Avoiding the café would have been harder without the school play. Sister Theresa’s drama class was filled with girls who’d been putting in their time, slowly rising up the ranks from Bystander to Girl 1, waiting for their shot at meatier roles as upperclassmen. I wouldn’t have bothered to audition if Sister Theresa hadn’t told me to. Tammy Lyons—who was semi-famous for having landed Aunt Ev in The Miracle Worker when she was just a sophomore—informed me not to expect anything more from Our Town than People of the Town or, at most, Constable Warren. When I got Emily Webb, Tammy said that Sister Theresa was only taking pity on the new kid, but by senior year, when I beat Tammy out for Abigail in The Crucible, she admitted that I deserved it. Being onstage felt like nothing I’d felt before. Once I’d digested a part—not just memorized the words but absorbed them so I didn’t have to think about what to say any more than I had to think about how to breathe—being inside the play was like being inside a chrysalis that broke open for the first time every time the curtain went up. I felt a clarity that didn’t exist for me anywhere else. I gave myself up to the role, and the rest disappeared—the stage, the audience, the world beyond the play—life fully concentrated and contained in each moment flowing inevitably into the next. When the curtain came down on my final performance of my final year and Tammy whispered, Now what?, I knew I was going to California.

107. Exhibition announcement, “Life Divided, Photographs by Lillian Preston, Sam’s Café, March 17, 1973,” with reproductions of Untitled [Child playing hopscotch] and Untitled [Leukemic woman putting on lipstick]

SAM DECKER: I’d never wanted company in the darkroom before. Even back in high school, I’d show up at weird hours just to have things to myself, but one day when Lilly brought the key back, the invitation just popped out. I must have asked on instinct, since it sure wasn’t something I’d planned, but when it comes to photography, my instincts have always been good. Everything I’ve always liked about my solitude—the quiet, the focus, the order—got stronger with Lilly there. My eye got sharper. Nights with Lilly, I was my best working self.

JOURNAL ENTRY, MARCH 1973: Choosing images meant sorting through the Brooklyn prints. Though it felt too silly to say out loud, I was curious to see if the photos might have gotten sick along with me, in some intangible way, so I began with the prints we’d made before I started feeling ill. Seeing all those pictures reminded me how much fun we’d had. I could tell you were a natural the first time we came out of the darkroom and you were astonished that three hours had come and gone. Right away you saw the magic in freezing a passing moment—a playing girl, a crowded sidewalk—to reveal its truths. But for me, the bigger magic was getting to have you and photography at the same time.