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Berenice Abbott, American (1898-1991), ca. 1936. STATUE OF JOHN WATTS OPPOSITE NUMBER 1 WALL STREET. Gelatin silver print. Museum Purchase.

She was a photographer; I am an astrophysicist. She was nearly fifty when I was born. Some of her photographs defined the New York City where my parents grew up and others were the most memorable part of my high school physics text. When Berenice Abbott and I met, we talked about photographs, we talked about science, and we talked about life.

It was a beautiful late summer day in 1990 when I made the five-hour drive from Boston to Monson, Maine to visit Berenice. I left home filled with anticipation, but as I neared Monson reality suddenly struck. I wondered what to bring to such a famous person. What would I say to a woman who made so many images that defined their subject forever? I passed through village after village beginning to wonder whether I should turn back. I stopped for a coffee and tried to formulate what I would say and to imagine her answer. She would remember me from the Smithsonian World program where we had both appeared. No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t be interested in me.

In Abbot Village, the last village before Monson, I found a small flower shop. I hesitated over every flower. I wondered whether a woman who was the master of the spare image even liked flowers. I bought them anyway.

My initial reaction to Monson was disappointment. It is a spare inland Maine town. It has slate mining in its history and hiking the Appalachian Trail in its blood. The beauty of Monson is well hidden from the casual observer. Of course, Berenice Abbott was not a casual observer of anything.

I followed the directions from the town center with its large hardware store, white country post office, and Maine coffee shop from bygone days complete with soda fountain. I drove down an overgrown dirt road and looked for Abbott on the rural mailbox. The rutted gravel driveway soon opened into a clearing with a view of Hebron Lake, the jewel of Monson, and its surrounding hills. It was an idyllic spot in a town with a gritty history.

I pulled up behind a new Audi sedan in front of a modest, attractive post-and-beam cottage. There was nothing so unusual about the car or the house. What struck me was the moose, a six-foot-tall wooden moose guarding the driveway. With its exaggeratedly long snout, the sculpture by the Maine artist Bernard Langlais made me smile and gave me some much-needed confidence.

Susan Blatchford, who had answered my initial letter to Berenice Abbott, met me at the door and guided me through the small galley kitchen to a light open living room with a vaulted ceiling. There was Berenice Abbott playing solitaire. I shyly offered her the flowers. I can’t remember the exact response but it was gruff and my heart sank.

Berenice continued with her solitaire game as though no one else was there. I decided to just try talking about interests she and I might share. I began by telling her that I had a long fascination with Paris of the twenties and had often wished that I could have been there. That remark elicited an almost immediate "Well, I was there." I breathed a sigh of relief; the door seemed open.

Intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8