by Elise Hooper
Wiggling my finger upon the bowl of my spoon, I watched the handle tap against the tablecloth like a Morse code telegraph key. “Honestly, it was a bit of a whim. I decided I wanted to become a portrait photographer because I’ve always been interested in people,” I hedged. “My uncles were lithographers, so there were already some craftsmen in the family. Everyone told me I had an eye for beauty. My mother viewed this as an unfortunate quality and thought me too much of a daydreamer, but my grandmother encouraged my interest in fine things. So, I got myself a position as an assistant in Arnold Genthe’s studio in New York and in a couple of other portrait studios before going to Columbia.” I glossed over the fact that I had never graduated from college. “And now here I am. I’ve been too busy at Marsh’s to create any of my own photos. I’m eager to get back at it, though.”
Imogen tugged at her earlobe and grimaced. “I know what that’s like. When I was cooped up here with the boys, I realized I was in danger of losing my marbles. So, I started photographing what was around me—the boys, the garden—and now I feel sane. Or at least saner.”
“May I see what you’ve been working on?”
She studied me for a moment, glancing at my untouched plate before turning to her family still playing on the grass. “Roi, can you keep the bees away from the food?”
He grunted his assent. As we rose to walk indoors, she muttered, “I hope you weren’t hungry. That wild pack will eat the whole spread while we’re inside.”
ON A TABLE in the corner of her living room, Imogen’s photos lay in careful rows. Seeing them made a hunger rise up in me. How I longed to feel my camera in my hands again! Her work mostly consisted of photos of the boys, both inside the house and out in the garden. In her pictures, they played. For the most part, they ignored the camera, but sometimes they looked into it with clear eyes as if looking directly at their mother, not a machine. She captured their bodies, beautiful shapes within small spaces of light, and their expressions, content, curious, and full of mischief.
“They look like children.”
She raised her eyebrows at me.
“I mean you have a real record here of who these boys are. When they’ve grown up, you’ll look at these and hear them calling to each other, smell the grass on them.”
Imogen looked back at the table. “You should come with me to next week’s Camera Club meeting. It’s in the city. You could meet with other photographers and have access to a darkroom. Who knows, maybe you’ll be able to find a way out of Marsh’s to do something else. I assume you want to get out of there?”
I nodded so vigorously I almost made myself dizzy.
“Of course. You’re a woman who won’t settle for filing negatives for long. San Francisco is just the place for you.”
Chapter 6
A week later, I greeted Imogen outside the Ferry Building so we could walk to my first Camera Club meeting together. She pulled her boiled-wool jacket around her shoulders with one hand, a black leather folder clutched in the other. “Didn’t you bring some work?” she asked, gesturing at my empty hands.
I swallowed. “I don’t have anything recent.”
She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. I wanted to kick myself for being unprepared.
We arrived at a nondescript building a block south of Market Street. Once inside, a few men gathered around the coffeepot greeted Imogen. When she introduced them to me, they nodded with interest. “Have you already hung your work?” one man with reddish hair asked, pointing to the far wall where photographs tiled the walls.
Imogen nodded. “I’m about to. Remember how last time we talked about cropping images close to abstract them? I’ve been experimenting with that idea. Here, let me show you.” She started opening her portfolio to pull out images of maple leaves and succulents. “See? No fancy lens, no etching stylus.” The plants took up the full frame, leaving no room for negative space. Cropped close to defy how the eye views an object, only part of each leaf was visible. The abstraction was modern and intriguing. The other photographers, mostly men, pushed past me to see. I tapped my toe and looked around the room. Who could I talk to? Who looked intriguing? Most important, who could get me out of Marsh’s?
A few feet away stood a slim woman surrounded by another cluster of men. One of them scowled at her and said, “You went down to Portsmouth Square today? Are you nuts?”
Unfazed, she folded her arms across her chest. “Give me a break, I was wearing a face mask—there was nothing to be afraid of. I wanted some photos of the open courts and the proceedings against Tom White. I needed to hear what the police were going to say.”
A different man blew cigarette smoke out of the side of his mouth. “That case is a bust. The kid’s guilty as sin.”
She let out a short, amazed laugh. “Are you pullin’ my leg? The case is no dud; he’s been set up. The police are lying through their teeth. I’ve read their report. It’s a load of bunk. Everyone knows it.”
“It’s dangerous down there. Doesn’t the News have a fella they can send to cover it?”
At this, the woman’s eyes hardened; she lowered her chin as if steeling herself to run at the man. “Do you think it’s dangerous because of the epidemic or because there are Negros there?”
“Aww, hell, Connie, don’t get all hot under the collar. I don’t mean to cross you, I’d just hate to see something bad happen, that’s all.” The man put out his hand and she paused before accepting it. With peace established, the cluster broke apart, everyone veering off in different directions, but I followed the woman to a table covered with back issues of Camera Work. She looked at me, and without waiting for introductions, waved a magazine in the air. “Have you seen this? I swear, Stieglitz is a genius.”
I reached for the magazine. She handed it to me, pointing to a few abstract photos of Paul Strand’s. In one, my eye was arrested by a stark white picket fence running along the foreground of a landscape shot. I shook my head. “I haven’t seen these, but I just arrived from New York and have visited Stieglitz’s gallery bunches of times.”
“Really?” She extended her hand. “I’m Connie Kanaga. You’re new here, huh?”
“Dorothea Lange.” I pushed my hand out toward her, bobbing my chin to the men who’d just been circling her. “You sure told them off.”
“They don’t mean to sound like such grandmas but that blasted Spanish flu has everyone on edge. So, you’re fresh from New York,” she said, taking my hand and grinning. Her eyes were dark and wide-set, her complexion as clear and smooth as white marble. “And you’re a photographer?”
I nodded. “I’ve taken a spot at the photography counter at Marsh’s while I get settled.” I knotted my hands in the pockets of my trousers, but tried to keep my voice upbeat. “I met Imogen’s husband, Roi, there.”
Connie turned her head to find Imogen on the other side of the room, a determined expression on her face, hands gesturing at the photos on the wall. “Ahh, Imogen, she’s a real pistol. Boy, she could talk technique all day long. She just lives and breathes talking craft. Bet my editor wishes I took more of an interest in that stuff,” she said with a laugh, pausing to light a cigarette. “You know anything about newspaper work?”
“No, my background’s in portrait photography. I’m looking to open my own studio. Figured working at Marsh’s might lead to some connections.”
“Huh.” She surveyed the room and leaned in closer to me, lowering her voice. “Tell you what: there are some fellas here loaded with money. They’re more dealers than actual photographers. Find them and convince ’em why they should invest in you. Could be your ticket.” She bobbed her head toward a handsome blond man in a tan jacket. “See that one? He’s got his fingers in all kinds of galleries in the city. Get close to him and who knows what could happen?” As we watched, the man grinned at the group he was talking to and clapped one fellow on the back. “But be careful what you offer in exchange.”
When I got home that night, I found Fron lying belly-down across her b
ed, reading McCall’s and waving her fingers in the air to dry her nail lacquer. If I needed to show up at the next Camera Club meeting with a portfolio of portrait work, surely her pretty face would increase the odds of me finding sponsorship. We spent the next couple weeks composing shots of her. I developed them at Marsh’s first thing in the mornings when business was slow. With Roi popping in frequently to visit, Keeler gave me a wide berth, though almost every day I found his cigarette butts floating in the developer pan I used. Like tea leaves at the bottom of a cup, they served as a message: it was just a matter of time before he tried more funny business.
By the time of the next Camera Club meeting, I was ready. I even let Fron work some beauty magic on me. With my hair waved and my lips colored in a pretty shade of raspberry red, and armed with a black leather portfolio filled with portraits of my gorgeous friend, I felt invincible.
That evening I sought out a couple of agents, lit their cigarettes, and reeled off my spiel, enticing them one portrait at a time. Since a keen sense of cultural inferiority nagged at the Westerners, I exploited my New York roots. I emphasized my Columbia photography classes and time spent with Genthe. The men agreed to meet for some dinners to discuss my plan more. All the while, I remembered Connie’s warning and made sure to arrive early at these meetings to slip the maître d’ some cash along with my request for a busy, well-lit center table and instructions for a signal I’d give so a taxicab would arrive for me exactly when our dinner ended. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in a dark, out-of-the-way booth or receive offers for walks or rides home and be left vulnerable to advances I could do little to stop.
A few times I arranged for Fronsie to meet me outside the restaurant at an appointed time to escort me home. One evening I stepped out to find her waiting for me in a steady drizzle. “I suppose this matronly getup comes in handy during weather like this,” she huffed, pulling her kerchief tighter around her hair.
“For Pete’s sake, if they got a load of you, all of my work to avoid this trouble would be out the window in a second.”
“But you’d have your funding faster than you can say ‘cheese.’ All of this thinking ahead is a lot of work.” Fron looked at me with a sly smile. “Say, why don’t you just marry one of them and get the money that way?” When I rolled my eyes at her, she laughed and pulled me close. “Oh no, not you, Miss Lange, not you.”
All of my planning paid off. I secured investment offers and managed to seal the deal. From there, I made the necessary arrangements. Fronsie and I found studio space on Sutter Street in the ritzy neighborhood of Nob Hill, two blocks away from the bustle of Union Square, and next door to a newly opened Elizabeth Arden salon. The whole operation was pricey, but if there was one thing that Genthe taught me, it was Charge top dollar for your services and never apologize; people will respect you for it. I crossed my fingers and hoped he was right.
DURING HER FIRST visit to my new studio, Imogen shook her head as she marched past the fountain in the courtyard and through the French doors to enter the reception area. Eying the stamped-tin ceiling, she trailed a finger along the carved whorls on the fireplace’s mahogany mantel while making her way across the room. A shaft of sunlight stippled the Turkish carpet on the floor. She looked out of one of the tall windows before turning and asking, “Goodness, how did you pull this together so quickly?”
“The San Francisco Camera Club.”
“I’ve been a member for years but have nothing like this.”
I pulled open the curtain to let in more light. The fact was that Imogen and I spent our time at Camera Club differently. While she bickered with members over camera settings and composition, I’d been sniffing out opportunities. Imogen saw herself as an artist, I held no such illusions: I was a businesswoman with a valuable craft. “I made sure to meet a couple of fellas who could sponsor me.”
“But this place must cost a fortune.”
“Don’t fret, the terms are generous,” I assured her, leading the way to the red velvet couch where I planned to start all of my client meetings. “I can do this.”
Back in New York, I’d learned proof-making and retouching techniques, but what I had really learned was how to run a shop. By answering phones, booking appointments, and watching Genthe operate his studio, I learned how to select clients and pose them in flattering ways, how to hire staff and price my work, and most important, how to encourage my clients to refer their friends to me.
She ran her palms over the couch. Her frown faded into admiration. “It’s lovely.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning to a barrel-shaped container sitting atop a wooden table next to us. Its brass surface gleamed. “And look at this.”
“My goodness, what is it?”
“Fronsie found this at a fusty antiques shop over on Post Street. It’s a samovar—to be used for serving tea. The seller assured us it’s Russian, but who knows? I can get to know my customers over cups of tea and cakes from the bakery down the street. I want to make portraits that feel natural and intimate. Earning my clients’ trust is important for that.” I knew that with the right atmosphere, one that was comfortable and beautiful, I could build a business because women, often mothers, tended to be the primary clients of a portrait photographer.
She shook her head. Her teeth were long with gaps between them, and she possessed an unfortunate habit of sucking on them sometimes when she brooded. “Well, this all looks good. Do you have a darkroom?”
I pointed to a door that led to the downstairs basement. It was cramped but fit my equipment and had narrow windows for ventilation. “It’s a vast improvement over my last darkroom in New Jersey. There, I worked in a chicken coop.”
Imogen smiled, probably thinking I was speaking figuratively. I was not. In Hoboken, an unused chicken coop had sat in our backyard, and no one minded when I converted it into a darkroom. I wouldn’t miss its low ceiling, walls of exposed nails, and the sharp lingering stench of ammonia.
“Well done. This place is no chicken coop, that’s for sure. Now you just need to fill it with clients.”
With the studio set up, my investors introduced me to members of San Francisco society. I developed a dependable roster of women who sought me out to photograph them and their children over the course of the next year. The gap between photographer and sitter turned out to be an easy one for me to breach because I found I had more in common with my clients than I would have imagined. These women, wives of the wealthy men who owned the city’s newspapers, department stores, and law offices, were young and progressive, interested in art, culture, and politics. They’d arrive at my studio lugging garment bags filled with gauzy dresses and satin purses stuffed with dangly diamond earrings, emerald necklaces, and ruby stickpins. The women would spill their treasures across my red velvet couch and ask me what to wear. I’d move the gowns aside and steer them toward several dove-gray plain silk tunics I kept ironed in a closet. The most successful portraits, I assured them, were not meant to serve as evidence of their success. Those types of photographs were too old-fashioned, too much like portraits from the Renaissance of Italian noblewomen bedecked in all of their finery. No, instead I wanted to show them something new: a soft focus on the subtle laughter behind their eyes, the graceful curve of their shoulders, the tender way they held their children to their breasts. I wanted to show simple beauty, love, and individual character. Although sometimes they initially resisted, set on showing the trappings of their accomplishments, soon customers flocked to me for the naturalism that I promised. From there, it didn’t take long before my customers were visiting at all hours, not necessarily seeking my services but to talk, to confide in me. They believed I saw them as individuals, not merely as prizes. And they were right, I did. It was a mutual respect. Even though these women were practically swimming in cash, they admired my independence and delighted in my singular vision of them as forward-thinking and artistic. I’d become a self-made woman.
In the evenings, my clients and artist friends would a
rrive at my studio. We’d roll up the carpet, put records on the Victrola, and set about to dancing, mad about Wilbur Sweatman’s Original Jazz Band. We must have listened to “Kansas City Blues” so many times that the shellac almost wore off the record. Ah-yee, a lovely Chinese girl Fronsie hired to be my receptionist, would weave through the crowd serving slices of pound cake on a silver tray.
One night, with revelry well under way, I stood by the front door, watching everyone dance, and smoked a cigarette.
Connie Kanaga sidled up to me and held out a mason jar filled with a clear liquid. “Want some?”
“What is it?”
“Who cares?” She slugged it back and shivered before giving a little shimmy along to the saxophone blasting away on the Victrola. “Whew, it’s pretty potent.”
Memories of Grandmutter’s stony stare and the insults she would growl after several glasses of brandy prompted me to wave off Connie’s outstretched offering.
She leaned in closer so I could hear her over the music. “Guess what? I was doing some portraits today for Mrs. Hearst and she offered me a job at her husband’s paper.”
“Really? Did you take it?”
“Hell, no! I don’t like Hearst’s politics one bit. I can’t work for him.”
“So, the San Francisco Daily News is treating you well?”
She shrugged. “Well enough.” She stepped back and patted down her black curly hair while looking around the room. We both leaned against the wall and I handed her my cigarette for a drag. Exhaling, she said, “Everything’s pretty good right now. I’ve got a little portrait work when I want it and I’ve started spending Sundays with Louise Dahl. You know her? She’s been at a few Camera Club meetings. Anyway, we wander around Russian Hill and take photos of whatever strikes our fancy. I’m allowing myself one day a week to experiment with whatever I want. You should join us sometime.”