I am nothing if not observant. I had to be, growing up in an irrational house, where, at any moment, the sublime could morph into the profane —and where a loved one could literally change overnight. (Sadly, I don’t mean figuratively.) It’s no mistake I became a photographer, always looking for the inconsistencies in human behavior, ready for any turn of events, no matter how unlikely they may be. Irony and synchronicity are not lost on me. And, when I think about it, my attraction to these details was preordained.
My mother had one ovary. And her gynecologist told her she would never have children. This was before fertility clinics, surrogates, and in vitro fertilization. This was also as ill-informed as the mid 20th century could get. My parents tried for three years before my mother became pregnant. And, after nine months, I was born this day many years ago.
But, as my mother got in the elevator to go up to deliver me who should be there but the very doctor who told her she would never have children. I was there, but I didn’t see his reaction. Yet, somehow, it stayed with me.