07 - Who Am I Kidding?

This letter is part of Nina's epistolary blog 'Nina's Diary', where she shares letters with her inner circle of close girlfriends. They overthink films, books, and heritage sites to make sense of life.

Paris, April 5, 1958

Dearest Billie,

I owe you an apology. In my last letter, I was so wrapped up in my own troubles that I forgot to mention the piano tutoring job. The thought of going back to your old neighborhood must be painful. I still remember your mother handing over the keys to your beloved house to the new owners as those nosy neighbors stood around lurking and gloating. However, do you think you could bring yourself, just for the time being, to take the job until something better comes along? If they pay you well (and they certainly should, for you are a remarkably talented artist), this part-time job would at least leave you free to attend auditions during the day, whenever they come up. Think of it as a stepping stone, nothing more. As for Mr. Whitmore, promise me that if he dares to step even an inch out of line, you'll kick him where it hurts most, right between the legs. I mean it, Billie; your safety comes first.

As for me, early this morning, not long after dawn, I woke up in a cold sweat and nearly fell out of bed. I felt a sudden urge to slip out of the apartment before Marie and Daphné woke up (Lilly is out of town). I didn't want to be dragged into conversation or, worse, get stuck with the dreadful Saturday cleaning and laundry chores. I slipped a note under their bedroom door, promising to take care of my share later today, and headed down to Café de Flore.

Right now, it's just me and a handful of early risers drinking their morning coffee. By ten o'clock, the café will be buzzing with loud, animated chatter. Until then, I can at least enjoy the near stillness of the place and write to you. Not even the occasional clatter of cups from an impatient waiter behind the counter can disturb my train of thought.

Billie, will you please be honest with me? Have I been completely delusional about my abilities as a photographer? I don't pretend to be Lisa Larsen. That much I know. She's talented and charismatic, but could I be nearly as tenacious as she was when she started at the very bottom and worked her way up?

Who am I kidding? My portfolio was rejected not just because the photographs were unsuitable for the Herald, but because the editor, Mr. Hawke (brutal as he was in his delivery), questioned my sense of composition, my framing, and the very thinking behind the shots I presented. I felt inadequate and unequipped. I may lack formal training, but I thought my photographs of New York had something in them. I could approach other local newspapers and magazines, but what if he was right?

And that's not all. Every morning, when I walk through the office doors, it's as if I've been transported right back to the States, only now I'm worse off. I walked away from a job as a junior ad executive for one where I plug in phone jacks all day long. And how I miss the luxury of closing my bedroom door and shutting the world out! That isn't even an option here. There is always noise in the apartment. Someone talking, someone moving, someone arguing. Just the other day, Marie and Daphné had a spat over a skirt Marie had freshly washed and ironed, which Daphné wore on a date without asking.

Am I being terribly ungrateful, though? You and Carmen helped me. I found a job to pay my bills relatively quickly. Lilly has been nothing short of accommodating and supportive. Yet I can't shake off this growing frustration within me. It doesn't help that I feel clumsy with the language. Although I'm working on my French, my face betrays me, and annoyingly, turns red whenever I stumble over a verb or catch a waiter's impatient sigh.

Was I naïve to think that I'd find my footing right after landing, that my photographs would inspire curiosity, and that I'd fall in love with Paris at first sight? Have I made a rash decision by leaving behind my friends, my job, and everything familiar about my life in New York?

Today, I left the camera at home. The last thing I need is to burn through expensive film, taking photos half-heartedly. Perhaps I should get my thoughts in order first. And that’s why I have only two companions for the day: my notepad and a book Lilly insisted I read. It's Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Lilly told me that doctors recommended Austen's novels to soldiers suffering from shell shock during the Great War, as the gentle pace of her stories provided them with some comfort and escape. Does she think I’m that miserable? Should I be offended?

Anyway, I'm going to read it, and I'll tell you all about it in my next letter.

Write soon,

Nina

💌 Next - Read Billie's Letter to Nina: Who Do You Look Up To?

This photograph of Café de Flore is part of Nina's Vintage Paris Photographs: 12 archival photographs printed on real Instax Square film.