The name Marco Polo has been positioned in my brain since I was a toddler. The shallow end of the Las Vegas Tropicana Hotel pool was a playpen for the most spirited “Marco Polo” splashers. When you heard “you’re it”, little people with piercing screams scared the bleary eyed at the craps table. I was one of the screamers.
I can’t remember when I first dreamed. But I can absolutely agree with myself that cinema’s“ The Great Escape”, “El Cid” and “Godzilla” had a lot to do with it. I was once that young.
My enthusiasm was/is always maxed out when watching “against all odds” characters. I too imagined a career challenging great odds. I imagined seeing the great wonders that had not been seen. I was “Huck Finn”. I was “Kim”. Yes I was even Robert Mitchum in “Out of the Past and maybe even “Mouse” in Mosley’s “The Devil in the Blue Dress”. For two hours on a screen or hundreds of pages read I can walk in step with great fictitious characters. I wanted to be them if only for a moment.
Great wonders may be far and away, or they may be something small and intimate. When I became a photographer I discovered the hinterlands. My hinterlands were places across the continents. My hinterlands were spaces rarely visited. My hinterlands were unique conversational exchanges. My hinterlands were moments that a brief snippety snap snap snap produced a lifetime of happiness. When I returned from the hinterlands I had something to share.
Experiences May Lead to Privileges
The real Marco Polo crossed the hinterlands to meet and greet the great Kublai Khan. The job I wanted was to march across continents with Ghengis Khan. But Kublai Khan will do. I imagined Marco in the guise of Gary Cooper’s euphonic telling of his visits to the hallowed grounds reigned over by Kublai Khan. I imagined George Barbier as the great Khan. I imagined the great dance between the two cultures. It is what I have dreamed about for decades.
Jean Michel Basquiat in Warhol’s studio
Today I look in the rear view mirror. I can see Andy Warhol whispering significant nothings. He stood nose to nose making sure I knew what he needed. I stood with politicians. Most were sure I knew what they needed. I stood in grand rooms with art collectors. They knew I knew.
The intimate moments, my dance with Khan’s from another time was a blessing of experiences. But who might I share this with?
I stood in the middle of the earth one morning. Samarkand was not the middle. But I was alone with my Pentax. More importantly I was alone with beckoning mosques. I felt the chattering voices espousing their fervent devotion. They sounded like a gathering of nations, but in my passionate ears I listened to the pitter patter of idle children. But who might I share this with.
I was invited to photograph the art collector Baron Von Thyssen, But who might I share that moment with.
Marco Polo had nations to share his stories with. But when I look back I held up my images as if a jeweler might hold up a new found stone of distinction. The sparkle in his eyes, were like mine. The stones’ colors dancing in the light were like my projected images against naked walls. The beauty was in the moment, but who might I share that with.
#JohnRussel #NewYorkTimes #artcritic
and
#RosamondBernier #Art #Artlecturer
One day the New York Times critic, John Russell and his wife Rosamond Bernier invited me to their home. Nips of scotch in sublime silver goblets touched our lips. A few hours later, I realized what a web of intricate cultural design looked like.
I will never be Marco Polo, but I have volumes of memories to share.
#RichardSchulman #SaintPetersburg#Russia
#Yusuhara #YusuharaJapan #Japan