LETTER TO DEBORAH BRODSKY, APRIL 1968: Thank goodness the burglars kept to the living room and that you and Yuma are all right; though to have your sense of security stolen is the worst theft of all. It breaks my heart picturing you and little Yuma hiding behind your closed bedroom door. Considering the ways the Haight has changed, I don’t think it at all “cowardly” of you to want to move. I know you’re proud of never asking Yuma’s father for anything, but maybe this once you should. I’m sure he’d be glad to help with a security deposit if it meant his son could live somewhere safer.

It should come as no surprise that my first major solo exhibition came and went with as much fanfare as a pigeon crossing the park. The few scattered reviews spent their ink airing the reviewer’s opinion on the New York v. Lacuna verdict, with the expected results. Reviewers in favor of the obscenity ruling deemed the new show “ugly” and “sensationalistic,” while those against the ruling called it “honest” and “elegant.” I suppose the only way to save my new work from falling under the shadow of the old would be to show it under a false name, but that would be as good as agreeing that the photographer known as Lillian Preston will always and forever be defined by eight photographs taken nearly as many years ago.

According to Mr. Wythe, there were a few sales and several collectors keen to meet me. One in particular, having apparently flown in by private jet, was quite direct about his interest in those eight photographs and his willingness to pay a grand sum to have them. According to Mr. Wythe, this collector left disappointed but undaunted, claiming to be a patient man. I hope, for his sake, that patience truly is its own reward.

Deb, Jane’s grandparents apologized for having gone behind my back, and I’ve decided to let Jane visit them this summer. When I told Jane she could visit Cleveland in July as usual, the joy on her face briefly revealed the child eclipsed by cigarettes and silences, insults and sarcasm. Ultimately, my anger with her or her grandparents has no bearing on their love for each other. I don’t trust them, but if they say they won’t keep her past the summer, they won’t. Jane’s grandparents may be judgmental and controlling, but they aren’t liars.

I know that if I didn’t let Jane go, I’d only lose her some other way, but just because it’s the right thing to do doesn’t make it easy! If nothing else I’m grateful that, for now at least, she’s stopped avoiding me like I’m a piece of ugly, sharp-edged furniture.

94. Old woman, New York, 1968