ZULU NATION and GERHARD RICHTER

I first encountered the Zulu nation in Michael Caine’s film “Zulu”. It was believed that the Zulu walked across deserts and mountains to hunt and defend and conquer lands. I too have walked across deserts, mountains.

I was not beaded or adorning weapons or charms. I walked among the concrete and glass mountains and valleys of cities. I walk and I dream. I dream of new adventures but I dream about what my camera may capture along the way.

There is no obstacle that can prevent my camera from seeing what is naturally mine to snippety snap snap snap. For seconds in everyday, I am Zulu.

The above is the way I have lived for decades. The above is why I have traveled across continents to make photographs of people and places that are inspirations to my way of living.

I am not a romantic. I am a twenty-first century clone for Thomas de Quincey,Jack Kerouac, Sir Richard Burton and Walter Benjamin: I roam, I race, I travel and I stroll.

Their pens have written about the way the world looks. My camera has attempted to imitate worlds, words and perceptions of the roads traveled.

I remember an editor of a Parisian magazine suggesting I take the Metro: “It will be faster”. I had no need for speed on my way from the home of the French dramatist Pierre Corneille to the home of the French surrealist Andre Masson. I had walked from Montmartre to Montparnasse, why would I need speed. Why would I want to be below ground when everything a lens needs to see is above ground. The few times I rode the Moscow subway I always wondered what was above ground. I crossed the Seven Hills of Moscow bellowing; “I am in Russia for god’s sake.

I remember walking along, across and around Dubai. I reminded myself that I needed to rest. But would T.E Lawrence rest? Rest for what.

I walk everyday with intervening pirouettes. My camera freeze frames everything. A crowd of people might hear my camera snap, and my feet spin. I animate my mind as if I am the animated Roadrunner racing above the valley with everywhere to go. Certain not to fall.

But what is the point of being somewhere if the life of the camera doesn’t engage the lights and places that you have never seen before. Maybe you are revisiting places you have been to one hundred times before. But even then there is magic not yet seen. Whether a fresh view of the land, or one visited many times, the camera is the divining rod, if you allow it to lead.

Then there was the artist Gerhard Richter.

I Imagined that I was walking almost naked down New York City’s Broadway one night to destinations unknown.

I landed at a Jean Nouvel building. I was seemingly staring into an abyss. The abyss was a boring staged interior in a Nouvel building. Suddenly a tv screen popped up. It was a bit like a twilight zone moment.

A handful of artists have been on my list for sometime. I have spoken to them on the phone at one time or another. I have reconciled with the misses; Their voices just awaken me from time to time. I just didn’t get them: Chagall, Freud, Bacon, Dubuffet, and most heart breaking, Jacob Lawrence.

There on the television with all of his powers on display was Richter describing his painting process. I sat in my near nakedness on a sofa. I almost cried. I have traveled thousands of miles. I made thousands of phone conversations.

And there was Gerhard Richter. A beast in the art world a living giant who I had pursued. Almost naked. Alone in my imagination. Here in this staged portal, I find one of my missing links on the tele. Here is my portrait.

I may never travel again.