1: The first camera was the human eye
The first camera was the human eye. Pupils dilating, adjusting the aperture to the room’s lighting, refracting light towards the retina, permanently scoring an image to film. Yet, in all its precision, humans can’t process the photo with complete accuracy. Reality is always right in front of us, but our brains trick us into believing different outcomes, any possibility of how things are different from what they really are – maybe out of desperation, maybe out of a deep, hidden desire.
The white-washed marble blanketed every surface of the gallery—some solitary confinement shade of eggshell that was used to draw visitors to the bright golds and royal blues of Renaissance paintings. A high Romanesque arched basilica window loomed above, letting streams of light highlight every groove on a picture frame’s aged bronze. Priscilla had been pacing the floor for nearly forty-five minutes now, observing photographs taken over the centuries that graced the walls of the Art Institute of Chicago’s Through the Lens exhibition. She liked to think that observation helped train her mind, the work of masters in composition and lighting displayed before her. More practically, as an art curating intern at the museum, it helped train her eye to arrange cohesive and interactive exhibitions for museum visitors. Priscilla’s attention to detail felt like something she could control, convinced that the scene before her would reach some undiscovered pocket of her brain through a strange osmosis.
Success, however, was not easy to control. She made good money photographing kindergarteners on picture day—cheap schools preferring to hire a young novice over a professional company. Weddings were her second most profitable events, though stingy brides would often request additional photoshop at no extra cost. While Priscilla’s new job as a museum curator intern was an exciting progression into the professional art world, she wanted to be an artist, not an observer.
“Hey Priscilla, almost finished up? We gotta close this wing early for restorations today.” Danny the security guard gave the girl a nod, signaling that she was the only one remaining in the gallery.
“Oh! Oh yeah, definitely! I didn’t mean to stay this long, sorry about that, Danny. Nan Goldin can hypnotize you.” Priscilla let out a startled jump but re-oriented herself to the familiar face. Despite the museum being her second home, Danny was the only individual she could call a friend.
“No worries, I’m closing up because I know you won’t steal anything, but be out of here in five.”
“You got it, Danny.” She gave a slight smile, took one last look at the painting, and left.
When she first entered the professional art world, Priscilla was disappointed, to say the least. How many stolen artworks passed through her desk every day? How many wealthy donors were allowed to display their personal collections, despite the art’s lack of artistic merit? Nobody seemed to care about the true art—art that made the beauty and ugliness of life so tangible.
Danny was the only one she felt could understand her position. While their occupations were very different, their aspirations were the same—two artists desperate to create. He had shown her some of his projects in art school: ceiling-tall abstract acrylic paintings that reminded Priscilla of Kandinsky or Mondrian. They had bonded over their favorite photographers, musicians, and authors, each bringing a whole world of insights to the conversation.
The 7pm sun set cast a gentle glow through the fog of the Chicago evening. Priscilla wandered through the city, not wanting to go home just yet. Her apartment building was suffocating, too many walls made out of cardboard and too many wood floor tiles that stunk of cigarette smoke. Just like she wandered the museum, she found herself wandering the city trying to find any inspiration for another photography project.
Her previous photography projects consisted of replicating Baroque paintings and modeling characters with her own body. At the moment, Priscilla truly believed this concept was brilliant, but in retrospect, she could admit that the work was quite novice and bland. Cringing at her failures, Priscilla viewed her social media, hoping to see any traffic on her newest projects. Instagram: 3,280 likes, Facebook: 2,048 likes, Twitter: 3,400 likes, website: 30 more views.
2: The door to another lens
Nestled between a Starbucks and a sky-high office building was a small red-painted door, out of place, yet blending right in from afar. This was exactly what she needed. Entering the shop, Priscilla didn’t have anything specific in mind—maybe an old painting, a prop, or just someone to promote her art to. The interior of the building seemed to be stuck in the 18th century—a shroud of brown and tan with dust covering every corner. Priscilla felt an eerie, yet warm energy lingering in the air, like a lucid dream. As she continued to observe her surroundings, a table in the back of the shop caught her attention, dust particles illuminated by the warm light above hovered over the cameras. Priscilla saw the table get closer and closer to her, or rather, she felt herself gravitating towards the dim-lit table. ALL CAMERAS $20. Cameras ranged from 1920 Kodaks to 1950 Fujifilms, yet nothing past 1980. Amongst the clutter was a small wooden box—six mahogany-red slabs of wood pressed together into a box, with a pin-sized hole and an iron flip cover. Priscilla recognized it immediately—a pinhole camera. Although Priscilla had worked with pinholes before, they were often too finicky for her perfectionist, impatient mind. How could anyone make true art when there was no screen to show you what the composition would look like? And yet, maybe this was exactly what she needed to unlock a new side of her artistic vision. Although she was tempted to buy out the entire table, once Priscilla picked up the pinhole, she knew that was all she needed—an internal realization that needed no rationale.
3: The glow of creation
On her way home, Priscilla recalled vague memories from her alternative photography class in her freshman year of college—all she needed to do was place light-sensitive paper in the camera, open the pinhole cover, and sit still for several minutes while the light transferred onto the paper. Elaborate photo ideas swirled through her head, she envisioned playing with different lights and exposure times, but she decided to keep it simple. She could even turn her small bedroom into an impromptu dark room to process the photos. She had done it before when processing film photography.
As soon as she arrived home, Priscilla rushed to her living room, like a child on Christmas morning, eager to set up for the photo. Anytime Priscilla got a new idea for a photo, she couldn’t get her mind off of it, waiting impatiently for the moment she could press the shutter button. Instructions from her former professor’s lecture echoed in her memory as she placed a light-sensitive paper in the camera, flicked open the pinhole cover, and rushed to get in place for a self-portrait. In the several minutes that she sat in perfect stillness, her living room seemed to fade away, the light erasing the rest of the apartment—Priscilla and the pinhole were the only constants in the entire universe.
Priscilla was bewitched by the light, but in an instant, her surroundings had returned and she felt her consciousness transport back to reality. She finally stood from her seat and carefully closed the pinhole cover. While she didn’t understand what was happening in her mind, rational thought had seemingly disappeared and she was only concerned with finishing the photograph—a firm hypnosis that took control of her body. For the next several minutes, she developed the photo in her make-shift darkroom—her memories of the past hour dipping in and out along with the paper that she sunk in the developing agent. After a final wash of chemicals, Priscilla was ready to reveal her final masterpiece.
The moment she laid her eyes on the finished product, Priscilla couldn’t help but let out a gasp. A gentle glow was cast throughout the whole room, every color of the rainbow illuminating even the smallest cracks in the floorboards. Priscilla’s features in the photo were barely distinguishable, yet there was a soft, angelic aura that seemed to kaleidoscope around her figure, and she could’ve sworn she heard a gentle hum resonating through the air. Although the paper’s surface was flat, Priscilla could make out brushstrokes of gold flakes, pulling her in closer. What was this? Was it something to do with her developing agent? Was it magic? Questions swam in the sea of her mind, panic thrashed in the waves, sadness dulled the cerulean blue, the sun rose from the shore in a joyful cascade.
“This will save me. This is it. No more posting shady Craigslist ads and no more ‘when will you get a real job?’s. Priscilla held the photo close to her heart, feeling the glow and energy circulate through her body, holding onto the storm for as long as she could.
4: The perfect exposure
The light eventually faded to a dim flicker around the portrait as Priscilla began to leave her hypnotic trance—the shockwaves of the experience fading away. Almost in an instant, Priscilla knew she had to share this strange magic with the world. Scrambling to grab her phone, she burst through the door back to her living room, where she set up a dim white light against the original backdrop, and used her phone to photograph the portrait. No, this one is too slanted; you can’t see the colors too well here; you can barely tell it’s glowing. Priscilla toiled over her photos, trying to find the perfect photo that captured the beauty of the magic. Finally, she came across the perfect rendition: a symphony of shapes and colors that seemed to blast through the screen with perfect harmony. Priscilla posted the picture to every app she could think of, even printing herself some more physical copies—she wanted the world to see the genius. By the time she allowed herself to sleep, it was the early hours of the morning, and she hoped deep down that she’d be able to replicate the photo again another day. Maybe she could make thousands of versions, sell them to museums to share with the people. But then again, what if she couldn’t? What if it was one and done? What if she became a one-hit wonder like Edvard Munch? She couldn’t possibly call herself an artist after that. And as the thoughts kept swirling her mind, the silence of morning drowned them out until all she could do was drift off to sleep.
5: The glare of exposure
The morning after Priscilla’s pinhole discovery was a saturation of emails and notifications—all while she was still recovering from the fever dream of the previous night. Nearly 3 million likes on Instagram and commenters from every corner of the world.
It’s not just me. Priscilla thought. She had hypnotized millions across the world with one photo, one post, all taken within the darkness of her living room.
“I just had to stare at my phone for an hour. Never been crazy about art, but you made me feel emotions I didn’t know existed.”
“This is the definition of beauty.”
“Seeing this, even on a screen, made me feel like I was in a liminal space—incredible.”
Her pulse quickened with every new comment she read. Priscilla leaned back on her chair in utter shock, her phone still non-stop buzzing in her hands. People were talking about her, people were talking about her art—but what now? While Priscilla had confined herself to her apartment, she felt the world watching and impatiently waiting for her next move.
Priscilla continued to pore over emails when one caught her attention.
VERY IMPORTANT INQUIRY! Patrick Powell: “Just checked out your recent photos and they are jst amazing. I can tell you’r going to be a STAR. With my expirience and your talent, youll be in the history books. Lets meet up sometime and write up a contract, yeah? Let me know ASAp.”
Patrick Powell? Priscilla had studied all the major 20th-century photographers—Patrick Powell being one of the best (and craziest). An incredible street photographer in the 80s, he never had any formal training or even a top-quality camera, yet he managed photos of all of New York’s stars of the 90s. Madonna, the Beastie Boys, Andy Warhol; according to city locals, Patrick was there with every turn you made, sticking his camera in your face. Somehow, he’d made his way into Priscilla’s life too.
Priscilla’s impulse was to drop her phone, stand up, and take a lap around the room. She wished that, just for a moment, things would slow down again. The overstimulation of her buzzing phone, morning traffic, and the suffocating July air, she couldn’t force herself to process everything. Once again, Priscilla, in her cramped apartment, was spinning around as the world watched and waited for her next move. Maybe the photo had, indeed, transported her to another universe.
From what Priscilla could recall, Patrick Powell was never known for being a mentor of any sort, but if she wanted to actually make an impact in the art world, Patrick would be the answer.
As Priscilla continued to anxiously pace, she began drafting her email.
“Hello Mr. Powell,
I’m a big fan of your work and I’d be honored to work alongside you. This was my first attempt at pinhole photography, so I’m still learning how to manage. Let’s meet up at Nomad Cafe tomorrow at noon if that works for you?”
For the rest of the day, Priscilla barely saw sunlight: she captured photo after photo, blackout curtains drawn for the studio light. At some points, she hoped that this was all a fluke—she wasn’t sure if she was ready to face fame. However, with photo after photo, this was no fluke, and her Instagram likes and comments grew by the thousands every hour. Colors that she couldn’t name settled a foggy cloud around her apartment, and with each inhale, Priscilla felt herself drugged.
6: Under the spotlight
The following morning, Priscilla didn’t realize that she had fallen asleep, but she did realize that she would truly go mad if she didn’t escape her apartment. After refreshing herself for the day ahead, it was time to meet up with Patrick Powell.
Walking to the cafe, Priscilla cherished every breath of fresh, non-magical air she breathed. She had arrived at the cafe a few minutes early, but it took an additional forty-five minutes of waiting before Patrick arrived. The cafe door swung open, and a man in his seventies shuffled in. Thin, disheveled hair clung to his scalp like it had been forgotten by time. He wore a faded New York Jets hoodie, flip-flops that slapped the ground with every step, and a pair of dark ray-bans. Was this an artist or a homeless man?
“Priscilla! Hell yeah, it’s you!” His voice was startling, bouncing across the walls, juxtaposing the warmth of the peaceful cafe. He extended a hand, and his grip was firm, painfully confident.
Priscilla was wide-eyed as she tried to recall what she planned to say. “Oh! Mr. Powell it is so nice to meet you. I’ve studied your works and—”
“Yeah, don’t worry about formalities, call me Patrick!” He dropped into the chair across from her.
“You’ve been going viral! That photo of yours is just WOW WOW. It was like I was in some trance, I mean how do you do it?” Every word that escaped his mouth came with its own exaggerated expression.
“Oh yes… well honestly I’m not sure. It was just one shot. I bought a pinhole camera recently and it’s just incredible, it makes these amazing photos, I just process it like how I would any other pinhole. I mean I’m pretty new to this whole thing.”
“Hmm. Well that’s how they all start out. One shot, then you’re a Basquiat or Sherman. Listen, the truth is that you’ve got it. With one picture, you made average Joes around the world feel, feel like there was beauty in their boring lives. That’s it. That’s gold. So, going forward, here’s what I think,” Patrick leaned forward and removed his sunglasses, revealing his wide, bloodshot eyes.
“You gotta trust me here. The art business is not just the photos or paint and meaning and all that, you need someone to manage the attention and get you seen. Now I’m not gonna help you with the photography, the camera can do all that crap all for you. But, when I was your age, I was on every newspaper in the city, every radio show, I even went on tour with the Beastie Boys. You’ll leave a mark on this world. With me, you won’t be a one-hit wonder. So here’s my deal. I get twenty percent, and you get the glory. How does that sound?”
One-hit wonder, Priscilla let the word buzz around. It was truly her worst fear: she’d rather not be an artist at all. Patrick was right after all—he knew what he was doing and she didn’t expect that she’d be able to manage the fame alone. As… unique as he may be, she needed to take this offer while it was available.
“Okay, yes. I’d be… honored to work under your management.” After several more moments of thought, Priscilla answered with an anxious smile.
“Fantastic! Oh now that wasn’t so hard! Listen, not to ghost you or anything, but I do have pilates in fifteen, so I gotta head out now. This old man’s still gotta move.” Patrick let out a loud chuckle.
“Let’s meet up tomorrow to sign a contract, and we’ll be in business. With my help, you’ll be a star. ”
With one more firm handshake, Patrick strutted out the door just as he arrived.
Priscilla didn’t know what to think about that once-in-a-lifetime interaction she just had. Patrick was certainly… unique, but at the end of the day, it was Patrick Powell; it’s impossible to tell him no.
7: Unravelling
The emails flooded in, not just from art collectors and museums, but from sponsors, agents, brands—everyone wanting a piece of her newfound success.
“I’ve been waiting for your next work!”
“We want to see who’s behind the camera!”
“Would you ever do any interviews discussing your work?”
The comments kept growing and growing as her followers started to hit the millions.
One day, as Priscilla was experimenting with the pinhole, she heard a muffled knock on her door. As she opened the door for her unexpected guest, she saw Patrick’s toothy smile before her.
After the meeting in the café, Patrick became a constant presence in her life—always pushing and prodding for more.
“Oh! Patrick! I didn’t know you were coming today.”
“Ah Priscilla, you know, I just wanted to check-in with how things were going. I’m your manager after all.” His old sneakers squeaked as he dragged his feet into the living room.
“Damnnnnnn. You’ve been doing everything in this closet?” His nose scrunched up as if he was smelling an awful stench.
“Yeah, I mean I kinda like it that way. I’m still getting the hang of all this attention, so this is something that I like to keep constant.” Priscilla stood by the door as she observed Patrick wander around.
“Huh. You know you could use a studio. I had one back in the day. Didn’t really use it much, but it was good for hosting parties. You know, the open space and all.” Patrick let out a reminiscent sigh.
“Tell you what, I’ll get you a photography studio. You’ve got a following now and you’re gonna need a studio to match that buzz.”
“Oh! Thank you, Patrick, that sounds great but I—”
“Nah nah nah, don’t thank me. I’m your manager, that’s just what I do.” Patrick grinned and seated himself on the sofa with a grunt.
“Just make sure to invite me if you have any parties in there. Ah it’s great to be young.” Patrick relaxed, arms back chin up, and Priscilla wondered if he would ever leave her beloved apartment.
He was relentless, as always, and even though a part of her wanted to argue, another part of her couldn’t ignore the allure of his confidence. His success, his street-savvy reputation, it felt like he had a secret formula to immortality in the art world. She had to trust him—just until she got her feet on the ground.
For the next 6 months, Priscilla’s life spun faster and faster. By Patrick’s guidance, she quit her internship and invested in a large photography studio on the fifth floor of a converted loft building, though she wasn’t sure she needed it. After so many pinholes, Priscilla had no direction—photographing a chair, the wall, the window, and yet, the pinhole created something new and special every time. The glow that filled the studio daily became nauseating—a radioactive energy that was slowly consuming her until she was only the vessel for the true artist, the pinhole. And despite how her eyes burned with each new explosion of light, it was still beautiful nonetheless.
At the same time, Priscilla was constantly in the public eye. Strangely enough, people didn’t just fall in love with her art, they fell in love with her awkward personality and her commitment to her craft.
“Priscilla is truly a once-in-a-generation talent. It’s so great that we have such a young, contemporary artist in the spotlight. You don’t get a lot of those these days.” Priscilla read a YouTube comment on one of her interviews. After an appearance on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Kimmel, Hot Ones, Saturday Night Live, Vogue, and so many more, Priscilla wasn’t sure who she even was anymore. People around the world seemed inspired by her hypnotic works, but was she a celebrity or an artist? Better yet, how could she consider herself to be either when the art was thanks to the pinhole camera alone?
I could pull any stranger off the street, ask them to take a pinhole, and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, Priscilla thought.
Priscilla seated herself on the bench outside her old job at the museum. Pigeons crowded a nearby bench, the occasional visitor strolled through the museum doors, the Chicago sky—a dead gray. Priscilla inhaled and let the city air and dull clouds enter her lungs—like her first attempt with the pinhole, it was easy to drown out the stimulation of the world, it was easy to retreat to where there was no audience, no expectation, just Priscilla and her mind. She wasn’t sure why the universe gifted her the pinhole, but at the end of the day, she was grateful; maybe it was time for her to accept the gift. After several moments in stillness, Priscilla found herself standing up, and traveling to her new studio. She wanted to create without the pressure of the public and without the nagging of Patrick; she wanted to create like an artist.
Taking her first step into the studio, the first thing Priscilla noticed was the breeze of wind breaking through the shattered studio window. Quickly, she came to her senses about the rest.
Studio lights and wires cut, the vintage fabric she’d been using for her recent project strewn across the floor, the table legs broken. Across the chaos was her beloved pinhole—in the middle of the room—beat and mangled. The wooden walls were splintered—snapped—while the pinhole cover was nowhere to be found. The once smooth mahogany surfaces, now a shattered relic, seemed to embody everything she had lost in that moment—her artistry, her magic, and the fragile hope she had once placed in it.
Priscilla found herself hypnotized once again—hypnotized with fear. Her days of artistry were over, and she’d soon fall to oblivion. And still, the chaos was beautiful. She wished she could use her pinhole to take a shot of the scene. Revel in her failure as an artist.
Without her pinhole, Priscilla had nothing—Priscilla was nothing. Patrick would know what to do Priscilla thought. He’d been through scandals aplenty, surely there was a way to repair the camera.
Priscilla immediately called Patrick, and in less than a second, voicemail. How could Patrick just disappear when Priscilla truly needed his guidance?
Who would do this? How did an intruder even get in? Who else other than me could get into the studio?
Patrick had the key to the studio.
And suddenly, the world began to collapse like the ever-diminishing pinhole. Throwing her phone to the side, Priscilla ran to her beloved pinhole camera. As she attempted to puzzle together the splintered wood, she could almost feel the magic of the pinhole drain from the room and escape out the window.
Priscilla remembered the dusty pinhole in the old pawn shop, calling to her.
Why would Patrick do this?
This was no hypnosis, she had woken into a nightmare.
How hadn’t she seen this before? How naive was she to allow something like this to happen? Something about Patrick never sat right with her, but what else are you supposed to do when this kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity is given to you? And despite her tormenting regrets, nothing could change what had been done.
8: The Last Click
After the disaster, Priscilla disappeared from the public eye, and the world was left wondering Where is Priscilla Pinholes? While her millions of followers waited for her, Priscilla couldn’t gather the courage to admit that, maybe she never deserved the fame, maybe she was never a real artist, maybe she was just a fraud.
At the same time, she never wanted fame or a manager to watch her every move—she hadn’t enjoyed her art for months. Disappearing was a quiet release, as if the weight of expectation had finally lifted. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to vanish, to slip into the shadows for a while, to let the world go on without her. Perhaps, after all, this was the space she had been waiting for, a way to return to herself.
Priscilla was born an artist, and, magic or not, the flickering studio light would always draw her in. Eevery once in a while, Priscilla found herself wandering to her impromptu living room studio—where it all started. She began experimenting with her trusty DSLR, trying to replicate her beloved pinhole photos. Soon enough, her wandering became an obsession. LED light bars, a smoke machine, colorful ceramics one-by-one piled up on her living room floor. Priscilla worked in organized chaos as she locked herself in her apartment every night trying to emulate the aura of her pinholes.
Although Priscilla often liked to work alone, she found herself calling Danny every so often for a second opinion. While Danny was no photographer, he was an expert in composition and color theory, and with each new photo that Priscilla captured, she felt herself get closer and closer to the magic that once was.
One evening, as the soft hum of the smoke machine filled the air and the LED lights flickered like distant stars, Priscilla adjusted the camera settings for a self-portrait—a self-portrait holding the wrecked pinhole. She had spent hours on the setup, tweaking the colors, the lighting, the angles, and as the shutter clicked, something shifted. For the first time in months, Priscilla felt a spark—a flicker of that same hypnotic energy that had once consumed her in the glow of the pinhole. The colorful aura that outlined her face was no longer a striking rainbow, but a beautiful muted orange and yellow while her facial features were masked by a cloudy glow. Meanwhile, the pinhole was shroud in gray, as if someone had splattered over it with a murky watercolor.
As Priscilla saved the photo to her laptop, she stepped back and allowed herself a quiet smile. Not for the cameras, nor for Patrick, but for the world she had built—a world of raw beauty, effort, and creativity—now laid out before her. The image on the screen wasn’t magic, not in the way her pinhole photos had been, but it was real. It was hers. It was art.
(by Julia Sohn ’25)