JOURNAL ENTRY, MAY 1967: I knew what I was hoping for but not what to expect. Mr. Tsaregorodcev had warned that people would be “very curious” about me, and true to his word, the whole evening was a series of conversations with those who wanted to schedule a “studio visit” (whatever they imagined, I’m sure it wasn’t the alcove off our living room), or to take me to lunch. Those who looked at Rope swing, looked just long enough to see that it wasn’t a nude portrait. People seemed more interested in staring at me, some of them saying “brave” or “courageous” as if awarding me a medal. In short, the evening was lousy with strangers wanting to see eight photographs that weren’t there. I managed not to lose my composure the way I had with Mr. Tsaregorodcev—but Squirrel, it wasn’t easy! Thank goodness for Grete, who spent the night at my side murmuring Swedish insults low enough for only me to hear, with a promise to translate them on the train ride home. Meanwhile, I stuck like glue to a spot where I could see my photograph and enjoy the card with my name and the words “Purchase of the Museum of Modern Art.”

Sweetheart, you were so cold to me today that I suspect you wanted to attend the show after all; but think what would’ve happened if you had! You’ve been Jane so well for so long, it doesn’t occur to you that with me at MoMA, you could only ever be Samantha, your disguise turned from an enchanted coach back into a pumpkin. Would it help to explain this, or is it better not to revisit what belongs to the past? I’ve made my best guess, but I’ll never know.

By the time Mr. Wythe found me that night, I was so unhappy that seeing him was actually a relief. Ever since the show at Aperçu, I’ve felt that my work fell short of his standards, but in an evening filled with new discomforts, this familiar one was welcome. Ten years had left Mr. Wythe unchanged except for a single streak of silver hair that curled against his forehead like elegant jewelry. “Congratulations, my dear, and condolences,” he said in the same tired way he said everything. “You didn’t set out to take the world by storm, and now you must contend with the best and worst of it.” He liked Rope swing very much and wanted to discuss my work, but only after I’d talked to everyone else. Aperçu had closed, but he now had a gallery on Grove Street, the only one in the city devoted to photography since the Ipplingers had closed Picture Shop and moved to L.A. “Right now you can show your work with anyone,” he said, “so you must visit the other galleries before you choose mine.” He wanted me to come to him knowing my next show deserved a space dedicated to the form, represented by a gallery that knew photography and not just what was “hot.”