Girl with a Camera Read online

  This time I stood my ground: I was going.

  Legally, though, I was still married, but separated. It was an uncomfortable situation, setting me apart from almost everyone at Cornell, or perhaps anywhere, and I would keep it a secret. I abandoned the name I’d been using, Peggy Chapman, and signed up for my classes as Margaret Bourke White. That step gave me back my identity, something vitally important that I had been in danger of losing during my years with Chappie.

  I had to scramble for money. The Mungers still provided a small stipend, but they assumed that as a married woman with a professor husband I didn’t need as much help, and I didn’t tell them that my status had changed. In exchange for meals I worked a few hours a day as a waitress in the dining hall, and I took shifts at the front desk in the girls’ dormitory to pay for my room.

  I was surrounded by natural beauty, Fall Creek carving its way toward Cayuga Lake, the breathtaking falls and gorges sculpted by glaciers. There was the manmade beauty of campus architecture as well: the ornate iron gates of the football stadium, the ivy-covered walls of the stately buildings. I went out with my camera, hiking above the falls for sweeping scenic shots, scouring the campus for the detail that captured the whole, and sometimes combining the two in what I called “campus pattern pictures.”

  But my coursework took up almost all my time. The solution was to give up waiting tables and eat what I could, when I could. Food had never been important to me, but taking pictures was the one thing I realized I cared about intensely.

  I was still influenced by Clarence White’s theory that every photograph must be a work of art, like a painting. It wasn’t only a matter of finding the correct angle, waiting for the perfect circumstances, and then having the light exactly right. I still aimed for a soft focus, stretching a silk stocking over the lens or manipulating the film in the darkroom using sheets of celluloid to achieve the dreamy effect I wanted. I thought of my pictures as “Pseudo-Corots,” referring to the French painter Camille Corot, known for his atmospheric landscapes.

  I printed up enlargements of eight or ten I thought were good enough and took them to the campus housing manager, Mr. Coleman, who had found me my jobs as a waitress and a receptionist. I laid the photographs on his desk, one at a time. “Do you think I could sell these?” I asked.

  Mr. Coleman adjusted his spectacles and whistled softly. “I’m sure you can.”

  Working furiously over the Thanksgiving holiday, I matted the photographs and arranged them on easels outside my dormitory dining room. The “Pseudo-Corots” were an immediate success. Girls loved them and wanted to buy them as Christmas gifts for their parents. Mr. Coleman helped recruit twenty students as salesmen to make the rounds of fraternity and sorority houses. Orders poured in.

  When Mr. Coleman learned that I’d been developing film in washtubs in the laundry room, he gave me the key to the darkroom in the student supply store. I spent what little money I had and borrowed more to buy chemicals and printing paper. It was almost impossible to keep up. I worked hour after hour every night before I went off to classes in the morning, completely exhausted but also exhilarated.

  Mr. Coleman’s boss found out that I’d been in the darkroom all night. “You’re going to get sick,” he worried, “or flunk out, or both, and I don’t want it on my hands. I can’t allow you to use the darkroom anymore.”

  I pleaded, but it was useless. Mr. Coleman agreed with his boss, but he gave me the name of a commercial photographer in downtown Ithaca. “Go talk to Henry Head. He’ll have good advice.”

  I took a batch of my photographs to Mr. Head, who reluctantly agreed to look at them. When he’d finished flipping through them, he said, “You can use the darkroom as much as you want, and pay me a percentage of every picture you sell.” Sales went well, and I often worked in Mr. Head’s darkroom through the night.

  When I wasn’t shut up in the darkroom, I was out taking pictures around the campus. One night after a heavy snowfall I wanted to photograph the Hall of Science before anyone else’s footprints could spoil the image. I carefully walked a long, curving trail through the snow that would accent the stark angles of the building.

  After the fiasco at Purdue with the ruined sorority pictures, my confidence had returned. During the two years with Chappie, I’d kept a diary, but there were many days when I left the pages blank, rather than fill them with my unhappiness. Now I wrote about the pictures I was taking, and how I felt. “I know that I’m good and getting better,” I wrote. “I know that I am destined for the kind of greatness that famous photographers like Alfred Stieglitz have achieved and very few women have. I’m absolutely certain that I will be among them.”

  But I was not the best businesswoman. I had not calculated that the rush to buy the photographs as Christmas gifts would end suddenly, and I had unwisely spent all my cash on a pile of photographic paper I didn’t need and probably wouldn’t need for quite a while. That was a hard lesson. The mistake cost me dearly, and I vowed I would not make it again.

  17

  Final Break—1927

  I DID NOT GO TO CLEVELAND TO SPEND CHRISTMAS with my mother and Roger. If I wanted to graduate in June, I had to study through the holidays to rescue my sinking grades. The train cost too much. But the real reason was I didn’t want to be in the same city as Chappie. It would have been too painful. Although I didn’t love him the way I once did, he represented the greatest failure of my life, my marriage. I stayed on the deserted campus over the holidays.

  Mr. Head and his wife invited me to come to their house on New Year’s Day for their traditional pork and sauerkraut dinner. It was kind of them, but I excused myself before the coffee was served. “The light is perfect for photographing Triphammer Falls, and I can’t bear to miss that opportunity,” I explained.

  I didn’t want to offend Mrs. Head, but I knew that Mr. Head understood perfectly.

  My exams went fairly well, and my grades were satisfactory if not stellar. In my final semester I signed up for a journalism course. Other students in the class were hoping to become newspaper reporters; I was more interested in magazine work and submitted a photo-essay—pictures of doorways with very little text—for an assignment. The professor was the advisor for the Cornell Alumni News, and he thought the editor might want to feature my photographs of campus buildings. The editor looked them over and paid me five dollars each for three pictures. It seemed like a fortune! When the magazine came out, several graduates of the department of architecture wrote to praise the pictures, and one alumnus suggested that I specialize in architectural photography. He said my pictures were that good. It was the encouragement I craved.

  But I wasn’t sure that with no professional experience I could actually land such a job—and I did need to find work. To play it safe, I sent an application to the American Museum of Natural History in New York. The curator of herpetology invited me to come for an interview. He seemed so impressed by my application that I thought the offer of a position might be imminent.

  I was nearly twenty-two, about to graduate, and unsure which to follow—my head and my long interest in natural science, or my heart and my passion for photography. A job at the museum would be the safe choice. Or I could try to pursue a career in architectural photography, even though I had no specific training in the field. I had to know if the men who praised my photographs were right, or if they simply enjoyed my pictures of their alma mater. My future hung in the balance.

  I asked the letter-writer to recommend someone qualified to give me an objective opinion. His reply: “See Benjamin Moskowitz, York & Sawyer, Architects, NYC. Good luck.”

  During the Easter vacation I booked a cheap room and took the train to New York City, where I arrived late on Thursday and went straight to the Park Avenue address of York & Sawyer. At their office on the twenty-third floor I asked the switchboard operator for Mr. Moskowitz.

  “I think Mr. Moskowitz has already left, miss. I know he was planning a long weekend. Did you have an appointment?”
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  I hadn’t counted on this. I shook my head. “But I’ve come all this way! And I can’t stay until next week to see him! I have to be back on campus for classes!”

  She sighed and asked my name and told me to wait while she tried to see if he might still be there. I paced nervously, thinking that my time and money and my best chance for an expert opinion had been thrown away. The operator rang his office; no answer. “Sorry, but it looks like you’re out of luck, Miss White,” she said.

  Why hadn’t I planned this better? Called for an appointment? Taken an earlier train? How could I have made such a mistake? I was close to tears.

  Just then a tall, gray-haired man, beautifully groomed, strode through the reception area. The switchboard operator signaled me and mouthed, “That’s him.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Oh, Mr. Moskowitz!” I called out. “Just a moment, sir, please! I’d like to speak to you.”

  He glanced at his expensive-looking gold watch and kept walking. “Sorry, I have a train to catch,” he said brusquely. “I don’t believe you had an appointment.”

  I hurried after him toward the elevator. “I apologize, sir, but I was told to talk to you and to show you some photographs.” I mentioned the Cornell graduate who had given me his name.

  He pressed the button to call the elevator. “As I said, Miss—?”

  “Margaret Bourke White.”

  “Miss White, I have a train to catch. I’m sure your photographs are very good or he would not have sent you to see me, but unfortunately I have no time to look at them or talk to you now.”

  He checked his watch impatiently and rang again for the elevator. “It’s always slow when I’m most in a hurry,” he muttered.

  “Let me show you just one photograph while we’re waiting,” I pleaded, and opened the portfolio. The picture on top was a view of the river from the library tower, the highest point on campus. I’d climbed that tower at dawn and at sunset and at every possible time in between to catch the light on the water at exactly the right moment and framed the shot through lacy grillwork.

  Mr. Moskowitz glanced at it, impatiently at first and then more carefully a second time. “You took this photograph?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, these pictures are all my work.” I rushed through my story—the elevator could arrive at any moment. “Mr. Moskowitz, I have to know if you think I have the ability to become a professional in this field.”

  The elevator gate clattered open. “Going down!”

  “Never mind, Chester,” Mr. Moskowitz told the operator. “We don’t need you now.” He motioned for me to follow him. “Come with me. I want to have a look at the rest of these.”

  As we hurried through the reception room, Mr. Moskowitz called out to the switchboard operator, “Ring up Sawyer and York and anyone else who’s still here and tell them to come to the conference room.”

  The windows of the walnut-paneled room looked out over Park Avenue, but the men in pinstriped suits and silk neckties weren’t interested in that view. They were gazing at my photographs, propped on a narrow ledge along the walls. They liked what they saw.

  For the next hour they asked me questions about my age—I fibbed a bit, adding a couple of years—my education, and my experience. At the end of the hour I walked out of the offices of York & Sawyer with their assurance that any architect in the country would willingly pay for my services. I wanted to celebrate, and when I stopped for something to eat, I could scarcely keep from telling my good news to the tired-looking waitress behind the counter.

  The next day I visited the Museum of Natural History because I was interested in the exhibits, but not because I wanted to work there. I left a note for the curator, explaining that I was unable to make my appointment. I knew it was a risk; I needed a job, and the museum probably would have offered me one in herpetology. But I wanted a different kind of life.

  For hours I wandered the broad avenues and narrow side streets of New York. I gazed up at skyscrapers, seeing dozens of potential shots and wishing I had my camera. I stopped in an elegant stationery shop and bought a leather-bound notebook and a pricey silver fountain pen for jotting down ideas. I imagined myself living in the city. But although the architects at York & Sawyer had praised my work and declared that it was of professional quality, they had not offered me a position. I would be my own employer with no regular paycheck, always worried about money. It was surely the way nearly all artists lived, and that was a scary thought.

  As the train followed the Hudson River north, I took out my notebook and pen and tried to imagine the shape a new life might take. I needed to come up with a concrete plan.

  As spring began to emerge in Ithaca, I kept taking pictures. I still didn’t fit in, but that didn’t bother me. There was no man in my life; my camera was everything. I was lonely at times, but I endured it. Loneliness was not as bad as being with someone who didn’t love me enough.

  In May a letter arrived, postmarked Cleveland, addressed in Chappie’s handwriting. I propped it unopened on my dresser. After two days I tore open the envelope and read the letter.

  He wrote that he was doing well at Lincoln Electric, specializing in electric welding, and he was in line for a promotion. He missed me and thought of me often. He regretted the pain he had caused me and believed he had become more mature.

  “We are still man and wife,” he wrote. “And my fondest hope is that we can still find our way back to the deep love we once shared. I propose to come to Ithaca so that we may talk face to face. I long to see you. Please write and let me know how you feel.” He signed it, “All my love, Chappie.”

  Everything that had been so clear to me now seemed confused. All my love? What about his mother? Chappie had not stood up to the Duchess of Detroit when I needed him to. Would he stand up for me now? I doubted it. And what about those black silences when I left the apartment a mess because I’d been out taking photographs?

  But I was anxious to hear what he had to say, to untangle my feelings. We had once been deeply in love. Maybe there was still something we could salvage.

  I wrote back and said, “Yes, come.”

  I went to the depot to meet his train, got there too early, and waited nervously. The first sight of him stepping off the train, handsome as ever with the same brilliant smile, sent a jolt of excitement through me, and I resisted the urge to run toward him and throw myself into his arms. He set down his suitcase. Neither of us made a move to embrace. We stood there, as awkward as a first date.

  “You’ve cut your hair,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “How was the trip?”

  “Fine, fine. You look good, Peggy. Ithaca apparently agrees with you.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I suppose it does.”

  It was not far to the hotel where I’d booked him a room. While we walked there, he told me that his ancient Dodge had finally called it quits. Now we had something that was easy to talk about: the auto’s last days, the bicycle he used to get to work, his plans to buy another automobile. “I’m thinking of the Model T Ford, but Momma thinks I should wait until I’ve saved up more money.”

  There she was: Momma.

  “And what are you planning to do?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

  Chappie shrugged. “She’s probably right. I promised to help her and Poppa before I buy something for myself.”

  The most important questions had now been answered. Everything was as it had always been—that was the painful truth.

  The hotel lunchroom where we stopped for something to eat was not a place where students usually came, but I recognized a girl from my journalism class at a nearby table. She looked at Chappie and raised her eyebrows, probably expecting me to introduce him. She had no idea who he was—my husband—and I had no intention of revealing that part of my life to anyone here. I smiled and waved.

  After lunch we went for a long walk, and I showed him the falls and pointed out the buildings I had photographed. I considered telling him about my trip to New Y
ork, but didn’t. I thought about showing him my portfolio of architectural photographs, but didn’t do that either. Chappie’s questions weren’t about my pictures—they were about my science courses. What were my plans? Had I had any job interviews? I shook my head and didn’t mention the interview I could have had in New York or my conversation with the architects.

  At dinner that evening I asked about his work. He was involved in developing the kind of steel that would be used in building streamlined trains, and he was excited about that.

  His other news was that he’d gotten a cat.

  We lingered over coffee. The other diners had left the restaurant; the waiters were clearing everything away, making it plain that it was closing time. Chappie reached across the table and took my hand. “Will you come up to my room with me, Peg?” he asked.

  “I’d rather not,” I said. “But we can go back to the lobby in my residence hall, if you’d like to talk.”

  “We’re still married,” he said. “I still love you. I believe we could work it out, if you’re willing. I came here to ask you to come back to Cleveland. Let’s try again. Please.”

  I looked into the dark eyes of the man I’d once loved and promised to love until death parted us. But Chappie had hurt me deeply, less by what he had done than by what he had not done. I saw no possibility of finding that love again.

  “No,” I said. “I will be your friend, but I will not be your wife.”

  He stayed in Ithaca only two days. There wasn’t much else to talk about. I didn’t see him off at the train, saying I had other commitments, which was the truth. I felt very little now for Chappie, except regret. I was like an automobile with no reverse gear; I could only go forward, even if I didn’t know where that would take me.

  Visitors were flocking to campus for commencement exercises, and I arranged for the sale of those stacks of prints left over from the previous winter. I recruited a couple of students to help me set up displays in the library and the dining halls; others made the rounds of fraternities and sororities. Before commencement weekend was over, my entire stock was sold out, and I had made a nice profit.