The Fifteen-Dollar Photograph

What started with a biopsy ended with an Edward Weston photograph and a reminder to keep talking to strangers.

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Yesterday I had to go get a biopsy on my lip, which is not as bad as it sounds. They’re looking at what’s going on with the antibodies in my body because of the autoimmune stuff.

I took the bus. I realized I had approximately three minutes to get there, so I ran out of the house and down to the corner. The bus was about a hundred feet away from the stop. She was stopped, so I waved for her to open the door. She shook her head. Would not open it.

Now, I’m on my way to the hospital. I’m not well. I’m pretty weak. I also have this headache that is sitting at about a level seven, and it’s been that way for two months. If you’ve been reading me for a while, you know I’ve had a headache since October 28, 2023. New Daily Persistent Headache (NDPH). Some ridiculous acronym. D A I L Y this is my unwanted sidekick 24/7. I had to run two blocks to the next bus stop. I got there, got on the bus, and honestly thought I was going to pass out. I thought I was going to vomit. We’ve had heat warnings here in Miami every single day. It was about ninety degrees and around eleven o’clock in the morning, it was pretty fucking hot out. Everyone on the bus is looking at me with their eyes wide open.

When I finally got up to pay—because I had to sit down first before I could pay—I looked the driver in the eye and said,

“That was cruel.”

And then I sat back down. That was it. Done. But I made the bus.

I got on the 101, which means it doesn’t take me directly to the hospital. It takes me to the train. I had a train ride the rest of the way. There’s a woman on the train reading a physical book. Pages and all. Nothing digital. She closes it and puts it in her bag. I look at it. Harry Potter. She’s a grown woman. I’m like, “Harry Potter!” And she’s like, “Oh my gosh. I’ve seen all the movies, but I’ve never read the books.”

Of course we start talking. She is a fantasy novel girl. I am not. We start talking about books. She starts telling me about all the fantasy novels she loves. Then she starts telling me about the new Harry Potter series coming out.

And, spoiler alert, supposedly—according to the woman on the bus—it’s going to be about the children of the original Harry Potter characters, and Harry Potter’s son is a Slytherin. You know, the kind of conversation you have with strangers on public transportation.

I notice she’s wearing a work badge. Turns out she’s headed to the hospital too. She’s going to the University of Miami. We keep talking. And I keep asking, “Are we getting off yet? Is this our stop?” Because I don’t normally take the train.

Eventually we get off and start walking together. At one point she’s like, “Okay, you’re going here.” And I’m like, “No, no. I’m going farther down.” She cuts through one of the buildings because of the air conditioning. Meanwhile, I beat her to wherever she’s going because apparently the speed-walking New Yorker in me is still alive and well.

Then I get to the elevator. There she is again. “Oh my gosh. It’s you again.” We ended up getting off on the same floor. She’s a researcher doing sleep apnea studies at the University of Miami. We never exchanged names. Which I never would have remembered anyway. But, of course, I remember every detail of the conversation.

After my procedure, I did something I was actually pretty proud of. I called my friend and said, “I need help.” And he immediately said, “Absolutely. What do you need?” My friend Rob picked me up. Rob and I have known each other since we were fifteen years old. We were in drama together at boarding school. Then somehow we both ended up in Miami. Now we’re basically the brother-sister duo.

I called him because after last week’s experience—where I had roughly twenty needles jammed into my skull without any anesthesia, numbing cream, or lidocaine while already having a level-seven headache for the headache treatment—I decided I wasn’t taking any chances.

Normally, needles don't bother me. Last week, I was sobbing afterward. I thought, "I'm not risking getting my lip cut open and sewn back together and then trying to get myself home."

For the record, the procedure itself wasn’t bad. The needle they used to numb me was from fucking hell. Everything after that was fine. Rob drove me home. And we spent the ride talking about podcasts, film, writing, and a writing project we may end up working on together.

I get home and, of course, I start scrolling Substack and reading. One of the women that I am—and I say this in quotations—“friendly with” because we’ve been talking back and forth on Substack, mostly about art. She’s an Agnes Martin fan. I love Agnes Martin. I used to work at Pace. It was one of my first gallery jobs in New York City. I’ll put that photo here, actually. Me at Pace in my twenties. Oh my gosh.

Pace Gallery, New York City 1996 . This was called “The Box.” The idea was to make it look like I was framed as a picture. And yes, kids, that is a landline telephone.

I think she had an Agnes Martin image in one of her Substacks, or maybe she mentioned Agnes Martin. I don’t even remember how we got on that topic. I sent her a picture, and then we connected on Instagram. Her name is Tess Sullivan. She’s in California. I think Long Beach. She’s very, very cool. She’s a huge flea marketer. I am a huge flea marketer. We connected over flea markets and art.

I open up Instagram and she has the most amazing post about all the things she’s scored at the flea market. I’m dying. She got the coolest pants I’ve ever seen. They were suede. They looked like ikat or tie-dye, but they were actually suede.

Then I get to the next slide. It’s Charis. The famous Edward Weston muse.

“Look! I got an Edward Weston photograph for fifteen bucks.”

“What the fuck?”

Now, I was a photo dealer. In college I studied photography at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, in affiliation with Tufts University. Yes, that is a mouthful. During school, I worked at a photography gallery. Actually, I interned at a photography gallery for school credit because back then you didn’t get paid to intern. My father coined it “The No Salary Gallery” because I wasn’t getting paid.

Then, in March of my senior year, they offered me a job. At the time, I didn’t realize how revolutionary that was. Now I realize how revolutionary it has become. I got a job from my internship before I graduated. Which is exactly how internships are supposed to work. I just didn’t know it.

I moved to South Beach and opened a gallery that focused on photography, contemporary metalsmithing, and studio furniture. The first show I ever curated was William Wegman puppies. Yeah. That was definitely an “I have arrived” experience. The gallery eventually closed. It was more of a passion project for the multimillionaire who funded the build-out and purchased the art. Then I moved to New York City and started working at Pace.

1019 Lincoln Road , 1994

I know a thing or two about photography. When I saw the Weston image, I immediately started DMing her. We’re going back and forth on Instagram, and I’m on pins and needles because it’s five o’clock in the morning right now and I still don’t know what the verdict is.

But Yesterday, I text "Do you know how much that could be worth?" And she didn't. So I explained to her how extraordinary the find could be if it was actually a photograph printed by Edward Weston. If it was printed by Brett or Cole, that's a whole other conversation, but it's still a very valuable piece of art. If it's just a print that was reproduced in the thousands, it's probably worth a couple hundred bucks. But if it's an actual Weston photograph? Well, that's a very different conversation. At one point I started sending videos to show her how to carefully open up the back of the frame.

And then I went down my own Weston rabbit hole. At one point, we all went to Carmel. The Weston Gallery is in Carmel, California. Matt Weston was running the gallery then, I think. Edward Weston is obviously Edward Weston, and then he had sons, Brett and Cole. I ended up getting a Weston print of Charis that was printed by Brett Weston. It was a press print because I was working for a photo magazine at the time.

I sent a picture of that image to Tess. And then I still did what I do, which was kind of telling her how to do it. But I think in a nice, gentle way. I don’t know. You tell me, Tess Sullivan . Was I bossy? I was just so excited.

My Edward Weston of Charis in NYC , you’ll have to go over to Tess’s world to see hers!

Then I passed out. Not dramatically. Just exhausted. I’d had a biopsy. I was running on very little sleep. And I had apparently spent my recovery day helping a stranger on the internet identify a possible Edward Weston photograph.

I woke up a couple of hours later and immediately thought, “Wait a minute. What was the verdict?” because I realized I had no idea how the story ended.

We were both completely invested at this point. Photos, videos, and messages. I literally felt like we were high school kids messaging back and forth.

“Put on gloves.”

Then I’m staring at my phone, waiting for the little dots to appear. A few minutes later: “Oh my God. I just went to get gloves.”

It made me laugh because she had read my mind. Or maybe I had read hers. Who knows.

We were Substack stranger sisters, but now I think we’re just Substack sisters. It’s much friendlier over here, folks.

I read a comment recently that said something like,

“Please don’t bring all the noise over to the quiet room.”

And it’s true. I like the quiet car.

I sent something recently to a friend. He’s a photographer. A phenomenal photographer. Sam Hayes , if you’re reading this, I can see your smile right now because you have the best smile, Sam.

I sent him something and he texted me back, “Oh, thanks. I’ll listen to it.”

I remember thinking, I’ve never listened to a Substack. I read them. With my eyeballs.

I’m a reader. I read books. I read long articles. I have a long attention span and a lot to say. But I’m also a visual person. I think that’s why I love it here so much. I can tell stories. I can share photographs. I can go down rabbit holes. I don’t have to perform in front of a camera unless I want to show you beautiful baubles, because that’s what I love.

Maybe we’ll have an answer from Tess today. I’m assuming we will. Maybe we’ll find out she accidentally bought an extraordinary photograph for fifteen dollars. Maybe we’ll find out it’s a reproduction.

Either way, it’s been a hell of a lot of fun.

Right now it’s 5:07 a.m. I’ve been writing since 4:00. I’ve written two stories today and now I need to edit this one.

Okey-dokey smokey.

I’ll talk to you soon.

—Amanda

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