California Coast
Truman Capote is dead: The Slow loris observer of New York in modern times:
The magic is in what will be and certainly what was the night before: The moment begins with the arrival of the yellow taxi in the midst of a misty dawn;
The hovering mist waited not in the chords of Moon River, but more in John Cages ’4’33’: (John Cage once infused my mind with a tea teased with an herb or two: He begged me to listen to the silence). The shapely shadows formed by the morning sun impatiently waited to appear:
a New York Avenue
I remember Capote for many things but mostly for ”I am always drawn back to places where I have lived…”: Truman’s descriptive presence, visual stimuli encapsulates my past, present and futures in the unexpected : It is almost as if Capote saw Darwin’s evolution pinging between an urbanism imaginary sequences of time: Schulman and Golightly through a glimpse into a reflective black pane of glass saw their lives: It was a dialogue about needs: for me I morphed for a few seconds into natures’ Slow loris: My eyes widened as if my irises were magnetized to take in a history of visual experiences in a single frame:
I have been influenced by thousands of films: Breakfast at Tiffany’s is particular for me because the first thirty seconds or so not only highlight the talents of cinematographer Philip Lathrop e.g. (Touch of Evil, Cincinnati Kid, Point Blank) but moments that encapsulates narratives of my photography dreams:
alone in Central Park
For decades I have seen myself standing naked alongside Audrey and Holly: They both stood wearily remembering their dreams: The reflections show both women in Givenchy: But who wears it best: Holly/Audrey: tilted sunglasses: a nip at a pastry: a sip of coffee: the mere blackness Tiffany’s window holds framed for posturing: eyes momentarily laser in on the unattainable: dreams dance like water nymphs swimming within our life’s expectations. Thirty seconds of film doesn’t make a lifetime: Photographers are built to dream: to dream and to capture:
The Moon River that accompanies our eyes is not merely a soothing facilitator: It is about a passion for something that will unpredictably play in your life ahead:
When I photographed Kirk Douglas, I wished that he would have declared “I am Spartacus”. He will always be that power to the tenth for me: When I first saw Michael Caines Peachy in Kiplings’s The Man Who Would be King, I knew that a dream needed to be had not in life; but in the photographs I would need to make: Where would all of us be without Quixote: But then where would some of us be with out having seen the chords of Miles Davis rhapsodize are place and dreams: My end game is not to merely make photographs: the streets hold more mysteries than answers: my captures are merely present to illustrate the mysteries: People, places and of course architecture.
To this day I am amazed that a mere paragraph of Capote, a mere thirty seconds of Breakfast at Tiffany’s reminds me that I feel alive in a city that can feel like a continent of jungles:and I am a mere Slow loris living the life as if Jimmy Page was my personal minstrel through my cities.
a corner of Barcelona