LETTER TO DEBORAH BRODSKY, OCTOBER 1962: Since returning to Barrow Street would be impossible unless John could magically take me back at twice the hours, twice the pay, and half the travel time, I assumed that life after Ken would involve working at a camera shop. I’d hoped not to involve Montague Photo, in order to avoid the demotion from customer to employee; but after being turned away everywhere else—including a store with a help-wanted sign in its window—I realized Montague might be my only hope. In a way, I was right. “You see,” Joe explained as kindly as he could, “we know you’re a girl who knows her stuff, but the customers won’t know what to make of you.” This saved me a lot of time. Without Joe to set me straight, I don’t know how long it might have taken me to notice that the only women working in camera stores were in the photo enlargements decorating the walls.

The manager at Remming’s didn’t like the gap in my waitressing resumé, but I happened to appear on a day he was short-handed, so he gave me a try. It feels equally strange and familiar to be back at a restaurant. If my younger self and I were somehow to meet, I have a feeling the girl working lunches eight years ago on Madison would admire the photographer I’ve become but wouldn’t know what to make of the woman; and I’d certainly see right through how “modern” that girl was pretending to be. Really, Deb, it’s a wonder you had anything to do with me at first, but I’m so grateful that you did.

From home to the restaurant is a forty-minute walk, an hour if I take pictures as I go. Each week, I choose a different route. I use Monday and Tuesday to get to know the streets, and by Wednesday I know what to look for. I noticed the Lacuna Gallery the first Monday I walked down St. John’s Place, which is otherwise all grimy brick row houses and stray cats; but I didn’t go in until Thursday, when its door burst open and a ball of brown curly hair wearing red cat’s-eye glasses came running out to introduce herself. Her name was Nina Pagano, she’d been watching me all week, and she couldn’t stand waiting any longer to see if I’d come in.

59. Christmas tree, Brooklyn, 1962