The Photography Teacher’s First Class   “Mister,” he answered them, pausing with just- right timing — “I work for a living.” They might have laughed, forgetting to say even “Professor.” Those freshmen — they must live in houses now, with toys all around, remembering little of his face, less of his chalkdust, words, diagrams, the sound of 25 pens on 25 desks. Even so, they witnessed the art of wit- ness, the focused moment, the pure intent that unspooled in his redblack darkroom, when he milked the developer’s dazzling tit and gently conjured back the moment’s shadow, lightly stirring the solution bath.                                                           for Mel Rosenthal     © Michael Fleming New York, New York March 2000