Several years ago, I dressed up as a
1940s-era photojournalist for Halloween. I wore a fedora with a PRESS card, a
fake mustache and a cheap suit while carrying around an antique twin-lens
camera and an unlit cigar.
When I saw my friends, they said, “Oh, you’re
a journalist.” Strangers said, “Look, a photographer.” But no one registered
that I was an anachronism: a vintage photojournalist. To this assortment of
Wonder Women, zombies and cowboys, nothing had changed since those
fast-talking, flashbulb days.
