Times' Krulwich is a "culture legend," role model for all

It's 1966. The Civil Rights Movement is well under way. Anti-war protests are growing in popularity across America. A young girl is sitting alone in a darkened closet, soon to become one of the most respected photographers of her day. On Sara Krulwich's sixteenth birthday, when an aunt gave her $25, Krulwich went to a photo store where a nice gentlemen helped her assemble her dream, she says.

Consisting of an off-brand enlarger, a fifty-cent Kodak how-to book, bowls and platters for trays, and a candle, her closet soon became a darkroom.

"Without buying anything extra, he somehow made it possible for me to have an entire darkroom, in my closet, in Manhattan, for under twenty-five dollars," says Krulwich.

Krulwich's curiosity took her deep into New York City to photograph from new perspectives, like rooftops, she says.

Something about the adventure of capturing what others could not radiated within her, she says.

In her small high school in New York, Krulwich was co-editor of the school's newspaper and says she always had to fight against the odds of her gender.

"Women were just never expected to be photographers, it was just a man's job," she says.

When Krulwich got to the University of Michigan, she was immediately drawn to The Michigan Daily, a "self-sufficient newspaper" that covered a wide range of stories, she says.

It was the late 1960s and while women did work on the paper, their role was usually small or "short-lived," she says.

Determined to be recognized as a serious photographer, Krulwich did not let anything threaten her credibility.

"You had to set your eyes on the prize, and that's what I did. If you know what you want, you can't allow anything to get in the way of that," she says.

Although Krulwich had been a self-taught photographer since she was sixteen, the practice she got with The Daily helped her perfect her craft, she says.

"Working on the paper did a lot for me. It made me feel really good about myself and my work," Krulwich says. "It was great for my confidence in myself."

All that hard work paid off: by the time she was a sophomore, she was a full time photographer for the paper.

In 1969, the 19-year-old Krulwich made a decision that would change history.

The long-standing laws of the university were that no women, children or dogs were allowed on the football field. A slight amendment to the law in the previous year, now allowed dogs on the field. Otherwise, this rule had never been questioned. Until Krulwich.

It was not some immense love for the game of football that drew Krulwich to that field. In fact, Krulwich was not even a football fan, she says.

However, she was savvy enough to know that getting on that football field meant chances and connections that she could not get off the field.

Krulwich believed that saying women could not go on the field was saying to the women, "you cannot have a career in this, this or this," she says.

That one law put female security guards, physical therapists, photographers and reporters among other career possibilities at a disadvantage.

As a University of Michigan student, and photographer for the newspaper, Krulwich felt she had just as much right as anyone to be there.

Her friend Andy Sacks introduced her to the director of sports information, Will Perry. Sacks told Perry that Krulwich should be allowed to cover the game, but Perry, preoccupied by the bustling season opener said he would have to get back to them, she recalls.

Instead of leaving, Krulwich went down to the field and the moment she arrived in her big floppy hat, nobody wanted to be around her, she says.

Her presence was taboo and because everyone feared their press badges being revoked, they kept their distance.

Finding four other staffers to document her move, she headed to the field, camera in hand.

"We just didn't know what was going to happen, but whatever was going to happen, it was going to be known," she explains.

It wasn't long until the bodyguards were threatening to remove Krulwich with force if she did not leave immediately. Instead of giving in to the demands, the petite Krulwich stood her ground against the burly and intimidating guards, she says.

"I told them that they were going to have to physically remove me, and they just froze," she says.

During that moment of suspension where nobody knew what was going to happen, the game began and Krulwich quickly knelt down and began photographing.

Later on, Perry reacted "fantastically," she says. Along with sending Krulwich an apology, he also called ahead to every stadium to let them know Krulwich was coming.

No more confrontations ensued.

Because Krulwich refused to buckle, women were allowed onto the field and new opportunities became available.

She never missed a game.

"When you are the first, it's important to be really good and to have nobody complain about your work," Krulwich says.

She showed her dedication in doing so because she refused to allow anyone to say a disparaging remark that would discredit her serious role as a photographer, she says.

"I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. They weren't going to say, 'oh the girl didn't come when it rained' about me," she says.

She also made sure to wear a floppy hat to every game, a sign of rebellion and to remind everyone that she was a woman and that she was there.

Shortly after college, Krulwich got a position at The New York Times, a re-affirming moment in her career, she says.

"Imagine you or your friend got into Harvard, that's what it was like going to The Times," she says. "It's huge."