All this adventure and Louis and I hadn’t even eaten lunch yet. I didn’t anticipate any of his invitations, but there’s one in particular I truly couldn’t have prepared for.

“I’m going home at 1. Do you want to come?”

15 minutes later, we were back on the train, picking up soul food in Harlem before heading to his place.

“Take pictures, video, ask me about anything,” Louis graciously offered as we walked through the door. And it was a good thing, because I think I blacked out.

No matter where I lay my eyes, they found a photograph, photography equipment, or a book on photography, history or the Black experience.

Museum, temple, sanctuary.

Despite the ordered clutter, spirits lived here, and I was pushing past the veil.

We ate in near silence while I absorbed my surroundings. A sticky trap on the tile floor had caught a single roach that flipped in every direction before it just laid down. Live footage of the universe watching me in Louis’ apartment.

He answered every question I asked, and a lot that I didn’t. “That girl was a virgin. This man didn’t want his photograph taken. That was the time I put myself in front of the camera at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.” For every picture, there were two or three stories to tell.

As soon as I sat for a moment, he stood and unlatched an aluminum case in a nearby chair.

“Put this around your shoulder.” His worn hands extended a thin leather strap attached to yet another vintage camera.

“Now hold the lens to your eye. You see two of me? Turn that knob until you see one. Then take your left thumb—press that button. That’s it. You’re ready.”

I somehow managed the presence of mind to realize that no matter how many New Yorkers knew Louis Mendes, only a few had ever sat in my place.

I asked for another picture.

He gleefully switched on a lamp that he told me he built himself from spare parts, lightly posed me—something Louis never does with his public subjects—and clicked.

“That’s a good one. That’ll be important,” he pointed and admired his still-developing instant photo.

I can’t remember whether I said out loud that it already is. 🖤

[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]