I don’t remember the first time I met Ruby Ray, although I know it was early in 1977, soon after I had moved to San Francisco to go to the SF Art Institute. She appeared on the scene as all of us did: with no credentials, a made-up name, and a powerful (and often self-appointed) permission to participate. In those days, no photographers were ever asked to produce portfolios, they just needed to take their cameras into the fray and, like war journalists, shoot the explosions of passion and rebellion at the blossoming of punk. What elevated Ruby from the many other . . .