Helen lives on the top floor of a four-story walk-up. She’s lived there for thirty-five years, and nowadays doesn’t go out except for doctor’s appointments. Her daily routine? “It takes me a long time to go down the stairs to get the mail each day and then a long time to come back up. Then it takes me a long time to go through the mail. I hope they dusted the hand railing today.” (She wears a faux leopard skin glove just in case.)
She feeds her cat, Binky. “I had a cat named Benny for thirteen years. He died. I got another one and I knew I couldn’t call it Benny. So I call him Binky. Everyone is allergic to cats it seems, so no one comes over to visit.” (She hands me a box of Kleenex as I begin sneezing.)
She reads (there are stacks of book everywhere) and she sometimes listens to music. She receives visitors, food delivery folks and an occasional massage therapist. Of course, gallery owners, collectors, curators and her photo assistant/printer come by regularly.
She gave me a tour of her apartment. I did not know that her darkroom had been in her bathroom. There are still trays on top of the towel cabinet. Her enlarger has been given away. She used to wash prints in her claw-foot bathtub and hang them to dry on the little clothesline that is strung across the room. Then she would flatten the photographs in books.
She offered me some tea, then we sat in her living room. “May I take your picture?” I asked. “No, no pictures. I am very vain. I do not want to be photographed as an old lady.”
(I honored that by taking pictures only from the side or back.)
Helen was gruff, cold and cautious at first. But that changed once we settled into our conversation about photography, our families, her memories and her life.
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