Tuesday, September 10, 2019, 9:30 a.m. My wife, Cynthia, calls me to tell me that Robert Frank had died the day before. I’m grateful I learned the news from her. Nearly 30 years earlier, just married, young and finding our way, we moved together across the US—Tucson, Arizona, to Washington, DC—so I could take the job of my dreams, organizing the archive of the world’s greatest photographer-artist.
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