Remembering Lillian Into Existence

This is where she died, allegedly.

If she ever existed. Which I’m told she didn’t.

I refuse to believe it. They printed her story on paper in black and white. She must have lived.

She had to be real.

“The thing that always struck me about Lillian was the glint in her eye,” Alan offered as he smiled at her memory, “she took on every assignment with gusto”.

“It’s what killed her,” he said softly as his gaze fell to his coffee cup.

It was good news. To have been killed, she must have lived.

I’d sourced Alan’s details from a former journalist who worked with Lillian on that fateful final assignment. A German taking random jobs to fund his personal quest to write the definitive exposé on ring-tailed wood pigeons, he was thrilled to be paired with her.

“Excuse my tardy response,” Jakob husked down the phone line, “I’m in the middle of an election campaign”. His family had encouraged him to return home after the accident, ditching his dream of journalism and accept the traditional mantle of serving his country.

“Of course I remember that day,” he explained, “it’s ingrained in my mind like one of her photographs”.

They arrived at the poultry farm separately. Having their own cars was most likely what saved him, Jakob reflected.

The stench of thousands of poultry confined in a limited space, compounded by the heat of the summer sun, was enough to make both of them physically ill. Yet they had to file their story, and the only way to do so was to enter the barn to see the situation and record it with the skill sets at hand.

He, with pad and pencil. She with her camera.

On the way in, Lillian stopped to photograph the mailbox by the roadside.

Her photographic speciality was how I discovered her in the first place: the celebrated Flag’s Up! exhibition by the one and only Lillian Mountweazel.

An entire gallery of rural American mailboxes that took Ohio by storm when she unveiled her passion in 1972, quickly becoming the darling of the Conceptualism movement.

How could they say she wasn’t real?

Although I’ve never been able to find a brochure from the exhibition, Jakob read to me from his.

“As we gaze at the higgledy-piggledy mess of metallic vestibules for our conversations, we ponder what is missing: the social status of occupants hidden out-of-shot. Lives lead. Opportunities wasted.”

Her ability to see a nation’s woes displayed in the pretext of a mailbox with no mail was inspiring.

If she could see, she must have lived.

I thrust the pages torn from the recent (1975 edition) of the New Columbia Encyclopedia into Alan’s hands. Proof. Proof that she had lived.

“You don’t need to convince me,” he said, “I’d worked with Lillian for years. I never understood why she was interested in working for Combustibles magazine, but I never questioned it. She was my best photographer”.

Looking at the charred remains of the barn, Alan Smithee’s words rang in my ears.

What was it that made Lillian flirt with danger?

It’s what made Jakob Mierscheid turn tail and run when she explained to him in the barn the potential for an explosion — he’d never contemplated the potential of risking his life for a mere magazine article.

Moments after he’d made it to his car, the improbable happened.

A barn full of chickens and one of the greatest photographers of her time, gone in a split second.

The explosions shock wave threw Mierscheid face-first onto the bonnet of his car, leaving him with a broken tooth he still nursed today. A memory of her.

She must have existed.

All these facts. The words of her colleagues.

Photos of water fountains she had designed before turning to photography as a principal source of income.

Why wouldn’t anyone believe that she existed?

The encyclopaedia said she was a nihilartikel, a trap for plagiarists.

Nonsense. Why would Mierscheid and Smithee lie? Pretend they knew her?

They didn’t. They wouldn’t. No living person would lie about knowing another.

In talking about her, don’t we also keep her memory alive?

In remembrance, we confirm she lived.

RIP Lillian Virginia Mountweazel (1942–1973).

She existed.

About The Author

Stephen Scott. Writer of Words. Yet Another Creative. Many names, some printable in decent company. He’s been plying his trade in copywriting and creative management since, well, before you were born (if you were born in the 90’s). Yes, he’s obviously a Star Wars fan. Connect with him on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram.

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