DEBORAH BRODSKY: When Lilly first moved in, she was pulling lunch shifts six days a week up on Madison. She said she liked it because the tips were good, plus the midday light was lousy for taking pictures anyway, and she and her old roommate, who worked there, too, looked out for each other. When she told me how much she made, I laughed. With that kind of bread, I asked, why live here? At that point I was getting away with ten hours a week at the bookstore, which covered rent, oatmeal, rice and beans, and vegetables from the produce stand on East Second. The rest of my time belonged to me—for wandering, for writing, for working on the magazine. Lilly said she needed the money for film, darkroom chemicals, and paper to print her pictures on. She couldn’t afford to think twice before she snapped the shutter. If the picture was there, she had to grab it without worrying if there would be film for tomorrow.

22. Deb [Deborah Brodsky], New York, 1954

JOURNAL ENTRY, MARCH 1954: When I got back from class last week, I looked so blue that Deb took me out for a chocolate egg cream, and I told her what I’ve finally admitted to myself: I don’t like Mr. Janovic. Once a week, we all gather round while he looks through our portfolios, and it’s like a ring of vultures picking at fresh meat. Mr. Janovic is very smart about what makes people want to look at images. His criticisms are almost always correct, but he gives them in such a cutting way! Each week, he seems to take pride in bringing his students to tears. The ones who don’t cry make me even sadder because they don’t react at all, as if he’s turned them to stone.

I didn’t bring the photo of Deb to class, though I think it’s quite good, because I wanted to spare even her image from that unkind man. I don’t regret it one bit. After looking over my photos, Janovic told me to “Carry on,” which is the closest he’s come to paying a compliment. Still, I felt so poisoned by him that it was several days before I wanted to do anything at all.

Living with Patty taught me the importance of solitude, but I don’t know how long I’d have lasted here if Deb hadn’t made me her friend. I’m embarrassed to admit I would have avoided someone like Deb back in Cleveland—even assuming anyone like Deb could exist there!—but friendship for Deb is instinctive. Her openness teaches me as much as anything I’m learning in class. I was rather scandalized by her at first, and more than a little disapproving, but that ended the moment I glimpsed myself in the mirror and saw Father staring back.