Cass Neary made her name in the seventies as a photographer embedded in the burgeoning punk movement in New York City. Her pictures of the musicians and the hangers-on, the infamous, the damned, and the dead, earned her a brief moment of fame.
Thirty years later she is adrift, on her way down, and almost out when an old acquaintance sends her on a mercy gig to interview a famously reclusive photographer who lives on an island in Maine. When she arrives Down East, Cass stumbles across a decades-old mystery that is still claiming victims, and she finds one final shot at redemption.
Patricia Highsmith meets Patti Smith in this mesmerizing literary thriller.
About the Author
ELIZABETH HAND, a New York Times notable and multiple-award-winning author, has written eight novels, including the cult classic Waking the Moon, and several short-story collections. She is a longtime contributor to numerous publications, including the Washington Post Book World and the Village Voice Literary Supplement. She and her two children divide their time between the coast of Maine and North London.
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By Elizabeth Hand
Small Beer PressCopyright © 2007 Elizabeth Hand
All right reserved.
Chapter OneThere's always a moment where everything changes. A great photographer - someone like Diane Arbus, or me during that fraction of a second when I was great - she sees that moment coming, and presses the shutter release an instant before the change hits. If you don't see it coming, if you blink or you're drunk or just looking the other way - well, everything changes anyway, it's not like things would have been different.
But for the rest of your life you're fucked, because you blew it. Maybe no one else knows it, but you do. In my case, it was no secret. Everyone knew I'd blown it. Some people can make do in a situation like that. Me, I've never been good at making do. My life, who could pretend there wasn't a big fucking hole in it?
I grew up about sixty miles north of the city in Kamensic Village, a haunted corner of the Hudson Valley where three counties meet in a stony congeries of ancient Dutch-built houses, farmland, old-growth forest, nouveau-riche mansions. My father was - is - the village magistrate. I was an only child, and a wild thing as the privileged children of that town were.
I had from earliest childhood a sense that there was no skin between me and the world. I saw things that other people didn't see. Hands that slipped through gaps in the air like falling leaves; a jagged outline like a branch but there was no branch and no tree. In bed at night I heard a voice repeating my name in a soft, insistent monotone. Cass. Cass. Cass. My father took me to a doctor, who said I'd grow out of it. I never did, really.
My mother was much younger than my father, a beautiful Radcliffe girl he met on a blind date arranged by his cousin. She died when I was four. The car she was driving, our old red Rambler station wagon, went off the road and into the woods, slamming into a tree on the outskirts of town. It was an hour before someone noticed headlights shining through the trees and called the police. When they finally arrived, they found my mother impaled on the steering column. I was faceup on the backseat, surrounded by shattered glass but unhurt.
I have no memory of the accident. The police officer told my father that I didn't cry or speak, just stared at the car's ceiling, and, as the officer carried me outside, the night sky. Nowadays there would have been a grief counselor, a child psychologist, drugs. My father's Irish Catholic sensibility, while not religious, precluded any overt emotion; there was a wake, a funeral, a week of visiting relatives and phone calls. Then my father returned to work. A housekeeper, Rosie, was hired to tend me. My father wouldn't speak of my mother unless asked, and, forty-odd years ago, one didn't ask. Her presence remained in the framed black-and-white photos my father kept of her in his bedroom. While Rosie vacuumed or made lunch I would sit on his bed and slowly move my fingers across the glass covering the pictures, pretending the dust was face powder on my mother's cheeks.
I liked being alone. Once when I was fourteen, walking in the woods, I stepped from the trees into a field where the long grasses had been flattened by sleeping deer. I looked up into the sky and saw a mirror image of the grass, black and yellow-gray whorls making a slow clockwise rotation like a hurricane. As I stared the whorl began to move more quickly, drawing a darkness into its center until it resembled a vast striated eye that was all pupil, contracting upon itself yet never disappearing. I stared at it until a low buzzing began to sound in my ears. Then I ran.
I didn't stop until I reached my driveway. When I finally halted and looked back, the eye was still there, turning. I never mentioned it to anyone. No one else ever spoke of seeing it.
My sense of detachment grew when I started high school, but as my grades were good and my other activities furtive, my father never worried much about what I did. Our relationship was friendly if distant. It was my Aunt Brigid who worried about me on the rare occasions she paid us a visit.
Brigid was like my father, stocky and big boned and red haired. I resembled photos of my mother. Tall and angular, narrow hipped, my mother's soft features honed to a knife-edge in my own. Pointed chin, uptilted nose, dirty-blond hair and mistrustful gray eyes. If I'd been a boy I might have been beautiful. Instead I learned early on that my appearance made people uneasy. There was nothing pretty about my androgyny. I was nearly six feet tall and vaguely threatening. I wore my hair long but otherwise made no concessions to fashion, no makeup, no lipstick. I wore my father's white shirts over patched blue jeans or men's trousers I bought at the Junior League Shop. I wouldn't meet people's eyes. I didn't like people looking at me. It made me feel sick; it reminded me of that great eye above the empty field.
"She looks like a scarecrow, Dad," Brigid said once when I was sixteen. She and her husband were in Kamensic for a rare visit. "I mean, look at her -"
"I think she looks fine," my father said mildly. "She's just built like her mother was."
"She looks like a drug addict," Brigid snapped. She was sensitive about her weight. "We see them out where we live."
I pointed out to the bird feeder at the edge of our woods. "What, like the chickadees? We see them too," I said, and retreated to my room.
Several months later I had this dream. I was kneeling in the field where I'd seen the eye. A figure appeared in front of me: a man with green-flecked eyes, his smile mocking and oddly compassionate. As I stared up at him, he extended his hand until his finger touched the center of my forehead.
There was a blinding flash. I fell on my face, terrified, woke in bed with my ears ringing. It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday. My father gave me a camera. I sat at the breakfast table, turned it in my hands, and remembered the dream. I saw my face distorted in the round glass of the lens, like a flaw; like an eye staring back at me.
I took an introductory photography class in high school and was encouraged to take more.
I never did. I quickly learned what I needed to know. I liked a slow lens. I liked grainy black-and-white film and never worked in color. I liked the detail work of creating my own photographic paper, of processing then developing the film myself in the school photo lab. I loved the way the paper felt, soft and wet in the trays, then the magical way it dried and turned into something else, smooth and rigid and shining, the images a mere byproduct of chemistry and timing.
I didn't care if the pictures were over- or underexposed, or even if they were in focus. I liked things that didn't move: dead trees, stones. I liked dead things: the fingerless soft hand of a pheasant's wing, mouse skulls disinterred from an owl pellet, a cicada's thorax picked clean by tiny green beetles. I liked portraits of my friends when they were sleeping. I've always watched people sleep. When I occasionally babysat, I'd go into the children's rooms after they were in bed and stand there, listening to their breathing, waiting until my eyes adjusted to the soft glow of nightlight or moonlight. I liked to watch them breathe.
When I was seventeen I fell in love with a boy from a neighboring village. He was a year younger than me, fey, red haired, with sunken, poison green eyes: a musician and a junkie. I'd hitch to his town and sit on the library steps across the street from his big Victorian house and wait there for hours, hoping to see him but also wanting to absorb his world, clock the comings and goings of his younger siblings, parents, his golden retriever, his friends. I wanted to see the world he knew from inside his junkie's skin, smell the lilacs that grew outside his window.
One day his sister came out and said, "My brother's inside. He's waiting for you to come over."
I went. No one else was home. We crawled underneath the Steinway Grand in the living room, and I sucked him off. Afterward we sat together on the front porch while he smoked cigarettes. This pattern continued until I left high school. One night we broke into the village pharmacy and stole bottles of Tuinals and quaaludes before the alarm went off then ran laughing breathlessly back to his house, where he pretended to sleep while I hid in his closet. We weren't caught, but I was too paranoid to ever try it again.
I liked to watch him sleep; I liked to watch him nod out. I took pictures of him and got them processed over in Mount Kisco. At night in my room I'd look at those photographs - his eyes closed, cigarette burning in his hand - and masturbate. I told him I'd do anything for him. A few years later, he got caught burglarizing another drugstore up in Putnam County. His parents bailed him out and he wrote to me, desperate and lonely, while he was awaiting sentencing. I never wrote back. His family moved to the Midwest somewhere. I don't know what happened to him.
He was the only person I ever really cared about. I still have those photos somewhere.
In 1975 I graduated from high school and started at NYU. I had vague plans of studying photojournalism. That all changed the night I went over to Kenny's Castaways to hear the New York Dolls. The Dolls never showed, but someone else did, a skinny chick who screamed at the unruly audience in between chanting bursts of poetry while a tall, geeky guy flailed around with an electric guitar.
After that I quit going to classes. I took up with a girl named Jeannie who waitressed at Max's Kansas City. For a few months she supported me, and we lived in a horrible fourth-floor walkup on Hudson Street. The toilet hung over a hole in the floor; the clawfoot tub was in the kitchen. We put a sheet of plywood over the tub and on top of that a mattress we scrounged from the street. I didn't tell my father I'd been suspended from NYU. I used the checks he sent to buy film and speed, black beauties, crystal meth. There was a light that fell on the streets in those days, a light like broken glass, so bright and jagged it made my eyes ache, my skin. I'd go down to see Jeannie when she got off work at Max's and take pictures of the people hanging out back. Some of those people you'd still recognize today. Most you wouldn't, though back then they were briefly famous, just as I was to be. Most of them are dead now.
Some of them were dead then. I shot an entire roll of film of a kid who'd OD'd in the alley early one morning. No one wanted to call the ambulance - he was already dead, why bring the cops down? So I stood out there, shit-colored light filtering from the streetlamp, and photographed him in closeup. I was nervous about bringing the film to the place I usually went to. I had a friend at the university process the film there for me.
"This is sick stuff, Cass," he said when I went to pick it up. He handed me the manila envelope with my contact sheets and prints. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "You're sick."
I thought they were beautiful. Slow exposure and low light made the boy's skin look like soft white paper, like newsprint before it's inked. His head was slightly upturned, his eyes half-open, glazed. You couldn't tell if he'd just woken up or if he was already dead. One hand was pressed upon his breast, fingers splayed. A series of black starbursts marred the crook of his bare arm; a white thread extended from his upper lip to the point of one exposed eyetooth. I titled the photo "Psychopomp." I decided it was strong enough that I should start assembling a portfolio, and so I did, the pictures that would eventually become part of my book Dead Girls.
People used to ask me what it was like to take those photographs.
"'How do you think it feels?'" I shot back at the guy from Interview. "'How do you think it feels? And when do you think it stops?'"
He didn't get it. No one does. I can smell damage; it radiates from some people like a pheromone. Those are the ones I photograph. I can tell where they've been, what's destroyed them, even after they're dead. It's like sweat or semen or ash, and it's not just a taste or scent. It shows up in pictures, if you know how to catch the light. It shows up in faces, the way you can tell what a sleeping person's dreaming, if they're happy or frightened or aroused. I don't know why it draws me; maybe because I dream of leaving this body the way other people dream of flying. Not flying to a sunny beach or a hotel room, but true escape, leaving one body and entering another, like one of those wasps that lays its eggs inside a beetle so a wasp larva grows inside it, eating the beetle until the new wasp emerges.
It sounds creepy, but I always liked the idea of disappearing then becoming something new. That of course was before I disappeared.
But taking a picture feels like that sometimes. When I'm getting it right, it's like I'm no longer standing there with my camera, with my eye behind the lens, looking at someone. It's like it's me lying there and I'm seeping into that other skin like rain into dry sand.
Sometimes it happens with sex. Once I brought a sixteen-year-old boy back to the apartment. I'd picked him up at a club, dark eyes, curly dark hair, a crooked front tooth, tiny scabs on the inside of his arm where he'd been popping heroin, still too scared to mainline.
The tooth is what got me. I'm still sorry I didn't shoot him. He was beautiful, one of those Pasolini kids who absorbs light then shines it back into your eyes and blinds you. But I left my camera on the floor, and instead I just fucked him, more than once. Then I lay awake and watched him sleep. When he woke in the morning he looked at me, and I saw what had happened to him: his mother's death, the small apartment in Queens where he lived with his father and sister, the after-school job at a pet shop. Cleaning fish tanks, measuring out birdseed. He told me all this, but I already knew; I could see the light leaking from his eyes. I wanted to photograph him, but suddenly I felt real panic. I gave him coffee and money for a cab and literally pushed him out of the door. The look he gave me then was crushed and confused, but that I could live with. What I couldn't deal with was the knowledge that he was so close to dead already. The only thing that had made him feel alive was fucking me.
I tried to explain this to Jeannie. She looked at me like I'd spit in her face.
"You're crazy, Cass. You're, like, a nihilist. You're in love with annihilation."
"Yeah? So is that a bad thing?"
She didn't think that was funny. She left me soon after and got a job at a massage parlor. I didn't care. I stayed in the apartment. By then I'd gotten messed up with a rich girl from Sarah Lawrence who liked slumming with me. She split when the school year ended, by which time my father had figured out what was going on - that I'd been kicked out of school and was no doubt spending the checks he sent on drugs. He was surprisingly calm. He made sure I knew he wouldn't give me another dollar until I straightened out and earned enough to put myself back through school, but he also let me know I was always welcome back home. I thanked him and kept in touch intermittently, usually by postcard.
I bought a tripod and began doing a series of pictures, black-and-white photographs of me dressed and posed like women in famous paintings. I called the series "Dead Girls." There was me as Ophelia, wearing a thrift-shop bridal gown and ribbons, floating in a tenement bathtub filled with black-streaked water - dye bled from the ribbons so that it looked as though blood flowed from my dress. There was me topless, sprawled in a Bowery alley on my back as Waterhouse's dead "St. Eulalia." For Munch's "The Next Day" I lay on top of my plywood bed with empty wine bottles scattered around me. I used a similar setup for Walter Sickert's "The Camden Town Murder."
It took me five months. I got a job at a wino's liquor store on the Bowery to get by. There were twenty-three photos when I was done, enough for a show.
My central image derived from a lithograph from Redon's "La Tentation de Saint-Antoine": a life-sized human skeleton, a plastic model I had a friend borrow for me from the NYU art department. I draped it with a white sheet and posed beside it, naked, my hand clutching its bony plastic fingers. I set the shutter so that the image was so underexposed as to be almost indiscernible, deliberately out of focus. All you saw was the skeleton, seeming to fall forward through the frame, and floating beside it a face suggestive of a skull: mine. I translated the drawing's original caption into English.
Death: I am the one who will make a serious woman of you; come, let us embrace.
I added these to my portfolio, and a few portraits I'd done of Jeannie and her friends hanging out in the apartment and the back room at Max's. The pictures were harsh and overlit, but they had a scary energy, most of it supplied by Jeannie herself in torn fishnets and smeared eye makeup, her works on the floor beside her, the glare of a naked hundred-watt bulb making Gillette blades glow like they were radioactive.
Excerpted from Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand Copyright © 2007 by Elizabeth Hand. Excerpted by permission.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Oh wow, I loved this book. Cass Neary's voice is so compelling: damaged, perceptive, viewing the world with the vocabulary of a photographer. She's a difficult person, with her odd acts like hiding a stranger's keys or stealing photos, but Hand makes her utterly convincing, real and raw. Her fascination with death, her appreciation of Denny's photos certainly complicate her likeability. Nonetheless, she carried my interest right through to the end, and her final decision felt like a natural extension of her thoughts for the islands throughout the novel. "Happy ending" is too upbeat a phrase, but it's surprisingly optimistic. About the only criticisms I can make are the lack of surprise around the killer's identity and that she gets back the film from the turtle-shell too easily. Perhaps she deserves to be right, to have things go well, for once. Those issues did not detract much for me. The characters are all real (though only Denny and Aphrodite match Cass' odd layers), the setting evoked well, the voice absolutely perfect.
Okay, so this was really good. Tons of atmosphere, a nice creepy suspense story. I've read several reviews that say the last third is a let-down, with everything falling into place a little too neatly, and I can see what they mean. The first two thirds are basically scene-setting, so the story arc gets a little rushed at the end. But the scene-setting is really the point of this book. Post-punk New York, disturbing isolation in backwoods Maine, photography's dance with sex and death... Hand is largely known as a fantasy novelist, and I wonder if this crime novel will please her established fans, but it's a solid piece of work by any standards. The text is largely dialogue and first person narrative, which tends to make the characters a bit two-dimensional, but in the context of this story that's not much of a criticism. [book: Generation Loss] is all about getting into someone's (rather uncomfortable) skin. It's not large enough to be Great, but it does what it sets out to do, and it does it well.
Hrmmm, a post-punk protagonist with a heart darker than my own. A nice foray into some mid-february self-loathing. I constantly craved a shot, a cigarette, and the smell of the old 9:30 club while reading this novel. DC or NYC punk survivors will appreciate it and cringe.
I didn't realize this was going to be so gory. And, it makes Maine seem like such a spooky place, disconnected from the rest of the word--in a bad way. I wish the author had spelled out more of the Maine accent to make the characters a little more endearing. Still, it is a very thoughtful book about the art making process and how we evaluate oureselves.
A surprisingly good read. I expected to dislike the main character who is addicted to drugs and alcohol, but instead I found myself immersed in her world. Cass Neary is a has-been punk photographer sent to a remote island off the coast of Maine to interview another photographer. Strange things happen on Paswegas island - people disappear every few years. The story moves solidly and holds one's interest. A well-crafted novel.
There are generous people in the world and writers can be some of the more generous. Writers have opened up whole worlds for me to explore and without writers and their worlds, I probably would not have survived my childhood. I keep sort of harping on that when I write about books because I believe having reading skills gives you entree to so many thoughts, feelings, inspiration, and ways to think about the world, and to start thinking for yourself.I took Elizabeth Hand¿s novel Generation Loss with me on my recent vacation (December '07) and finished it after I returned. It was not an easy read (you¿ll see why below), much like Richard Beymer¿s book Impostor was not an easy read (actually, a much harder read than Impostor), and oddly enough both in many ways about the photographer¿s gaze and protagonists who struggle mightily, and both containing autobiographical elements.Elizabeth has a forum at Nightshade Books where she, again that word, generously, talks about her novels, her writing, even her life experiences, in a friendly and open way. I didn¿t write a review of Generation Loss but I left her a short note with my impressions: I don¿t know all the fancy words and meanings behind what writers do with their own prose style, but I believe this novel might be called ¿stripped bare.¿ I finished the book a few days ago and have had to let it sit awhile with me. Never have I read, at least that I can remember, a tale so grim and unrelenting in terms of a protagonist I sort of loathed, while at the same time, I rooted for. And every time Cass screwed up again or did something unethical or dishonest, that cycle of loathing and rooting for would repeat. Well, all art is a journey and this book took me someplace wild, weird and different. And touching.The imagery evoked is not lush like Waking the Moon, but it has its own elegant beauty within the harsh landscape of nature, and human being.This is why I read your work, Elizabeth. Because I love not only the places it takes me but how it makes me examine my own humanity.I high recommend anything Elizabeth Hand writes.
Weird, bleak, beautiful and strangely compelling, "Generation Loss" is much like the landscape it portraits. Equal parts thriller and travelogue, and with one of the more interesting protagonists I've come across in quite a while. The "mystery" bit kind of sneaks up on you in a way that's a bit unusual, but not unwelcome. The ending feels ever so slightly rushed because of this, but it is a minor issue. The visual theme, with a story of photography and perception; seeing and being seen, is clear but never overstated. It is also a very "visual" book in the sense that it masterfully and efficiently conveys the look and feel of the desolated north of Maine where it takes place. I have rarely come across a novel that gives me such a sense of "place" as "Generation Loss": the way it looks, the way it feels, how it gets inside of your head - it's all here.
My husband asked if I'd heard of Elizabeth Hand--apparently there'd been a lot of buzz about her books lately "on the blogs." Thank goodness I didn't buy this book--short, but not to the point. If one writes a thriller, shouldn't one try for a compelling plot early in the book, especially a short book? A character's anger and angst are plot points, perhaps, but do not count as actual plot. Alas. Has some surprise gory stuff, but whatever--I just didn't care.
I am a big Elizabeth Hand fan. I read all of her (non Star Wars) books in high school and college. It's been a few (10) years since I've read anything by her but when I saw that she had written this book I was eager to read it and to see if I still liked her writing style. This is a dark book, but at the same time it is a beautiful book and I really, really enjoyed it.Cass Neary made it big as a photographer in the 1970's. She was part of the punk scene and specialized in photographing the dead; people who overdosed or died of other causes. Almost thirty years later she is a has-been. Constantly strung out on drugs or drunk she just barely ekes out a living slumming it in New York City and working at a used bookstore. Then a buddy of hers gives her a call, he has a job for her...they requested her specifically. Suddenly Cass is trekking out to rural Maine to interview a photographer whose work inspired Cass to start doing photography. Only nothing is what it seems out in this isolated community and strange things are happening...cats ending up dead, humans going missing. Cass finds that this isolated region holds secrets darker than she ever imagined, and for Cass that is saying something.I loved this book. It is in keeping with her previous works, although there is less supernatural/fantasy element in this book and more mystery/thriller to it. This novel is a bit creepy, but very atmospheric. Hand has a way of describing settings that really makes them come alive...you can smell them and see them. She also has a way of making dark things beautiful. First and foremost this a dark book.The characters are interesting and full of depth. Cass herself is definitely not someone to idolize (she spends the majority of the book either strung out or drunk) but she has a sort of wondrous naivete about her that is endearing. You kind of understand why she does the things she does and Hand helps you to understand why Cass finds beauty in the destruction and darkness of the world. So despite her amoral character and stupid decisions, somehow you end up kind of liking Cass. The same can be said for the old photographer's son Gryffin; he is mysterious and dark yet somehow likable.This book also talks a lot about photography so that is interesting; it touches on rural living and fishing as well as tourism.It is, all in all, an excellent book. Hand's writing style continues to awe me. I am always impressed with how engaging her books are, how intelligent they sound, and how they pry into dark places and find beauty there. Her description is amazing, as is the raw way she depicts her characters. The plot was very well done and Hand creates an excellent mystery/thriller.There is a lot of drug use, swearing, and casual talk about sex; so this book is definitely meant for a more mature audience.Overall I enjoyed every single word of this book. I couldn't put it down and was sad when it was over. Next on my list to read by Hand is Mortal Love; which I own, it is the only Elizabeth Hand book I haven't read yet. I also saw that she is coming out with another book later this year; a children's book called Illyria. So I am eager to pick that up to read too.
This was a thought provoking unusual mystery. It has the same feel as The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo. A great heroine.