March 15th, 1952
My Dearest C
The train pulled away from Grand Central an hour ago, and already the ache of distance settles into my chest like developer chemicals seeping into paper – permanent, transformative, impossible to wash clean. I’m writing this as the Hudson Valley blurs past my window, each mile carrying me further from the warmth of your East 62nd Street sanctuary and back towards the stark honesty of Utah’s mountains. How curious that I should feel more myself in your sophisticated Manhattan than in the landscape that shaped me.
These past three days have left me delighted beyond measure, yet trembling with an anxiety I struggle to name. Is it possible for one’s heart to expand and contract simultaneously? For joy to taste so precisely like fear? I find myself returning again and again to Wednesday evening – do you remember? – when you challenged Hutchins’ essay on democracy whilst I captured the changing light across your face. Your passion illuminated something in me that I’d only glimpsed through my camera’s lens: the recognition that ideas, like photographs, require both technical precision and fearless exposure to truth.
I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding authenticity versus performance, particularly your confession about C Turnansky. Your courage in reinventing yourself astounds me, though I confess it also terrifies me. You’ve built something magnificent from sheer determination, yet I worry about the weight of maintaining such careful construction. When I watch you navigate your Madison Avenue colleagues with that perfect blend of confidence and calculated charm, I’m struck by your artistry – but I also ache for the moments when your guard drops, when you become simply the man who reads Kinsey in hidden corners and speaks of justice with fierce conviction.
The photographs I took during my assignment serve as both treasure and torment. Each image captures fragments of our stolen time – the corner café where you argued brilliantly about Stevenson’s chances, the gallery opening where your laugh drew every eye in the room, the park bench where we sat just close enough for our knees to touch. Looking at them now, I see stories that only we understand: the careful distance maintained, the coded glances, the precise choreography of two men learning to love within society’s narrow margins.
Your influence on me grows more profound with each letter, each clandestine meeting. Mother would be horrified to know how you’ve awakened my curiosity about things beyond photography and faith. The books you recommend challenge everything I thought I understood about morality, about desire, about the possibility of living authentically in a world determined to crush such honesty. Yet I devour each suggestion hungrily, finding in those pages reflections of feelings I’d buried beneath propriety and small-town expectations.
I’m delighted by the man I become in your presence – bolder, more articulate, capable of intellectual discourse that would mystify my Tribune colleagues. You’ve taught me that curiosity needn’t be gentle to be genuine, that romance can flourish alongside rigorous thought. When you speak of advertising as manipulation versus truth-telling, I see parallels in my own work: the choice between capturing comfortable lies or uncomfortable realities.
But anxiety gnaws at me, C. Each day apart multiplies the risks we’re taking. I read the newspapers you send, noting the increasing hostility towards men like us. The political climate grows more dangerous, and I fear for your career, your carefully constructed life. Sometimes I lie awake wondering if my love is selfish, if I’m asking too much of you, of us, of a world that offers no safe harbour for what we’ve discovered together.
Yet I cannot imagine returning to the half-life I lived before you. Your boldness has shown me possibilities I never dared consider, whilst my caution perhaps offers you something worth protecting. We balance each other, don’t we? Your intellectual fire warming my gentle nature, my romantic devotion anchoring your restless spirit.
The conductor just announced Salt Lake City. Soon I’ll resume my careful performance as FB, reliable photographer, dutiful son, invisible man. But I carry you with me now – in my thoughts, in my rapidly beating heart, in the secret smile that touches my lips when I remember your whispered confidences.
Until our paths cross again, I remain,
Your devoted and ever-curious,
F
P.S. I’ve hidden that photograph of you reading by the window in my camera case – your concentration captured forever, beautiful and unguarded.
Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved. | 🌐 Translate
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