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Chapters (16)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Introduction
  4. CATALOGUE OF THE EXHIBITION
  5. Greenwich Village, 1953–54
  6. Lower East Side, 1954–56
  7. Brooklyn Heights, 1956–1961
  8. Park Slope, 1961–63
  9. “The Samantha Series”
  10. Park Slope, 1963–70
  11. Cleveland, 1970–76
  12. The Last Self-Portraits
  13. Acknowledgments
  14. Reading Group Guide
  15. About the Author
  16. Copyright

Then one evening, Lilly tap-tap-tapped on my door with this quizzical look on her face, like she was tasting a new food and couldn’t decide if she liked it. Kenny had asked her and Sam to move with him to Brooklyn Heights. He’d bought a house as a surprise and taken them there to see it.

He bought it? I stuttered.

There was a bedroom for Samantha and space for a proper darkroom, she said in a voice that couldn’t quite believe it was true.

But do you even want to move to Brooklyn? I asked.

Lilly had never considered it one way or another, but they’d practically been living together for six months. Her apartment was too small for the three of them, and it was quiet in Brooklyn Heights and full of families. On top of that, she wouldn’t have to work at the bookstore: Kenny wanted her to have time for her photography.

What more was there to say? I hugged her, gave her my blessing, and burst into tears as soon as she left.

JOURNAL ENTRY, MAY 1956: Deb threw us a lovely party, and everyone came. Renaldo seemed happy, and Cass and Leon managed to be in the same place at the same time without fighting, which was as grand a present as anything. Cass, Judy, and Deb all found me at separate moments to say how glad they were for me, but their words were practically identical, as if they’d all memorized the same cue card in advance. I suppose their surprise isn’t any bigger than mine.

Now Ken and I are back downstairs sitting on my mattress, listening through the ceiling as the party continues without us. This is the last night we will spend in this room. You’re asleep in your crib, and I’ve just finished kissing the bottom edge of Ken’s lip, following an angled plane of light cast across his face by the streetlamps outside the window. Kissing Ken feels like a continuation of a conversation, as natural as walking or words. At first his interest scared me a little—he was so eager to meet my friends, to see my work—but it’s impossible not to succumb to his intelligence, his enthusiasm, his openness to possibility. I would have been lucky to find Ken at any time, but for the two of us to find him now seems like a particular piece of happy magic.

Brooklyn Heights, 1956–1961

40. Brooklyn Bridge, Brooklyn, 1956