Learning to See Read online

  Dedication

  For Kate and Cookie.

  I love you both.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  A Note From the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Praise

  Also by Elise Hooper

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A Note From the Author

  Not many people’s “real” lives translate perfectly into a dramatic arc that’s ready for a novel. Events must sometimes be compressed, characters must be combined or omitted, dialogue imagined—all of this is the work of the novelist. Even a life as remarkable as Dorothea Lange’s needed some reworking to create a clear emotional journey, so I must point out that Learning to See is fiction inspired by the life of Dorothea Lange. Through careful research, I assembled a time line of her life and steeped myself in her motivations, fears, and dreams, and deepened my understanding of the historical period and the people who touched her life. In the end, I stayed true to the basic contours of the historical record but allowed my imagination to create a story about love, art, and an indomitable spirit.

  Chapter 1

  April 1964

  Berkeley, California

  The envelope arrives on one of my good days. From my spot in the kitchen I hear the mailman’s footsteps on the front walk and the click of the mail drop’s lid, but then the phone rings, distracting me. When I lift the shiny black receiver to my ear, the coolness of it against my skin almost makes me shiver.

  From across the phone lines, Imogen’s unmistakable gravelly voice rasps, “I’m coming over to see you in an hour but can only stay for twenty-five minutes. From your house, I’ll catch the bus over to Telegraph Hill.”

  “How about sometime next week instead? We’re leaving for Steep Ravine later this afternoon. The house is a mess.”

  A pause. “Mess? Your house is always neat as a pin—I don’t believe you for a minute. Are you unwell? Just yesterday when I was downtown, I saw that husband of yours. He couldn’t bring himself to say your ulcers have been acting up again, but he hemmed and hawed enough that I know something’s up.”

  “Oh, pish. I’m going great guns.” This is a lie, but I don’t have it in me to say anything more. “It’s just that we’re leaving once everyone returns from the store.”

  “All right. But I’m coming to see you when you’re back in town. Take a look at your calendar. Go on, right now: pick a day so you don’t forget about me.”

  Though her pestering usually makes me bristle, I soften. Through the years—developing our careers, beginning marriages, raising children, making ends meet, and ending marriages—our friendship has persisted. Honestly, its endurance amazes me sometimes. Friendship has none of the trappings of marriage—no ceremonies, no certificates, no children to keep it glued together—but it’s this very precariousness that makes it so special. I’ve come to believe the test of a friendship lies in its ability to withstand bruises and wounds yet still persevere for no other reward than the comfort and joy each person finds in the other. “For heaven’s sake, how could I ever forget about you?”

  “Good question. Now if only the darned photo editor at Vanity Fair felt the same way.” She raises her voice in breathy imitation, “‘Oh, Miss Cunningham, I’m terribly sorry I forgot to return your call. We’ve been tied up in meetings all day.’” She snorts. “I’m in my eighties, and I’ve got a better memory than these whippersnappers. I tell you, these office girls, all they think about is the fella they’re going out with that evening, what color they’re going to paint their nails, how they’re going to get their hair done next. Why, when we were their age, we were much harder workers, don’t you think? We didn’t take a damned thing for granted.”

  I nod my head in agreement, chuckling. “True, but I wouldn’t wish what we went through on these kids. Plus, it probably wouldn’t have killed us to have gotten our hair done every once in a while.”

  She lets out a squawk, spluttering about “wasting money.”

  “All right, all right. When I’m back, I’ll call you and we’ll figure out a day to visit. I can pick you up so you don’t have to take the bus.”

  “But I like taking the bus. You wouldn’t believe all of the interesting people on it.”

  “Interesting? God help us. But fine, the bus it is. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Sheesh, you sure sound it.”

  We both laugh before saying goodbye, and we’re as good as new. Lord knows we’ve gotten used to each other’s prickles over the years. Highs and lows and then some, but I consider myself lucky enough to have been blessed with two great friendships, both very different from the other, but each grand in its own way. Whenever anyone points out that I’m being difficult, I think of the loyalty of these two women; it’s all the evidence I need to know that there must be something redeeming about me.

  I scoop up two cans of sliced peaches off the counter, treats for the grandchildren, and place them into a wooden crate lying on the counter. When I straighten, a pain sears through my stomach, causing me to gasp and bend over. Poor health has plagued me for twenty years now, but this is something new. Something foreboding. Something that makes me think this is the real thing. The thing that could finally win. From my huddled-over position, I survey my kitchen, looking for items that still need packing, but everything is precisely where it should be. My teak bowls from Thailand catch the light and glow next to the sink. The white countertops gleam, nary a crumb in sight. I catch sight of my black leather camera bag next to the crate and sigh, closing my eyes. Imogen’s right. We did work all of the time. And while it was wonderful, heady, and stimulating, all of our earnest conversations about craft, the constant yearning to find the right shot, the sense of accomplishment when the negative revealed exactly what I hoped, and sometimes even more—all of that work came with a price.

  The pain in my stomach recedes like a tide pulling back and I straighten. The mail. I nearly forgot about it. Holding on to the kitchen wall, just to steady myself, I make my way to the front hall, bend over, and pick up the pile of flyers, bills, and magazines scattered under the mail drop. Within the mess, a bright white envelope stands out from the rest. Its paper, still crisp and stiff, speaks of heft, substance. I study the return address:

  The Museum of Modern Art

  11 West 53rd Street

  New York, NY 10019

  Th
e black font, simple and elegant, makes my breath catch. Holy smokes. I return to the kitchen holding the envelope in front of me and open a drawer to find my letter knife lying where it should be. Pausing for a moment, I swallow before tearing a slit across the top to lift out the letter within.

  After I read it once, I read it several more times, letting the words sink in. My hand lowers to my side, the paper rattling in my quivering fingers. Sucking in a deep breath, I fold the letter back into the envelope before nudging it into the pocket of the merino heather-gray cardigan sweater I like to wear when we go to the beach. Though there’s still a list of things to be done before we leave, all thoughts of packing have scattered from my mind. As if in a trance, I walk out the kitchen door and through the backyard to reach my studio. I let myself in and sink onto one of the director chairs pulled up to my work counter. Through the nearby open window, there’s a creaking sound of the oak trees swaying in the breeze. Otherwise, silence abounds. I’m suspended in a weird space of inaction, a paralyzing inability to think.

  I lean over to open a drawer and retrieve a file. California, 1936. Black-and-white photographs spill out across my worktable. Faces of men, women, and children. All as dry, dingy, and cracked as the land in the background. I glance at the other folder tabs. New Mexico, 1935. Texas, 1938. Arkansas, 1938. Arizona, 1940. I’ve visited so many states, taken thousands of photographs. They gave a face to the masses struggling to make ends meet. They started conversations. Few would argue that my work wasn’t important and useful. And while I don’t regret my choices, I’m saddened that I’ve hurt people dear to me. Can I find peace with the sacrifices I made?

  Within several minutes, the high pitch of young voices trills from the house. Everyone is back from the store. A spell has been broken. I rise, touching my hand to my pocket to feel the envelope. I push it down deeper into my sweater and walk toward the house.

  Chapter 2

  May 1918

  San Francisco, California

  Fronsie hustled toward me, a troubled look on her face, but I looked away. I just needed one more blessed minute to get a little coffee into my system, to start my brain moving. Leaning back in my seat, I took a long sip, breathing in the bitter, smoky aroma with satisfaction. It didn’t taste particularly good, but it would do. If nothing else, it tasted better than the mud we’d been choking down in the dining car aboard the Southern Pacific for the last few weeks.

  “Dorrie,” Fronsie whispered, having circled our table to come up behind me and tug on my shoulder. “Dorrie!”

  I lowered the white enamelware cup on the red-checked cafeteria tablecloth and turned to look up at her pretty face, normally pale and smooth as the inside of a cockleshell, but now pinched in concern.

  “What?”

  The way she looked down at the floor made me realize she was not about to complain about the runny scrambled eggs or the toast that tasted like pine shingles.

  “It’s our money.” Her lower jaw slid back and forth, as if trying to dislodge something stuck in a molar. Her lip began to quiver. “My wallet. It’s gone. Our money is gone.”

  “Our money . . .” I repeated. My hands clutched the edge of the table as I pushed out my chair and struggled to my feet. “What?”

  “Someone must have picked my pockets as we ate,” she said, her voice high and fast.

  I looked away, searching the crowd surrounding us, but nothing appeared amiss in the room. Women sat in clusters around circular tables, their heads bent over plates of eggs, toast, and bacon. Given the early hour, the hum of conversation was still subdued. The scent of Ivory Flakes and rosewater wafted off all the freshly scrubbed faces. Nothing appeared amiss.

  “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know how . . .” Fronsie mumbled, wringing her hands together as she spoke.

  I looked into her big blue eyes—those eyes that could stop men and prompt them to offer us directions, martinis, rib eye steaks, whatever we wanted, now welled with tears as she grabbed her stomach, gasping, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  Without a word, I pushed her toward the door behind us to drag her outside. No wonder we were easy targets for a pickpocket, I realized, given our proximity to the entrance of the cafeteria. In and out—that’s all it took for someone to make quick work of our savings. I rubbed circles on her back as she retched against the brick exterior of the building. With one hand still on Fron, I dug into my purse with the other and counted three dollar bills along with some loose change in my wallet. Three measly dollars. What rotten luck. I inhaled, trying to block out the sound of poor Fron’s misery.

  “I think that’s it,” she said, straightening and wiping her mouth with a cambric handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. “Oh Dorrie. Our boat . . .”

  We both looked down the street in the direction of the Bay. All our hard work . . . $570. Gone. I stepped forward to the edge of the sidewalk, blinking in the bright sunshine. Since our arrival the previous night, everyone had been telling us May tended to be foggy. But the sky, clear as a promise, glowed cerulean blue overhead, and the smell of sawdust hung in the air, along with the tart sting of new paint. Across the street, men in dungaree overalls swarmed a construction site, causing a caterwaul of hammering and sawing. San Francisco was a city on the make.

  From behind me, Fronsie moaned, “What should we do now?”

  My gaze landed on a clump of bougainvillea spilling down the whitewashed side of the stucco building next to the cafeteria. The pink flowers gleamed brighter than any billboard advertising the merits of California, as if saying, Look at us. We found a crack in this wall, took root, and now we’re thriving. I smiled. Even the name of this place was exotic. Like a flower. Camellia. Gardenia. California. I whispered the word again—California—letting the syllables glide around on my tongue. It had a far better ring to it than Hoboken, Harlem, Hackensack, or any of the places from back home.

  I wheeled around to face Fron. “What about staying here? We could get jobs. See what happens.” My words surprised me as they came out of my mouth, and for a flitting moment, I wanted to stuff them back inside.

  “See what happens?” Fron repeated, her expression incredulous.

  “Things could be worse,” I stammered. “What if this had happened in Yuma?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  “But what about our plans? All of our efforts to go off on a grand adventure. You’re not sore we won’t be celebrating your birthday aboard a ship to Hawaii?”

  I stepped back to where she leaned against the brick wall, twisting her handkerchief, and rested my back next to hers. True, we would no longer be setting sail for Honolulu on Thursday. We would no longer be departing America for foreign ports, for our grand tour around the world. The last year of working long days, of forgoing pleasures for the sake of saving our money—all of that disappeared with some vamp with sticky fingers. And yes, regret stung inside my chest, but I pushed it away. All I knew was that I could not go back home. I reached for Fron’s hand. “This place could offer us a fresh start. I’ll ring in my twenty-third birthday here.”

  “Well, it’s not what I pictured, but I suppose we can give it a go.” She tented her palm over her eyes and craned her head toward the Financial District. From across the street, a man noticed us, stopped his hammer in midair, and whistled. I glowered at him, but Fron, smoothing her hair, smiled and said, “At least the fellas here are handsome.”

  “Right. Now let’s hoof it back to our rooms and figure out a plan.”

  “What would I do without you? You’re right, things could be worse,” she said, before wrapping her arm around my shoulders and starting to sing Marion Harris’s song “I Ain’t Got Nobody Much,” gazing at her reflection in the store windows we passed.

  Now I ain’t got nobody, and nobody cares for me!

  That’s why I’m sad and lonely,

  Won’t somebody come and take a chance with me?

  Her voice sounded clear and lovely. We we
re both lucky to have each other. Fron was the grease to my wheels. Whenever I had an idea, I could count on her to set things into motion. Years ago, I had snuck out of the front door of Wadleigh High School for Girls and been brought up short to find Fron leaning against a lamppost across the street from the huge building where we were both supposed to be parked in a geometry class.

  “Hey, took you long enough,” she had said.

  I looked around. Was she talking to me?

  “Yeah, you. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “For me? Why?” Girls like her weren’t usually interested in girls like me. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve seen you cutting class.”

  “So?”

  She grinned. “I want in. You seem interesting,” she said, matter-of-factly handing me a roll of Life Savers. I peeled one from the top and popped it into my mouth, clicking the candy against my teeth while watching her out of the corner of my eye as I considered this development. A breeze blew down the sidewalk, causing bits of trash to swirl in a small tempest. Gusts sent scraps of paper flying into the air, only to collide with my black-wool-stockinged shins and cling to them. I stood stork-like, trying to push the paper off my left leg with my right foot while attempting to maintain a sliver of nonchalance. Through all of this, somehow Fronsie’s blond waves remained unmoved, smooth and glossy; her long, slender legs stayed free of stray garbage. She exuded perfection and control. She could have whatever she wanted and for some reason she chose me. But I never asked why again. From that day on, we were inseparable.

  As we walked toward San Francisco’s YWCA, a young fella slowed as he neared us, wolfish, appraising Fron’s willowy figure. She was looking in the other direction at a store window filled with calculating machines and typewriters so he gave me a saucy wink instead. By any standards, Fron was the looker whereas I was short with bobbed brown hair and a withered right foot, but still, I had nerve, which we were going to need, judging by the three lonely dollar bills in my wallet. I smiled tightly, pressed myself closer to Fron, and sped up our pace, despite my limp.

  WE ARRIVED AT the YWCA and pushed through the front door into the parlor, where we found Mrs. Weber, the house matron, account book in hand, scowling. “Vat brings you girls back so soon? You have your ship tickets already?” Her tone was surly, her German accent more pronounced than before, each syllable clipped. When we took our rooms the day prior, she had done little to hide her skepticism of our plan to travel around the world. “Da last thing I need is a pair of angry fathers or husbands spitting nails and making a scene in here over der missing girls.” Only by adding a little extra money to our nightly rate as “insurance” had we convinced her that we weren’t runaways.