Madame Cora and her infamous brothel in San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter are something I’ve talked about before. It’s a landmark I’ve photographed often, it’s a historical scavenger hunt I’ve been on for years, and despite the conversations with modern historians and all the books I’ve read, I’ve finally had to come to terms with the fact that this woman may, sadly, remain almost entirely a mystery. It’s a sad reminder of how little women and minorities were written about, or how those not of higher social standing weren’t deemed worthy of remembering, and so the varied ephemera of their lives, the lilttle things that would have shed a light on who they were, who they loved, how they thought, should any of it have survived, not preserved and kept safe. It’s for this reason that the fabric of our nation is more like a cheesecloth; the only fibers holding it together are the white, affluent, and often male histories, with everyone else falling through the countless holes, leaving them to ...