Julia Jackson

She looks straight into the lens, and the lens does not quite manage to look back.

That is the first thing to notice about Julia Margaret Cameron’s photograph of her niece Julia Jackson, made in April 1867: it is not entirely sharp, and it was never meant to be. The eyes are clear, very pale, wide open. The nose and the set of the mouth are clear. Then the focus falls away. The long hair, parted in the centre and left loose, spills down both sides in waves that dissolve into a brown haze. The shoulders are barely there. One side of her face holds the light; the other slips into shadow and becomes part of the dark behind her.

A conventional studio portrait of the period would have shown a small figure standing full length, evenly lit, in focus from hat to hem. Cameron, who had taken up the camera only a few years earlier, at forty-eight, when her daughter and son-in-law gave her one, went the other way. She came in close. She let a face fill the frame. She allowed blur, flaws, even the small specks and marks of the process, because the effect she wanted was presence rather than inventory.

The sitter was twenty-one, and her wedding to Herbert Duckworth was a month away. Nothing in the picture announces this. She is not a bride here, with no veil or flowers, not even a smile. She looks like someone thinking hard about what is coming and declining to be decorative about it. Cameron photographed her dozens of times, and the museum’s description of this print is apt: unsentimental, looking forward with purpose.

What came was harder than either woman could have known. Duckworth died within a few years. Julia later married the critic Leslie Stephen, and among their children were the painter Vanessa Bell and the writer Virginia Woolf. Woolf drew on her mother for Mrs. Ramsay in To the Lighthouse, and in 1926 she and Roger Fry published a book of Cameron’s photographs. It is strange to think of the daughter holding prints of this face, made before she existed, of a woman she lost at thirteen.

In the albumen print she is still twenty-one, eyes wide in the brown dark, and she has not blinked yet.