on angles, invented by some guy who certainly didn't know how to paint, and yet saw beauty in the world as it was.

Without warning her beforehand, I clicked the shutter, but it didn't trigger anything. I tried again, and the same result happened. Einstein would have considered me insane for expecting anything different.

"It's no good...", I complained, disappointed.

"Really? It can't be! I just took yours...", she commented, coming to me and holding the camera with me.

We held it together and inspected from many angles — Rio tiptoed to look at it from my height. We pressed the shutter a couple times, but nothing happened.

“Well... What a shame! It seems you were the prized last breath of this one, Akito", she sighed.

"Aren't you the lucky one? You're the one who kept the picture", I argued.

“Not quite, I think. Picture this: for a camera, the last picture must be really important", she explained. "It's like being the last model for a great painter", and continued.

"You might be right", I agreed.

"Everything I say is geometrically one-dimentional. Did you know?", she asked me, and I had no idea what she was on about. "Because I've always got a point!", it was a pun. And a good one, at that.

“Ha-ha. Very funny, Dee", I laughed. Couldn't avoid the erupting laughter.

Despite  the lack of words exchanged, we looked around together, aiming for a place to sit down. At that moment, I couldn't avoid taking notes of the local environment that surrounded us: A fascinating mixture of natural areas, like the beaches and the oceanview, and a stark contrast with the urban scenario, composed by the naturally tilting buildings, built on sandy soil. The sky, by the way, matched the ocean in its color and natural aspect, but the very same buildings from the urban scenario seemed almost to pierce through it. Nearby, there was a bench. One of those you see near lighthouses or in spots with good views. The sides were metal, and thin slabs of wood made for a nice seat. Thus, we sat down, and got right back to inspecting the defective instant camera, looking for its defect, whatever it was.

"Oh, well... I really wanted a picture of you to keep for myself. Who knows? I might never see you around again —", I commented, jealous of the treasure she was keeping in her wallet, while holding the camera in-between my thighs.

"Well, that shall cause you harm no more!", she exclaimed. "Give me your phone!", she snatched it from my hands as soon as I pulled it out.

So, she turned her gaze to the ocean, with one hand on my shoulder as if, silently, asking me to do the same. I turned, and saw her lifting the phone, while holding it in reverse — the front camera turned towards us, and the screen towards the outside world. Apparently, some people are really good at taking pictures, and can do it without looking at the preview on the screen.

"Whoa. You know how to frame the shot without looking?", I asked, fascinated by her skills.

"Of course! I told you I'm good with photography", she recalled. "Now, say cheese!", she smiled, making a V with her index and middle fingers.

"Cheese!", I replied, carelessly, waiting for the flash.

She took a couple pictures of us, blindly. Then, she reversed the phone back, brought it to her and began studying the pictures individually.

"Gosh, you're a great model, Aki! Ever thought about making it your career?", she asked, without averting her gaze from the phone.

She inspected every detail — every slight difference — between the representations of our moment together. I didn't recognize the one in the picture. It wasn't me— not exactly. It looked like me, posed like me, and probably talked, breathed and walked like me — but it wasn't me. Maybe a version of me, immortalized in that moment, just like its predecessor — the picture carefully stored in Rio's wallet, for her eyes only.

"Yeah, I never gave it much thought", I replied, still contemplating the existence of this clone of mine, the one posing with Rio for the pictures just then.

"Well, you should! Not only because you're good, but because you can't ever stop thinking. We think, therefore we exist. If you don't think, then I'm seriously concerned over the possibility that I'm just hallucinating a really handsome guy to hang out with", she joked.

"Ha-ha-ha. Very funny. Don't worry, though. You have a very real, printed photograph, and it proves I'm real. I'm not Schrödinger's Akito, stuck in a box with a cat", I argued.

"Well... That's true. Photos are a really strong proof of our existence, aren't they?", she started.

An assertion impossible to refute — after all, for those who are not great creators, like poets and painters, the proof of existence lies in being a model for another's creations.

"Sure, that's true", I affirmed. "I wonder how many individuals from the old ages we couldn't meet, despite them leaving important anonymous legacies, just because there was no simple camera in the ancient world", I then pointed out.

"Millions, if not billions", Rio replied, seriously.

"And yet, isn't it fun to ponder over what they might have been like?", I inquired.

“Yeah, for sure. But that's delving into the realm of imagination, not reality. The reality is that their existences are a mystery to us, and will remain so for all eternity", she concluded. "Luckily, that's no longer the case for you, since I'm going to keep this photograph safe forever!", she said, smiling, and looking at me.

"Uh... Well... Thanks, I guess", embarrassed, that was all I could say to her.

"He-he, it's good to be grateful, eh?", she laughed again.

I wished, for a moment, that every day, from there onwards, could be like this one, and that the moment imprisoned in the photo on my cellphone could be a reflection — or rather, a portrait — of how my life would be from then on. However, with all those other thoughts clouding my mind, I couldn't help but seek Rio’s comments and reflections on my inner worries.

"Are you still yourself after having your picture taken?", I offered the question.

"Hmmm... That's a tough question, I need to think", she replied, beginning a contemplative silence.

While she reflected, I made sure to procure my own lines of reasoning as well. After all, to justify my existence beyond photography, according to Dee herself, I needed to think. Paraphrasing the question, we get: can the subject remain the same after being portrayed in a photograph? Technically, this applies to any artistic representation that captures a moment of a being. Dante's Beatrice, who ascended to the heavens — is she still Beatrice? It can be argued that, just as camera lenses indefinitely distort their subject before reconstructing it, the artist's perception of the portrayed object destroys it and rebuilds it a number of times until they're finished with whatever their art may be, thus creating a definitive version of the individual that is based on — but not identical to — the real thing. Therefore, Dante's Beatrice is not Beatrice; she is merely Dante's Beatrice, a biased and limited — a single moment’s — portrait of Beatrice. However, would Dante's bias still be a constituent part of the being that is called Beatrice? Does the observer justify the existence of the being, thus becoming an inherent part of it? Frankly, this is almost a true or false game — a riddle whose solution is as subjective as itself.

“Does the observer justify the being, therefore becoming an inherent part of it?”, I asked her, trying to break her out of her silence.

“Before or after?”, she replied.

“Hm? What?”, I drew a blank.

“Before or after the observation happens?”, she rephrased.

Observation, or rather, the act of being observed, despite being a passive action on the observed being’s side, may or may not constitute a part of the being itself. To be perceived — whether you’re aware of it or not — might just be an inherent fact about any being. Although… Is that a trait of the observer or the observed? If we assume it’s possible to influence the way you’re perceived by the outside world, then it’s also possible to conclude that being perceived is a property of everything that exists, thus a property of the being — the observed one.

“Before doesn’t matter, because the observer isn’t an observer before making an observation. That would be putting the cart before the horses”, I finally got to answer.

“Ding-dong. Right answer, Aki. The relationship between observer and observed, and thus their definitions and properties, can only exist after the observation itself has been made”, she agreed. “Before that, the only thing that exists is potential — which is the same as nothing, on its own”, and then concluded.

“And that’s something inherent to both the observer and the observed. It’s imperative that their relationship to the outside world is listed as part of a being’s fundamental properties”, I added.

“And, on top of that, since the observed one is never seen in its totality, except by an omnipresent and all-knowing being — which doesn’t exist — the half-truth described as an observation becomes more real than the real thing”, Rio elevated the premise.

“The fake is more real than the real thing”, I concluded. “Though I feel like there’s somebody who got to that conclusion already… But I can’t quite put my finger on it”, we wondered.

“Going back to Schrödinger… I feel like he would enjoy this little discussion of ours”, she commented. “Whatever exists is only an illusion until it’s observed… It’s a bit like quantum physics”, then added.

“Not so much an illusion as a conjecture”, I argued.

“A conjecture is an illusion until it’s proven or disproven”, she rebutted, defending our thesis.

“So, to put it simply… You don’t even exist until you’re photographed, and what you are can only be determined afterwards — what is or isn’t you, defined as what is or isn’t in the picture.

“Truly, a splendid discussion”, she praised.

“Sure. That really got my gears spinning”, I joked.

“Hey, you’re not actually a robot, are you?”, she asked playfully.

“Not until you prove or disprove it”, I responded.

“Phew… I’ve been looking forward to this kind of conversation with someone. Didn’t expect you’d be the one, Aki…”, she thought. “Why didn’t we go out like this earlier? You’re a good listener, and a good talker”, she asked, then admitted.

“Why, thank you, thank you. I’m around on Thursdays and Fridays, hope you enjoyed the show! Come again!”, I fooled around a bit.

“Forget. Worst show ever. Never coming again”, she turned her face, but slowly warmed back towards me.

We took a breather from all the deep, philosophical discussions, turning our eyes to the ocean. The increasing number of cars and trucks out on the street prevented us from properly hearing the waves crashing, and I thought about how tiny we were compared to the hundreds of materials being moved around in the harbors, in and out of the city. Also, I had just realized my phone was still in Rio’s hands, and she was still playing with it.

“Here, take it”, she shyly gave it back to me, after noticing that I was staring.

First thing, I had noticed a few changes. My background screen was now the picture she took of us with my phone — the best of them, according to Rio’s criteria. Upon closer inspection, her own contact information had also been added to my contact list — and she sent herself all the pictures she had just taken.

“Hey, you —”, I was going to say something, but I was interrupted.

A gust of wind blew, raising the waves, and putting a cloud in front of the sun.

“Oops, looks like it’s raining soon”, Rio observed. “I really, really liked keeping you company this fine morning, Akito, but… If I’m not home soon, I might begin to melt in the rain!”, she joked, getting up and fixing her hair.

“Melt!? What are you, a snowman?”, I promptly rebutted. “I live nearby… You can come with me, if you’d like”, I blurted out in yet another rare moment of bravery.

“Maybe tomorrow…”, she refused. “It’s always like this with me. I can’t leave the house, otherwise it starts raining”, she commented.

“That just seems like a particularly strange string of coincidences”, I argued.

“Take care on your way home, yeah?”, she asked, kissing me on the cheek and turning her back towards me, while we both attempted to hide the blushing.

“Yuh— You too”, I murmured. “See you tomorrow!”, I exclaimed, without giving it much thought.

“See you!”, she responded in kin, looking back at me for just a little longer. I couldn’t refrain from watching her go, slowly fading into the horizon, as she occasionally turned to watch me back and smile.

So, the wind got scaringly strong, and I decided it was time to leave before I got soaked. The clock of the world seemed to go back to its usual pace, ticking too fast for me to follow.

Steps, many steps forward, towards my house. I considered, for a minute, going back to the mall — but nothing there could possibly be better than what I had already found. Although… Saying that out loud might bring me bad luck.

It started raining, then pouring. The gust became gale, and the waves on the sea doubled their size. In the blink of an eye, the front side of my body was already soaked, and thunder came crashing on the sand of the beach I was next to. For some reason, however, I felt some comfort in the sensation of being moist and cold — as if I had just snapped back to reality. Finally, I ran.

Today had been fantastic, and I was happy — truly happy — for once. A fantastic day, a fantastic date, and the promise of a fantastic future. Ideas of romance, adventure and glory began to bloom in my mind, filling it faster than the rain had been filling the river that cut across that portion of the city.

Suddenly, somehow, I felt an unexpected presence. A gaze, the kind you get from staring at someone and turning away as soon as you notice they’re staring back at you. I felt observed.

“So… You’re the one with the camera”, a deep, echoing voice spoke to me.

Its source — a man who couldn’t be described as anything other than lurid, despite his extraordinary handsomeness and fashion sense, dressed up fully in white — stood over the final step of an outside staircase that led to the second floor of a random building. He jumped straight from it to the sidewalk I was on, which frightened me. Anyone normal would most definitely hurt their knees in doing so.

“I apologize, young man”, he continued, as he slowly walked towards me, unbothered by the pouring rain and the fall he had just taken. “I haven’t introduced myself yet. Yours truly goes by Braz Cubas, cadaver, former aristocrat, and, casually, immortal as well”.

He bowed, much like a nobleman in a deep showcase of respect. His black hair seemed like it repelled the rain, his hairstyle still intact under his white hat. His long nails cut through the raindrops, like a knife through butter. He was, truly, the splitting image of a cadaver — the kind you see on ceremonies with an open casket: pale, well-dressed, and bearing a solemn look on his face. He continued to walk, ever slowly, towards me, without opening his mouth.

“What…? Cadaver?”, I muttered, intensely confused.

“I’m quite sorry you’ll perish before acknowledging the true extent of my greatness, young one”, he closed his eyes as he apologized. “I truly am”, he said. “Now, goodbye”.

He disappeared from my sight. Suddenly, the world began to spin. Specifically, it spun 90 degrees to the right, clockwise.

The floor was to the right, and the sky to the left. Raindrops slid on the air from one side to the other, not from top to bottom. Soon, a deep red fluid began mixing with the raindrops. Crimson drops began to fall, and soon they clustered together, turning into a fine thread. It, then, grew thicker and thicker, until the ruby hue completely obscured my vision. I took too long to realize. The red was, in fact, my blood. It wasn't the world that had spun, it was my head, now detached from my torso at mid-neck height. My body fell to the ground as soon as I realized that my head had already finished its descent. I saw nothing, nothing but crimson red. The constant noise of the rain ceased. Suddenly, once again, the world had become black, empty, and I squeezed my eyes shut, frightened.