Long ago, when I was a young man just starting my business as a photographer, I had just signed a lease on a studio in a commercial building in the Flatiron district of Manhattan. At that time it was called The Photo District — it was 1977 — but that name disappeared when all the photographers vanished into thin air without a trace.
On that day, I was extremely busy setting up my studio for several upcoming assignments. I wanted it to look professional, clean and organized. When clients come in, I wanted them to feel comfortable in the knowledge that they had hired a very professional photographer with an efficient staff and in a nice environment. But I only had one day to do it. I had a job scheduled for the next day.
It was getting late, so I sent my staff home while I stayed behind to organize my desk. It was quiet in the building and even quieter in my studio, so I was able to sit back and think about what it meant to start my own business in a demanding and artistic field.
The quiet lasted for a short while, until it was broken by a loud scream. It was an intense, blood curdling, earth shattering scream of a woman. Without exaggeration, it was the kind of scream where the lungs run out of air, where fear is palpable in every breath, where you know that the person who is screaming is facing a terrible attack that may even end a life.
I was scared. Like really scared. I knew something had to be done, but I was too frightened to move. I hoped it would stop, but it kept going. I decided to do something. I didn’t know what, but I needed to move quickly to do more than cower in my studio while a woman was being savagely attacked. This all transpired in a matter of a few seconds.
Courage is a strange commodity. The brave aren’t always courageous and the courageous aren’t always brave. I am neither, I’ll admit. But I knew I needed to act. So I decided to meet the threat one step at a time.
There were butcher knives in the kitchen area of my studio. I grabbed a knife and stood behind the studio door. More screams. I asked myself what I would do if I directly confronted the attacker. I had no answer. But I slowly opened the door while still standing behind it, ready to poke my head around to see where the attack was taking place. I trembled, but I thought that I could at least threaten the attacker with the knife. I hoped that would be enough to free the woman from her attacker, because I didn’t know if I had the courage to do more than that. One step at a time.
The knife came around the door before I did. Maybe the sight if it would end the attack. But it didn’t.
When I looked out into the hallway, expecting to see something terrible, I saw about seven people standing calmly, smoking cigarettes and reading books. One young man looked up at me, as I was brandishing a nine inch knife, shaking in my boots.
“Oh, this is just our acting class,” he said. “She’s in that office rehearsing a scene.”
The actors stood there staring at me as I held the butcher knife. I was staring at them watching me as we all listened to the convincing screams of the actress. It seemed that we all stared at each other for a long time, but I’m sure it wasn’t long at all. I put the knife behind me, wishing that they hadn’t seen it. The screams stopped, and the woman walked out of the office, exhausted by the scene she had just performed.
Back in my studio, I sat down on the couch and worked at composing myself. It took a while. A long while.