the last apprentice: a year with berenice abbott, 1978-79

In 1976, my destiny was determined. I went east instead of west and my life unfolded accordingly.

At the time, I was a journalism student at the University of Nebraska. After taking the only two photojournalism classes that were offered, I decided that I wanted to go to a photography school. There were two that anyone knew about. One was in Santa Barbara, California (Brooks) and the other in Rochester, New York. (Rochester Institute of Technology, R.I.T.).

I went east to R.I.T., where I would later go on a group trip to a photo conference in Maryland, which is what led me to Berenice Abbott.

Jim Gleason was my photojournalism teacher at R.I.T. He told me and my fellow students about a conference in Maryland with 16 guest speakers, all of them documentary photographers, and encouraged us to attend. He drove Ashley and me in his camper van, as we girls had no money for gas or lodging. Gleason even stayed in his camper so that five his students could stay in his expense-paid hotel room. It was in one of those hotel rooms that I sat across from Arthur Rothstein — of FSA fame — listening in earnest to every word out of his mouth. (I have a picture of myself listening to him, taken by renowned Bernie Boston of the Boston Globe.) The weekend was electric for everyone, but especially for me, this naïve 22 year-old girl from Broken Bow, Nebraska, who hadn’t been exposed to most of what I was seeing in the work.

Two of the speakers were from Nebraska, and the minute we met, realized that we had several friends in common. Their names are Bob Starck and Lynn Dance and they had just finished a documentary project on Nebraska to celebrate the state’s Bicentennial.

They were my initial connection to Berenice Abbott.

Lynn and Bob went on to New York after the Maryland conference and Gleason drove Ashley and me back to Rochester. A few days later, I got a call from my new Nebraska friends. They were in Rochester promoting their book and offered to take Ashley and me to dinner. I remember only one thing from our conversation that night. Lynn told me that while in New York, they met a man named Hank O’Neal, who was writing a book about Berenice Abbott. He said, “Hank says Berenice needs an apprentice.”

I had just learned about Berenice in my history of photography class. I could barely get home fast enough to write to Hank O’Neal a letter to inquiry about this exciting possibility.

Three days later I called him. He was very encouraging and told me to write another letter to him explaining why I wanted the apprenticeship and what I thought I would learn. I was to call him back in a week. In the meantime, he sent Berenice my letter. It was early November by this time. The year was 1977.

When I called her, she was expecting me. We talked briefly and picked Thanksgiving break to meet.

This was a trip in itself, me, a roommate named Cathy and a friend named Jay. My dog, Cody, was with us too. We drove in the dark for 13 hours in my 1969 Pontiac Tempest, crashed in a hotel room, partied that evening and met Berenice the next morning, despite a slight hangover and a car that wouldn’t start.

I didn’t write down all the details of my first meeting with Berenice Abbott. I do know that I was nervous at first, though not for long. I know I showed her my prints and the thought of this now embarrasses me. She was a master printer, I, a neophyte. Berenice asked me a lot of questions during our 90-minute meeting, mainly about why I wanted to come. I answered truthfully and managed to get the job. I would be helping her print. No salary, but room and board. I would live in her three-story house on the Appalachian Trail in Blanchard (pop. 50) with her 66-year-old niece, Alice. Berenice lived in a log cabin on a wooded lake a couple of miles down the road.

We determined that I would start in six months when I finished school, in June of 1978. Six months seemed like eternity back then. I was afraid she would forget about me. I hesitated to tell anyone about this golden opportunity for fear I would jinx it away. When spring break rolled around, I got an idea. I called Berenice and asked her if I could come work with her for a weekend, so that we could get to know each other better. She thought it a good idea. I was hoping to take George, my latest crush, but she preferred I come alone. When I said, “but Berenice, I’ve never driven 13 hours by myself before.” Her reply was, “Well, honey, it’s about time you do.”

That was the beginning of my significant 13-year friendship with Berenice, who lived to be 93.

I kept detailed journals of my experience with Berenice which I produced into a book called The Last Apprentice. One of these days, I will look for a publisher.

All photographs of Berenice Abbott ©Hank O’Neal

Color photographs of Maine and Berenice Abbott’s home ©Jay Larsen