Mr. Cheng had an eye different from the director’s; the director wanted character, but Mr. Cheng wanted only beauty. Character has to be created; beauty, on the other hand, does not have any such mission. In Mr. Cheng’s eyes, Wang Qiyao was practically flawless, a perfect beauty — stunning from every angle. She did not have any of the incorrigible habits of models who were long accustomed to the camera’s eye. She was a blank sheet of paper, an empty palette that could be painted to match the heart’s desire. At the same time, there was a certain elegant poise about her and she wasn’t a bit shy. Her poise came from her experience at the screen test: it was the result of practice. Failure had given it a touch of bashfulness and an endearing modesty — in other words, she was enchanting.
Mr. Cheng was very happy with his director friend’s recommendation. He could not remember just how many beauties had been through the door of his photo studio, but every one had come pre-stylized. They were already like finished photographs; all Mr. Cheng had to do was reproduce them. At that moment he felt a sudden surge of excitement, which communicated itself to Wang Qiyao, and, as the lights went on, a spark of indescribable hope lit up inside her. This ranked as a “second choice” kind of hope but she could feel it rising nevertheless. Of course, Mr. Cheng’s photo studio could not compare with the film studio for glamour, sophomoric and rather desolate as it was, but it exuded an air of diligence and sincerity, of honest work starting from the bottom, of active pursuit — and this won over one’s cooperation. In spite of herself, Wang Qiyao retracted her indifferent attitude and began to show interest and enthusiasm.
No matter how unaffected they may normally be, girls like Wang Qiyao, who know all too well that they are pretty, cannot keep themselves from striking poses in front of a camera. But the poses are usually not very clever — either exaggerated, or coming across a bit forced — and the girls were shown at a disadvantage. Wang Qiyao, however, was an exception: she did not make these kinds of mistakes. She was wiser and had innate self-awareness; she had also learned from her experience at the film studio and remained calm and reserved. That is not to say that her mannerisms were free from a certain affectedness, but it was an unaffected affectedness. She acted like a somebody trying to pretend to be a nobody, and this somehow created an appearance that seemed perfectly suited to the camera. Mr. Cheng could not help himself. He took shot after shot, and Wang Qiyao in turn took to the attention like a fish to water. She began to feel a bit hot, her eyes sparkled, and her face radiated gorgeousness. One after another, she changed into all the different outfits she had brought along as, one after another, Mr. Cheng changed cardboard backdrops. One minute she would be a Chinese girl, the next she would transform into an exotic maiden from abroad. It was already noon by the time they finished the last shot and she went back into the dressing room to change. The Huangpu River glistened; the seagulls soaring above its waters looked like tiny silver spots. A car drove down alongside the riverbank and turned into a dark and quiet street, which ran straight through the tall buildings like a gully at the bottom of a canyon.
Wang Qiyao took her time as she carefully changed back into the outfit she had came in and meticulously folded up the others. Her mind was clear and gave no thought to the pictures that had just been taken — she looked at this simply as something destined to come to naught. As she gathered up her things, she couldn’t help but admire the wonderful view from the apartment. The window, at the corner of the building situated right at the intersection of the Bund and that straight narrow road, was so high up you could see six blocks into the distance. She stepped out of the dressing room, said goodbye to Mr. Cheng before going out the door, and walked down the hall to the elevator. At the press of a button, the elevator silently ascended from the ground floor. As she stepped into the elevator, Wang Qiyao noticed Mr. Cheng standing outside his door, watching her.
The photo later selected for the inside front cover of Shanghai Life was of Wang Qiyao wearing one of her casual cheongsams with a flowered pattern. She was sitting on a stone stool beside a stone table, her face turned slightly to one side, in a “listening pose,” as if chatting with someone outside the camera’s frame. Behind her was a traditional-style oval window and the shadows of flowers and tendrils — instantly recognizable as a painted cardboard backdrop. Although the photo was supposed to be an outdoor scene, the lighting was all artificial. Her pose was also patently artificial. In most respects it was a rather mediocre photo, the kind that can be seen hanging in the shop window of virtually every photo studio, a bit tacky; and, though the subject was pretty, she was not a stunning beauty. But there was something about that photo that made its way into people’s hearts. There is really only one way to describe the Wang Qiyao in that picture: she was a “good girl.” Hers was the look of a girl who alters herself to please other people, men as well as women. “Good girl” was written all over her face, in her posture; even the tiny, delicate flowers on her cheongsam reached out to you in friendliness. The background scene was fake, as was the lighting, even her pose — everything in the photo was contrived — but precisely because everything around her was fake, the person became real. She was not part of some conspiracy, she was merely playing out her part like a good girl; all of her cards were on the table. What you saw was what you got.
The girl in the picture was not beautiful, but she was pretty. Beauty is something that inspires awe; it implies rejection and has the power to hurt. Prettiness, on the other hand, is a warm, sincere quality, and even hints at a kind of intimate understanding. Looking at her photo brought a feeling of true comfort and closeness, as though one could call her by name. Movie stars and models may indeed be enchantingly beautiful — but, after all, what do any of them have to do with you? They have their lives and you have yours. Wang Qiyao reached down into the bottom of your heart. The lighting in the picture also had a kind of minute intimacy that seemed to bring the image of Wang Qiyao to life. Images of people seemed to be reflected in her eyes and the pleats in her cheongsam appeared to move. It was more like the kind of picture one sees pasted in a family album than the kind seen hanging in a glass frame to be admired. It would not have been found in advertisements for Soir de Paris perfume or Longines wristwatches, but would have been perfect to promote MSG or laundry detergent. Down-to-earth, with no trace of extravagance, it had a touch of resplendence of a commonplace variety; and it had a touch of sweetness, as in the faint sweetness of porridge flavored with osmanthus blossoms. It was not particularly eye-catching and it was far from unforgettable. Yet though the image failed to linger in your mind, you were bound to remember liking it the next time you laid eyes on it. It was the kind of photo you could never get sick of, yet by no means something you could not do without. In short, it was proper, comme il faut, and calming; just looking at it made one feel good. The editors over at Shanghai Life could not have exercised more wisdom than when they decided to run the photo as their inside cover spread. The photo and the name of the magazine were a match made in heaven, the photo acting like a footnote to the name. After all, what was Shanghai Life but fashion, food, and being attentive to all the details of the everyday? The image of Wang Qiyao seemed to capture the essence of all of this; the editors couldn’t have chosen a more suitable photograph.
For her part, Wang Qiyao did not understand why they chose that photo over all the others, in which she was gazing straight into the camera. She was even a bit confused as to when exactly that photo had been taken. It must have been when she was not paying attention. She did not like the version of herself she saw in the picture, looking provincial and much too prim — completely different from the way she imagined herself to be. It left her disappointed and a little hurt. Seeing her picture in print should have made her happy, but instead she was left feeling depressed. She wondered why she always failed under scrutiny. First her disappointing screen test, and now this: nothing seemed to work out according to plan. She hid her copy of Shanghai Life under her pillow — she didn’t even want to look at it, and was overcome with dejection for having made an utter fool of herself. She was now confused as to who she really was, and this drove her to desperation. Sitting back down before the mirror, she tried to get a new perspective on herself. She thought of that photo as something that had stripped her of her identity, so that she needed to start all over and remake herself. Just what was that thing called a “camera” anyway? Was there another life inside its lens? Thinking about this made Wang Qiyao even more disconsolate. That Shanghai Life should have run her picture brought her little happiness — and that little was mixed with an array of complicated emotions, as if she had not been tormented enough already.