Years ago, at NYU, I took a class with Bruce Gilden from Magnum. When he saw me, he looked me up and down and, with a slightly dismissive tone, asked if I was really serious about photography. I didn’t mind; I was used to that kind of look and tone. But after seeing my work, Gilden changed his mind, and we ended up becoming friends. He used to call me “Miss Queens,” because of my style, he said. (Though I think it was more because I was a bit of a troublemaker).

In his class, we had to go out with him to Fifth Avenue to take photos. Gilden often said that Wednesdays were when the weirdest people came out of their houses. At first, I didn’t quite get what he meant, but over time I understood so well that Wednesday became my favorite day.

He used to say, “let’s go hunting crazy people,” and he would grab his Nikon with that super flash he used even during the day and just a few centimeters from people’s faces. I always thought it was harsh to say “hunting crazy people,” because even now I consider myself part of that crowd, but when I saw the images, I knew he was right: something of those people got caught in the camera, and in me too.

We always take something from every encounter, whether it’s in the photos, on the skin, or in the memory.