The Power of Red in Photography

May 21, 2020

Many years ago, I began a series of images in primary colors. They were fabulous!

When I say fabulous I don’t mean good. I mean that when you create something that strikes at your heart it is as if a pod of whales invited you to join them performing pirouettes naked atop the oceans vastly episodic waves. Exhilarating!

There are so many truths that are revealed in my tales. Sometimes I have a hard time differentiating between tales and truth. Memories through the years can do that.

One day, maybe 1988 or 1989 I realized that my moments photographing artists: Miro, Warhol, and thousands more had

contributed greatly to my vision as a photographer.

Their mere presence and generosity enlightened me. It was a compelling moment to realize that the lives of others had dramatically affected my creative vision.

I felt that I needed to give something back to those who made such an enormous contribution to my photographic vision. The only practical way, was to attribute my photographs to the artists. My idea was to make my future photographs about their work, their colors. I began with red.

Red seemed logical. Red is a power that drives us. Red is a moon, a face, Led Zeppelin album covers, a storm, the book Red Badge of Courage, the movie Red River and thousands of ways of identifying a power. Miles Davis’s red trumpet created notes that race through our central nervous system. The aforementioned is how I understand red.

Like all of your “firsts”, I remember my first “Red” photograph. It was that single moment when I realized the shackles of expectancy had been lifted. For years and years I was under the misconception that I needed to receive a seal of approval from a cabal of powers. I stood face to face with my reflection and finally felt a measure of my own identity emerging.

I stood with an artist in this huge Soho art gallery. I was plugged in to all of my juices... and I snapped. All five to seven frames lived up to my expectations and beyond.

The course was set for the future. I made portraits about my subject and the colors of the art world for years to follow. It was never that I wasn’t satisfied with my past work.

The early years were about my experiences, but what was about to develop was the

realizing why I became a photographer, to make images that spoke color to me.

Here (in this blog) I am sharing my attempts to reckon with understanding my soul as a photographer. I look back at the files, and I count the hundreds of subjects ( Norman Foster, Gordon Parks, Ellsworth Kelly, Claes Oldenburg/Coosje van Bruggen, Hans Hollein, Philip Johnson, Peter Zumthor, Joan Didion) who looked around at my colored spaces I manipulated and nodded to me, nodded for me to continue.

All of these years later I realize that those early primary color photographs were my saviors. They allowed me to be me.

When I eventually followed up with my blues, yellows and merging colors, I was at peace.

Andrew Wyeth Poses

May 11, 2020

I remember:

I dream of an army of arachnids (Phidippus audax) flexing their spindly legs across my cheeks. Frightened, tears flow towards the spiders. They nip at my salty droplets. In seconds the army invades my tear ducts...

While in route to my photography destinations across the globe, panic sets in like the spiders in my dreams. I fear I will become lost while walking a straight line. I might now laugh at myself. The laughter is akin to a Big Top Circus clown standing center ring in a single spot light. He mimes a tear filled with a rendition of sorrow. So sad so true.

My travel map indicates i95 south the whole way. I am traveling from New York City the most advanced city in the world to Chadds Ford Pennsylvania, a Revolutionary War battle town. A delusory blur confiscates all of the highway signage. I am heading in the right direction but I am lost.

I am on my way to photograph one of the most famous American artists of the mid 20th century, Andrew Wyeth. By early 1984 I had photographed hundreds of artists. There was this hushed buzz about my photographs. So many artists were “the” artists. I had this immediate acceptance. It was crowd pleasing. It made for interesting ice breaking conversation. The conversation always turned personal. All of the artists wanted to know what other artists were up to. It became an exciting narrative for me to meld my cameras with words and words with my cameras. In hindsight my only regret is that so many of the words have become blended into the thousands of portraits. It makes me cry a bit that I can’t share the singular moments. Sometimes I can, but most often I stare into my photographs wishing for the voices to come back to me.

I arrive at the Wyeth compound. My ears are trained towards the opening of a screened door. Wyeth walks through like Moses parting the Red Sea and Marlon Brando pleading, ”Stella!”. His body is protected from the winter elements by a full length beaver fur coat. The aura surrounds him. I am late.

I try to explain my misdirections while traveling. He motions me inside. I am greeted by his wife Betsy. We sit down to a bit of soup and sandwich. I am quizzed about my shooting expectations more arduously than an inquisition. I get it. I am me, and he is Andrew Wyeth.

I made a few positional photographs inside his home. We then stepped through the compound for more moments. We arrived at the door to the studio. My eyes teared as I imagined I was going to see Helga naked. The then famous rumors were already splayed across the art worlds universe. Helga was not to be. In fact not a single painting was in view. I thought for a few moments that Helga might just be in the adjacent room. I was panting, not Helga.

Photographing Wyeth was fantastic. My eyes absorbed his as he followed me through the ghostly space. A wicker basket, a chair, a Christmas tree, winter tools,and a barren easel were the only signs of life. There was a single window where the winter light poured through. He rummaged through my brain looking for the conversant bridge between the generations of artists I had photographed and himself. We traded some curious thoughts for a couple of hours.

My day and adventure was complete. I drove home leaving a bit of heaven and the twilight zone behind me. I was a bit dazed by our exchanges. I had met the face of a dynasty. I had felt the presence of Wyeth’s tryst with his muse Helga. I had imagined Wyeth’s solo world with “Christina”.

For years I have thought about the mythology of Wyeth and the many artists in my archives. I have intellectually appropriated them into a composite of a dozen or so portrait years and many thousands of images. The photographs memorialize another lifetime. I am just now remembering how glorious he looked. He was stone handsome. I was merely gazing.

Dionysus And Napa Valley

April 27, 2020

I Remember:

They say that the Greek god Dionysus tearfully complained to his father Zeus that he was sad and yearned for something sweet. Dionysus was years removed from being protected in Zeus’s thigh. Zeus felt his son was old enough to have his own life’s pleasures.

Zeus suggested that Dionysus should merely create something sweet to touch his lips.

From the summit of Mount Olympus Dionysus spotted rivers flowing like veins in many directions. He paused his hands above the flow of currents, and begged the rivers to become sweet. Cupping his hands Dionysus sipped the first savor he would share when he descended Mount Olympus.

For almost four years I traveled to Napa Valley seasonally. I had a genius client Bill Harlan, (Harlan Estate Winery) who thought I would understand what it meant to focus my camera on a unique Napa Valley. Bill also owned the Chateau and Relais Meadowood Spa and Resort. He thought it would be a nice home base for me to set out from every morning and afternoon.

Bill Harlan at the #ChateauRelais #Meadowoodspaandresort

When I was in college, I occasionally escaped the Bay Area on weekends. My destinations were wineries. In those days I could enjoy tastings for next to nothing. Sipping late 60s early 70s Beaulieu, Jordan, Heitz, Sterling, Charles Krug, Rutherford and many others was a gift from the gods. A convertible in my hands, the race up to a glass of wine was an hour away.

The 90s were a bit different. I met the most fascinating California wine personalities who shaped Napa as a destination. It felt like I was landing in Oz. Wine makers Andre Tchelistcheff, Heidi Barrett, Gary Eberle and dozens of the valley’s best wine makers were guiding me. I absorbed anything and everything they shared, which included vertical tastings from Grace Family, Harlan, Chateau Montelena and more.

Vertical Tastings offer a unique insight and understanding into the world of wine. The value is best when you have the genius of experts whispering what to look for. When Dick Grace (Grace Family) and Heidi Barret funneled 3 vintages into my pony glass I listened for what I should know. When Bill Harlan shared 5 vintages (full bottles), we discussed the nuances for 5 hours. A wee bit tipsy after that. But amazing insights followed.

I took advantage of having the secret security code to Harlan’s property. I walked along his vine covered hillsides grabbing a taste, and smelling the seasons.

I weaved my convertible along the Silverado Trail, Highway 29, Oakville Rd. I toured around the Mayacamas Mountains, Vaca Mountains, Howell Mountains and many other mountains that bracket the Napa/Sonoma wine treasures. My camera embraced every nuance, every shade of light, every color the landscapes offered me. I suffered through every glass of wine or indulging meal. More than 20 years later, I realized I was given a gift. Today I love having someone like the Financial Times Jancis Robinson fill me with vintage ideas from around the planet. But back in the 90s I was learning on the fly while tasting the most famous Harlan, Grace, Screaming Eagle, Shafer, Mondavi and of course the most obscure.

The “Judgement of Paris” was a bit before my time. But I have spent years trying to make up for time lost. A bit of discovery, A bit of education and a touch of a Bacchanalia does wonders for my memory, for my present. Thank the gods for Dionysus.

The King’s Game according to the Cincinnati Kid

April 15, 2020

I Remember:

AEROFLOT NATION MEETS THE MADHATTER:

My camera has taken me to a number of Republics from the former Soviet Union. Embedded in my brain are stories of wondrous beauty and intriguing encounters. My fond memories remain like precious jewels. They are awakenings. If I hadn’t traveled across continents I wouldn’t have these stories.

I strolled through the streets of Riga, Latvia one afternoon. I found myself standing in the center of a cul de sac. It was the beginning of one of my many Alice in Wonderland moments.To my right was a photography union building with a giant large format camera painted on its face. To my left was a one story building with a tiny chess board painted atop the entrance. I had two ports of entry and I chose the tiny chess school. Down the rabbit hole I screamed.

A dozen tiny grade school desks filled the space. A young boy, sitting alone maybe twelve pointed to one of the desks with “do you want to play?”. I was the giant, he was David with the chessboard. I magnanimously agreed. I could sense I was lured into a trap.

Memory can be a twisted function of our brains. My mind immediately flashed back to an electrifying challenge from the former World Champion chess great Mikhail Tal - Wikipediaen.wikipedia.org › wiki › Mikhail_Tal Mikhail Tal. Tal (as he was known) was one of the great eccentrics in chess history. Tal had an immense E.T. like Electodactyly finger. Tal’s finger was conspicuously his magic wand; or so people thought.

In one sci-fi nano second I merged the sixty year old Tal and the twelve year old boy into one.

Years earlier when I faced off against Tal, he suggested I begin with whites. I moved my white pawn first. He smiled and pointed to the board. Would you like to start again? I was about to be pummeled. I just didn’t know it. Years later, the diminutive 12 year old also suggested I begin with whites. I moved my white pawn. The little boy smiled. In perfect english, “would you like to start again?”. Suddenly I could hear the“penny pitching kid” from the movie “Cincinnati Kid” celebrating, “you are finished Kid” you are finished”.

I always admired Steve McQueen’s defiant and lay it all on the line attitude. His “Cincinnati“ had to beat the best to know his self worth. He had to beat Edward G.Robinsons’ (Lancey Howard) to know for sure that he was the best. The ‘Kid’ lost.

I made it back into the streets of Riga. The aggregation of Tal and the little boy tickles me to this day. They pummeled me. I was thrilled by the defeat. The school gifted me a chessboard with pictures of the Russian twentieth century Grandmasters on the backside. I cherish the memory. I adore the chess games’ visual magic.

I strolled the Latvian streets in some sort of delusory state. I was replaying my game across the sky. I quietly remembered Walter Tevis’ “The Queen’s Gambit”The Queen's Gambit (novel) - Wikipediaen.wikipedia.org › wiki › The_Queen's_Gambit_(novel) two protagonists envisioned a dreamy chess board splayed across the Texas Panhandle. They strategized 20-30 moves while contemplating their next match. It might be one of the most fantastic cinematic dream sequences ever. The surreal moment also reminded me of my separate encounters with the great World Champions, Garry Kasparov Garry Kasparov - Wikipediaen.wikipedia.org › wiki › Garry_Kasparov and Anatoly Karpov. They too strategized many moves ahead of me. I remember how merciless they were in our battle for supremacy. It was a bare knuckled brawl. I was beaten to the core by greatness. It was also one of the great pleasures of my life.

I have faced off against the best the game has to offer. There is nothing more rewarding than placing yourself amid life’s greatest challenges. It is winning and/or losing that in the most sporting way defines our experiences.

#LongHouse. #Reserve #JackLenorLarsen #Designer

The Architect as Zorro

April 01, 2020

Le Mans was a race track I have navigated dozens of times. I remember throttling the accelerator over 250 km down the Mulsanne Straight. I sped nearly four miles straining the Soleus muscle atop the treadle. I knew the Indianapolis Straight turning into the Porsche Curve like the back of my hand. Turning nuances into leverage is what racing is all about.

I cannot recall a single sound amidst the 13,605 kms. I was grinning with a bit of smugness. I was winning. My tires were holding to my teams’ plan. Gas was calculated.

I knew I was in the lead. Winning LeMans is happening today.

Suddenly a honk and pumping brake lights woke me from my dream. I had passed the Palisades Interstate and was flying on I-87 north. Thoroughly shaking my head. Eyes laughing. My mental misdirection happens daily. The misdirections maintain a balance in an unbalanced life.

Nearly four hours from my Manhattan home, I arrived at the upstate home of the fabulously grounded eccentric architect Andrew Geller. The commission for me was to be a treasure trove of discoveries. I had not knowingly entered a session photographing a subject with Alzheimer’s.

Geller, was one of those architects that everyone knew, but most could not remember why until you mentioned his Hamptons’ double diamond “Pearlroth House”. It is a shame that more of his life was not recognized. He did live a full life as a design architect. He worked with Saarinen, Loewy, Bunshaft, Noguchi and more. Architects and designers dream of being associated with a similar pedigree. More importantly he left his mark (Z) everywhere he worked. The endgame in life is fulfillment. Everyone wants to feel they left their mark on their world and beyond! It is rare and improbable.

It seems that the whole family was ready for me. I was a bit late, so that was a minor concern. Most importantly they wanted to brief me on Andrew’s health status. Apparently he wasn’t talking to strangers. The family wanted to sit in the drawing studio Geller had set up while I photographed. They thought it might help me? “No No” I said as I ushered them out. I closed the adjoining door. They understood I was in charge of this moment.

I looked over at Andrew and motioned for him to give me a few moments to set up. He wore this fabulous “Cheshire” grin! It was as if we were suddenly mates, in on the same caper.

He whispered while I loaded my camera, “what do you want to talk about”. It seemed that I was in on a secret that everyone knew about, or absolutely nobody knew.

We spent the next several hours talking about A to Z. He recounted a day when he slept on the beach in front of a project. He wanted to will it to fruition. He spoke about working with the famous and the pretending famous. I was in a self induced coma snapping away. So many sparkling moments he shared with me as I adjusted my lights and focusing.

I guess the afternoon had to end when he shared his cameo role in a late night threesome that never quite came to fruition. I guess religion can be a pretty powerful friend when needed.

He made me promise that our exchanges were just that and just between us. As you can see, I am keeping my word. I walked out into the living room. The family almost like a choir asked me how the session went. Andrew followed behind. His daughter asked, “Dad, how did it go?” He smiled.

I paid my respects. I got in my car. The GPS said four hours. It took me eight. Nobody can get lost in reverie like I can.

The Brillance of Edward Dugmore’s Double Edged Sword

March 25, 2020

Keepsakes remind us of history’s moments and treasures. Consider what Napoleon had attached to his fob on Elba. Consider what Huck Finn had tucked away on his adventures along the Mississippi. Consider what the thousands lost on the Titanic. Consider what you keep for memory. We all attach keepsakes to our present to remind us of our past.

I have made thousands of portraits. The portraits are my portals into my past. Each frame is a keepsake. They remind me of a life once lived. They rekindle my memory of others. Each archival page is filled with transparencies, keepsakes. Once a week I open a page to remember scenes that have breathed life into my decades as a photographer.

I no longer make portraits. But portraits are my tiny humble kinship with Giorgio Vasari and others. I don’t write to write. I write to remember. My memory of photographing the Abstract Expressionist Edward Dugmore remains a precious visual keepsake.

One afternoon in 1993, I arrived at his New York studio. Before I could breathe hello I realized exactly what my photographs were to look like. It was one of those “aha” moments that rarely happen. When it does, I become like a surgeon preparing for surgery. The artist’ studio was my operating room. I make sure all the tools were properly spread out. I would begin my purposeful investigation into Dugmore’s life. Once he was comfortable with me I turn on my lights.

In those days, turning on my lights was like a drug rush. All of my senses were heightened exponentially. All of the shapes and shadows formed the essential canvas.

So many times my subjects would wonder why I was so happy. They obviously didn’t envision what I did. To them this was home. To me I was painting on a canvas.

Over the next few weeks I would visit the Dugmore’s. I brought tests from the shoot, and of course the final image.

During these visits, Edith Dugmore would share most of the conversation. Edward would stir around the studio. Edith would suggest that he wasn’t always “here”.

She shared a recurring issue in their lives. Edward was losing his memory. Alzheimer’s was affecting their lives. She told me a story about leaving Edward at home.

The Dugmore’s had a country home. They would visit often for long periods of time. Edward could paint there, they could live in the quietude. One fall day, she spent the afternoon away with friends. She forgot that she left the keys to the car at home. She always feared that he would see them and drive off by himself.

That day, an anxious Edward feeling like an existentialist Nathaniel Hawthorne, stirred to spread his wings amid the rosy dawn colors of the day. Edward raced the car through a Frederick Church fiery fall canvas. Edward’s eyes blazed through the psychedelic beauty. The time slipped by until a dead end lay ahead.

He stared straight ahead for minutes, that were actually hours. He didn’t know where he was as day shifted into night. Frozen in time, his mind alighted with fear, he realized he was lost. The colors vanished. Night surrounded him. Fear became panic.

A local sherif knocked on his car window. Edith had called for the authorities earlier in the day. Almost 12 hours had passed from the beginning of the search. Edward had lost his way. His hands remained gripped to the steering wheel until Edith arrived to lessen his fears.

As Edith shared the story, I looked over at Edward and asked her how does he paint.

She said, “we think he paints what he remembers. While his mind has diminished we feel there is still a hint of euphoria from another time”.

I watched the artist in his studio for sometime. As I packed up my equipment, I watched the ghost of a man slip through my canvas.

Photography’s Birth of the Cool: Gordon Parks

March 11, 2020

Gordon Parks with a bit of Asian influence

‘The King of Cool’

Miles Davis died one week before I was scheduled to shoot his portrait. I felt victimized by every word synonymously associated with traumatized.

I had shot him in concerts. But a face that people share in a portrait session is simply, singular to that moment. A “Miles” session would exponentially elevate my photographic dreams. He was a face that the world knew. He wielded his trumpet as a magician might a wand. Our ears were spellbound by his trumpets’ magical powers.

Upon hearing of his death I was emotionally exiled to a place as desperate as the Baltic’s’ Curonian Spit. It was there the drifting dunes would engulf my spirit. It is a bit silly to be so simply defeated. My spirit was shattered. He was musics’ Picasso.

Years ago a photographer was like a horse in the “Derby”. You positioned yourself along the rails to find an opening for the lead. Miles’ death cast me adrift from the race. I certainly continued shooting portraits and a bundle of miscellanies: Visual journeys placed me in front of quintessential architecture and design. My plate was still full.

Time seemed to fill the void. I had lost a step. I had lost some passion. Time allowed me to realize that the universe had been realigned for my benefit. I looked in the rear view mirror after a bit and saw rubiks’ genius. All of the lost pieces were finally back in place.

Some years later I was invited to an arts award dinner. The recipients were Yoko Ono, Nam June Paik, John Cage and Gordon Parks . I have now photographed all but Yoko.

All three were special moments and evolving friendships. But shooting Gordon was an emotional and creative turning point in my life. I simply didn’t realize it. Gordon was simply one of the most accomplished artists I had ever met.

He wanted to get to know me.

I arrived at his East River United Nations Plaza apartment. He lived high up in luxurious isolation. When ‘John Shaft’ (Gordon Parks directed the original ‘Shaft’ movie) opened the door, It seemed as if Issac Hayes whispered, “Welcome, do you like red wine, I am making an omelette”.

We sat for nearly two hours in his kitchen. We shared a bottle of burgundy and made our way through the deliciously silky ham and cheese omelette. We chatted about nothing, and everything. It was as if we both wore smoking jackets and were taking intermittent puffs on our Romeo and Juieta cigars.

He took me into the living room. There were photographs strewn everywhere. He was editing for a new book. Almost 90 years old and still working at being Gordon.

We stood on the high floor looking over the East River. He turned to me and asked if I still wanted to shoot his portrait. He wanted to know what my ideas were. I smiled back and told him “I was good to go”. Gordon was more than 40 years older than me. I felt as if we had been friends for a lifetime. We were good company for each other. For three consecutive weekends we repeated the afternoon schedule: Wine, food, chat.

He shared a lifetime of moments in a nano second. I had my visual moment in my mind. The portrait day finally arrived.

While shooting he asked me why I was smiling. I couldn’t possibly tell him that in someway this was the kind of picture that I had imagined for Miles Davis. After all that he shared with me I couldn’t have told him that this moment was my “Birth of the Cool”. He might not have understood.

I left his apartment and hopped into a taxi. I knew what was on the film. I couldn’t wait to return and show my images to my “John Shaft”. Gordon Parks was the coolest artist in my universe.

More importantly he showed me that the image I made today was my present. This was the photograph and the photography I was meant for. My photograph that day was my future.

Dark Lights, Bright Colors: Mexico City Among the Shadows

February 24, 2020

The movie ‘Under the Volcano’ unfurls a fabulous teasing sequence of Day of the Dead. It is that shadowy skeletal dance and thousands of movie scenes later that have influenced my many years as a photographer. I have always imagined that I would “step into liquid”, and live inside episodic scenes from that film and more.

Arriving from the sun drenched shores of Puerto Vallarta to Mexico City was a dance card that portended a walk on the wild side. The ghosts of the dead seemed to awaken for me as I entered the airport corridors. Thousands of people shuffled aimlessly among the shadows. I quickly hopped in a tiny green and white Volkswagen taxi (Volkswagen ceased production of the “VW” in Mexico that week). We sped along the highways and the city streets towards my hotel. The city became a tapestry of images that were illusory dreamscapes.

I was in Mexico to photograph architects and architecture. But I decided that my first night would be a quest to sip the best Sangrita.

Most people think that you need to indulge in Mezcal and Tequila when you visit Mexico. I agree. But a bit of heaven awaits you when you have sipped the perfect Sangrita. Almost any agave tryst can dazzle while you dance. But a Sangrita settles you. Sangrita allows you to inhale the airs of the city. They say a sniper’s accuracy depends on how he breathes. A photographer needs to breathe as well. He needs to allow the imagery to filter in through the lens. A proper Sangrita allows you to exhale.

My search for the best Sangrita would take me to the ends of the city. Lucid sensory perceptions swam through my mind. I communed with the cultural souls of Kahlo,Tamayo, Rivera, Bravo and more. Lurking among the city’s shadows provided a window into the city’s past and present. As some people will say, “you will see what you see”.

My hotel was near numerous consulates in the Polanco district. About 9:00pm I skipped out of the hotel into the adjacent Parque Lincoln. A summer stroll through the park seemed ideal. My gait quickened amid the excitement of music, food and nighttime festivities. Magically all of the faces reminded me of Munch’s ‘The Scream’. Thousands of blurred faces split the park in half as I raced along a small pond into a night not too dissimilar from Olson Welles’ embracing and sinister ‘A Touch of Evil’.

It can be sensational scurrying through any city streets for fun and visual surprises.

I made a list of Mexico City drinking destinations. At attractions along the way, I encountered various levels of fanfare and serious disappointment. Hours later I was exhausted from consumption. I grabbed one more taxi. I told the driver to take me to the best restaurant in the city.

I wound up walking into a very darkly lit entrance of a visibly expensive restaurant. The clientele were affluently dressed. I was a wee bit intoxicated and a bit of a mess.

The maitre d’ quickly grabbed me and suggested that I might be more comfortable in the bar area. I sat alone with just a few barstools to either side. I was still able to see into the restaurant, to see the finery. I asked the bartender for a Don Julio and a Sangrita. He poured both. Both drinks gave me sometime to take in the hours of the night I was able to breathe in the city.

Mexico and Mexico City are home to an incredible number of fabulous architectural designs. Dozens of famous and unique personalities ( Ando, Prix, Ito, Hadid, Lautner, Barrigan, Bilbao, Romero to name a few) have made a mark on the cultural horizon. This trip was for my book; ‘Portraits of the New Architecture’. Mexico City is home to two architects chosen for my book; Enrique Norton and Ricardo Legorretta. The book was to be released soon. I needed to make my camera move a bit faster.

The next day I arrived at Ricardo Legorretta’s studio. Upon greeting me, Ricardo anxiously wanted to hear about my visit to the city. I shared some of my escapades from the night before. He glanced at me with paternal care. “Do you know how dangerous it is for a tourist to travel the streets alone?”. But I sipped the Sangrita! “Americans” Ricardo whispered.

For the next few hours I composed my photographs and we chatted about the architects for my book, and the travels across continents I have made to shoot the architecture. He was most impressed with the varied collection of architectural styles.

He asked me why I had chosen to photograph an older design, “Camino Real Polanco Mexico Hotel” instead of something new. I knew my truthful answer would not have pleased him. The simple truth is, the design spoke to my manner of shooting. I waited for days until the capture I needed to make revealed itself. The camera saw what I saw.

I have always admired Legorretta’s work. His work seemed to be an extension of Luis Barrigan’s. Certainly I never mentioned that to Ricardo. But I did share that the hotel was a fabulous ambition. It was perfectly realized.

A funny thing about photographing thousands of personalities: I never fully reveal what our exchanges have included. Everyone shares a misstep and more. I am a recorder of moments in time. The words between my subject and I fairly remain such. Trust reigns.

Though I do believe that the architecture is a reflection of the architects attitudes and personality. My images of their work hopefully reflects my attitude toward the architect and their work.

The Midnight Train: The Modern Art collector and the Architect

February 13, 2020

The passion for color at the Beyeler Foundation Basel Switzerland

Imagine, stepping into the sleeper train car from Paris, France to Basel, Switzerland...and the song that suddenly dances through my mind was “Midnight Train to Georgia”. Hello Pips, welcome to my brain!

The night train to almost anywhere is exciting. The idea that daylight will rise with my eyes towards a new adventure is possibly the sole reason I became a photographer.

Traveling through the river Styx’ currents always conjures thrills and chills that challenge you through darkness and light. Something always swings you between heaven and hell.

Boarding my October New York to London flight( one month after 9/11) amid dozens of growling dogs was an auspicious way to begin an adventure. Tensions and fears filled all passengers’ minds and eyes on that flight. Terrorism can be a cancer that attacks all hearts and souls.

London was the beginning of a series of cultural portraits. I followed London, with Paris and many more moments.

The true reckoning began on the overnight train from Paris to Basel.

A dead sleep on the train made it possible to dream about vistas stolen in the night: Versailles, Beaune, natural parcs and more. Yes a ghost from Dickens came by to remind me that my passport was stolen.

Entering Basel without identification made me feel vulnerable, rudderless. Uncertainty can be an inspiration.

I was there to photograph one of the great collectors/art dealers of the western world, Ernst Beyeler. The Beyeler Foundation designed by the star architect Renzo Piano was considered among the great destinations in modern art.

Beyeler was so much more than any collector I had met. He was worldly of course. But he knew his collection like you know your reflection in a mirror. Hundreds of collectors I have photographed collected trophies, Ernst collected pieces of the heart.

It is difficult to be transparent in these moments. But I do forgive Beyeler and Piano. They at different moments sniffed my pedigree. The cultural elite prefer the company of their equals. I passed the test. I clearly was not an equal, but I had traveled amongst the currents of the contemporary art world. I had a chit.

The “Ernst” portrait was a moment of trust. Thousand of portraits gave me the gravitas to be bold. Beyeler many years my senior entrusted me to make the right portrait. The footprint that guided our experience spoke to the space and light. Renzo does not allow you to ignore his talents.

Ernst unleashed me through the galleries to see what I needed to see. I saw what people refer to as “god’s gifts in many creations. But Giacometti stole my heart. When was the last time you remember seeing a sculpture dance without a partner ... dance unadorned by history. He was beautiful.

9/11 inflicted harm on the human race. My dance with a culture apart was coming to an end.

I had to face the American army as if I was in enemy territory. Bern, Switzerland was where I had to go to receive a temporary passport. Howitzers and more traced my steps into the consulate. My party was over.

Reality swept through me in the most shattering way. We were about to go to battle...nerves were shattered, lives frayed.

New York was soon my home again. Beyeler, Piano and other sessions with my camera made me feel alive to see another day.

Picasso, Leger, Braque, Miro, Dali and an hour of Douglas Cooper’s Life

January 30, 2020

I Remember:

My photography life has felt like 10,000 days of the young Charlie Bucket. The wide eyed child awed in thrilling disbelief entering Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory is actually me every time I reflect on how fortunate I was when I had the privilege to enter the world’s kingdom of fabulous art.

From the very first art world portrait (Willem de Kooning) I made, the doors of museums, galleries and artist studios were opened wide for my eyes to embrace. My archives are my evidence that I have lived a life filled with an infinite amount of sublime good fortunes.

London is an odd city. It is a profound city. British culture bleeds from every corner. Shakespeare whispers sweet mayhem in every breath. Plumed chests embody every loyalist. You cannot ignore the pride and prejudice that make make Britain/London an extraordinary adventure.Yes, somehow James Bond, the Magna Carte, Henry the 8th’s wives and xke’s marry this exceptional episode.

The 1983 morning I walked into London’s Tate Britain a hive of five centuries of art history. I was there for a magazine to photograph one of the great Cubism collectors, Douglas Cooper. Cooper was not merely a collector, but a curator, a critic, and a friend to Picasso, Leger, Miro, Braque, Dali and so many more.

Time has allowed my photography to stitch together a cultural weave of the 20th century. My images have become a dialogue. Photography is a record of “us”.

In a small way my history begins with a handshake and a tour of Cooper’s collection.

We bonded instantly. He was genuine. He was a storyteller. He shared funny stories about artist’s behavior. He shared the revolving playground at his chateau that would put most bacchanalian parties to shame.

For a young photographer, stories about a bounty of naked famed art personalities chasing around Cooper’s exotic well seasoned chateau in Provence was a life experience by itself.

Cooper arched his eyebrow. Before he continued with his stories I could tell he wanted to be certain that I knew the people he knew, the “right people. A funny protocol one learns along the way.

The quiz began: “You do know John Richardson? (the famed Picasso biographer and Cooper’s ex lover).You are acquainted with John Russell and Rosamond Bernier? (the New York Times critic and his wife the famed art lecturer)”. He continued to casually quiz me about numerous “right stuff” people until he was satisfied I myself was the “right stuff”. It is a funny window into privacy, that is truly not private.

He continued to share his art history with me. I won the lottery. He opened up about so many more people and places. Chapters of his personal art storybook were mine. I momentarily felt like a melting harlequin in a Dali painting. I was engulfed in hazy colors and art folklore.

Life’s experiences continue to arm me for another day.

Then he said something quite surprising. He wanted me to extend my stay in London so that he might introduce me to some people of interest. At that point one learns that when people open the door to their world, your world is exponentially enhanced.

John Russel and Rosalind Bernier 1983 New York

Cooper mentioned Roland Penrose (Surrealist artist and author) and Lee Miller(famed mid century photographer) among many others. “You have to meet my friends”. Suddenly London became a new treasure trove of art history delights. I have been blessed with cultural delights.

Our session ended for the day, but a new life was burgeoning.

What is to Become of Dubai

January 21, 2020

I remember

I landed in Dubai emboldened by my recent travels to Dhaka, Bangladesh. That experience proved to be one of the most engaged and inspiring trips in many years. The land is alive with their future infrastructure burgeoning on their frontal lobe!

Dubai is immediately a universe apart. The worlds along the Persian Gulf, and “The Tales of the Arabian Nights” were my “Star Trek” as a child. My dreams and drawings as a child always transported me to a weaving of fantasies. I never realized where or what I was dreaming about until the day I began reading about the adventurer Sir Richard Burton.

The Burg Khalifa the tallest building in the world and so much more

With Burton I realized I am never going to live long enough to investigate all of my dreams.

The man traveled over 3 continents and spoke 29 languages. The continents are easy. I am barely acceptable in English. I will never accomplish something (like Burton) that will educate nations.

It is not a sad assessment. Merely a realization that enough will never be enough.

Making my exit from the airport I spread my arms wide. Dubai was mine.

I envisioned Burton whispering the seductive translations of the Kama Sutra into the sands of the Dubai Desert. Some feel, Dubai is this place where the desert is dying. But as you watch the sands dancing in the wind, you realize in part that Dubai may be the heart of the future.

Consider the Mangrove Forest the historical exotica of the Persian Gulf. Then marry history, culture and volumes of towering architectural edifices reaching into the stars. Suddenly a new universe is rising before your eyes. Imagine the opening titles of Game of Thrones displaying architectural pop ups at every glance and you immediately appreciate the thrill of my moment. “Winter is never coming”.

My taxi drives me along the highway. I recall my inner Burton to see what he might do in this new experience. I romanticize my travels, because I am living my dream. I am traveling earths’ known universe. I compose these moments visually and in notes, because when it vanishes, so will I.

It is clear that writers such as John Le Carre, Sir Richard Burton Hemingway and so many others have deduced; in order to write about a land, you must visit. There is a rhythm to witness that races the heart. The visual heart records our world between each Monarch Butterfly’s flapping wings. We see what others cannot. Our heart maintains a bit of calm amid the universes’ chaos.

My car blurs past wild structures. I espy the “Museum of the Future”.

I am excited about the upcoming expo Dubai 2020.

The Museum of the Future to be completed for expo 2020 Dubai — The Museum of the Future
to be completed for expo 2020 Dubai

Dubai might be the Petri dish for design and architectures’ future.

The Burj Khalifa (the present tallest building in the world) waved in front of me. I began my collection of photographs. I studied, I embraced shapes and sounds of this desert metropolis. Is it first on my wonders of the world to visit? No. But we travel to feel the footsteps of the past and be apart of the future before us.

The Burj Khalifa the tallest building in the world

I felt like a Caracal Cat venturing into daylight for the first time. My eyes were awakening to a sun bright new day a new vision. Unsure of my direction I scampered wildly for miles in every direction with my cameras swinging like wings behind me. The winged photographer knew that every left and right turn was a reminder that these visual moments were there for me to capture; the reason I became/am a photographer.

Let’s celebrate the Caracal Cat’s adventures: Chasing Sir Richard Burton

There was something episodic about this desert journey. My photographs are mere impressions of buildings and the streets they inhabit. These impressions may become something formidable in the near future....I gotta keep on chasing Burton.

From Dhaka to Dubai

January 09, 2020

Martyr’Memorial honoring the revolution from 1971 and Bangladesh independence

I REMEMBER:

I was eight years old when my grandmother took me to see “Lawrence of Arabia”.She squeezed my hand as we stood in front of the Hollywood “Pantages Theater”.I was a tall 8 year old, she was a short 60 year old. “Shall we go in?”, she asked.

I was home from the moment “Maurice Jarre’s” arrangement accompanied “Lawrence of Arabia” into the desert.The desert seemed small after awhile. After awhile I imagined the globe. After awhile I realized I was the globe. After awhile I wanted the universe. I was 8.

Arm in arm with some of my childhood cinematic heroes; Lawrence, Spartacus, The Four Horsemen... and more I began my descent into Bangladesh.

As I imagined flying over the Bay of Bengal’s white sand beaches and encountering a Royal Bengal Tiger and exotic Sundarban Mangrove Forest I found myself clinging to my childhood dreams of adventure. This was one, of many dreams that compelled me to become a photographer, a life of dreams.

I arrived in Dhaka at the invitation of the Bengali Institute. I was there to speak about the personality of architecture and it’s designs. I was asked to share how I see architecture, how I photograph architecture. I wanted to speak about my present and past. I wanted the evening to be fun. I wanted the evening to be serious. I wanted the evening to be tinged with a bit of martini humor.

I talked about celebrated architectural personalities like Frank Gehry, Zaha Hadid, Rem Koolhaas, Bjarke Ingles and many more. It was a special moment for me. It has been a privilege to work in that world. It was one of many reasons Dhaka was so special.

Louis Kahn’s National Assembly Building, Bangladesh

As I spoke to my audience, I realized my mind was a bit clouded, overwhelmed by the recent experience of photographing the Bangladesh National Assembly building by the American architect Louis Kahn. I was dazzled by Kahn and all the new and old architecture that dresses Dhaka in the most impressive fashion. This Bengali world was filled with sights and sounds of contemporary and ancient exotic worlds that clearly engulfed and danced with my fantasies.

So there I was talking in the dark with so many curious eyes looking into mine as I spoke about my images. I tried to make sense of the nexus between what is this moment and what is Dhaka.

My subconscious mysteriously reminded me of when I had first heard of Bangladesh in 1972. It was not their revolution (the revolution for independence was won in 1971) that came to mind. But it was the vase of flowers that I was delivering to George Harrison’s (the Beatles) home in Hollywood on Nichols Canyon Rd. Harrison had recently released the concert album in support of Bangladesh The Concert for Bangladesh – George Harrisonwww.georgeharrison.com › albums › the-concert-for-bangladesh.

Here I was knocking on his door with flowers in my arms. The Beatles for Christ’s sake!

George opens the door to greet me...Ha! That is a story for another day.

I continued to address my pictures and answer questions about my experiences. After awhile I paused the pictures. My talk was complete. I realized while speaking about my work, my experiences in Dhaka were creeping into my mindset. What a great dichotomy of life and photography this journey had become.

THE HEART OF A KING:

My experiences in Dhaka reminded me of the tale about touching the heart of a king: When a king of a grand land offers you his heart to touch, it means that you are granted the riches of his realm as if they were your own.

My hosts graciously drove me through the city, covering seemingly a million square miles. Mosques, memorials and crowded streets have become profound memories. This journey was simply one of my best of times. Dhaka felt like it was mine.

I write about my travels to share my realities and fantasies in my photography. I still frame so much of my life with the eyes of that impressionable

8 year old.

:::

A day in the life in Dubai to follow

Burj Khalifa Dubal… tallest building in the world

A Master of 20th Century: My afternoon in Man Ray’s Studio

December 19, 2019

I remember.

I was walking along with the Director of The State Hermitage Museum in 1985. Saint Petersburg was still. The museum was closed. Not a whisper, only the sounds of two pairs of shoes pacing through the galleries. We were on our way to the Gold Room. I suddenly stopped and made a perfect 360 pirouette. My equipment in tow, spun around like helicopter rotor blades preparing for takeoff. The whole nano second allowed me to realize (like other grand museums I have photographed) that I was alone with some of the greatest examples of art history.

There is the obvious pleasure of privilege. But more importantly, these moments are what I get to take to my grave. I get to live and relive a lifetime of experiences.

The art in museums that I have caressed with my fingertips live in The Louvre,

The Tate, The Met, The Prado and many more. But only the tiny studio at 2 bis rue Ferou in Paris has taken my breath away.

I have admired dozens of photographers/artists in my life. It is Man Ray’s life and work that has been most inspirational to me.

I was early for my appointment. So I strolled through the Luxembourg Gardens. I imagined what Seurat or Van Gogh saw before me. I found that my anticipation for my visit to the studio eclipsed any sightings I hoped to conjure up.

Man Ray’s wife Juliet greeted me on a beautiful spring afternoon in 1983. Man Ray had passed in 1976.

Juliet invited me in.The aged beauty took my hand. She was naked before my eyes, but not. I have wanted to have these experiences everyday of my life. I have wanted to hear the life experiences of others. I dreamed of living in a page in Vasari’s “The Lives of Artists. This moment was quietly touching my dream. I was ecstatic. My eyes glanced in every direction. For a moment I felt that I was a prop in a surreal dream. I tried to absorb the artists’ life.

I breathed.

Surrealism is a waltz with the mind. It is a human experience that summons exploration. This Man Ray space was the dream I have dreamed about for a lifetime. Yes I was 20 something.

We sat next to each other on the sofa. The studio unfurled before me. I adored every facet of the space.

Juliet turned to me and asked if I would like some coffee? And asked If I would like to see pictures of her when she was young and beautiful? While she prepared the coffee, Juliet landed on my lap the most beautiful book of nudes I have ever seen. Twenty nude portraits that made me tear. I realized I would never make something so beautiful in my career.

With coffee in hand, she turned each page. From the very first image she spoke about Mans’ photographic intentions. As each image appeared there was this quivering I couldn’t explain. I was young, but greatness unfolded before my eyes.

I asked if I could wander around the studio. I needed to see the space. I needed to stand away. I needed to imagine how Man Ray might have worked.

Minutes later I made my move. “Are you ready?” I asked.

I nervously suggested that she place one of Man’s masks on.

My time as a photographer disappeared before a magician could say “presto”.

I felt like Mathias Rust landing in Red Square. Everything was more than I could imagine. Life was bigger than I was. I made a photograph.Maybe I am a footnote in some book somewhere.

I didn’t want to leave, but soon I was gone.

That year in Paris was probably the most significant year in my career. That afternoon with Juliet was something more.

Do Buffaloes Smile: My Dance with European Art Curator Sir John Pope Hennessy

December 06, 2019

By the time I made this portrait of Sir John Pope-Hennessy, I had maybe made 500 portraits. The 80’s were a whirlwind affair with people from all walks of life. Some days were rudderless, others a bit of a gale storm on wheels. I flew through the lives of so many people, my memory reminds me of the quagmire I engaged along each road to success or failure.

Rupert Murdoch and his gang had invaded New York and beyond. There was a ton of activity between continents. But, I saw a new consistency. Just about every conceivable conductor of our cultural venues belonged to someone from the British Isles. I was fascinated by the invasion. What had happened to drive so many personalities across the Atlantic? I felt the wind at my back. It was an agenda to drive me.

What transpired was a series of Black and White portraits. I have no memory of why the series became Black and White. So this color photographer ventured into foreign territory. I made about 25 portraits of powerful and unique British personalities.

Walking into the home of Sir John Pope-Hennessy was like sneaking into multiple museum vaults. Art history unfolded before my eyes. This was a special entree.

I was given strict orders not to photograph the collection. It made me feel closeted in the midst of some covert MI6/KGB affair. So quiet. So eerie. So beautiful. So many British cultural elites seem to be born into spydom. Maybe this was a moment.

Pope-Hennessy was a formidable personality. His connoisseurship was atop the international art world. He knew where all the great European paintings rested.

My portrait session was fast and furious. He shared some terrific stories. We were done. I committed to a date to review my test prints.

I returned a week later to his Park Avenue home.

Before I could drop my coat and show the portfolio of portraits, Pope-Hennessy offered and poured immediately a whiskey. His bar was a few feet from where I sat. The glass with rocks dancing was in my hands swiftly.

He glossed over my pics. He recounted stories about photographs of Canova’;s sculpture. He thought for a moment that my portraits of himself had a likeness to the Canova pieces.

Yes yes I was flattered.

Another scotch was passed to me. I think over an hour 4 to 5 drinks had been consumed. For the moment I can’t remember eating anything.

Suddenly, Sir John Pope Hennessy steered a glance towards me, “Your photographs are brilliant. I will want some copies”. I was elated.

But he quickly added, “ do you have any plans for the evening?”. I said “no”. He said, “which kind of porn do you prefer to watch”. There was a pause that felt like hours, but was more like a nano second. He added, “heterosexual? Or man on man?”.

I flinched. He leaned forward. Both hands aside my head. “There is a dvd rental store quite close. We could order some food and any movies you prefer”.

At that point I looked into his eyes. I felt what seemed like a gigantic head, a Buffalo’s head leering at me. I think he smiled. But I glimpsed at his crocodile eyes and I knew I had to disappear.

Imagine the sounds of a rafter of wild turkeys shimmying under a country fence. I am six foot three. I am considered a big person. I uttered some sounds as I shimmied under his arms. I blindly grabbed my portfolio and my coat.

I found myself exhaling on Park Avenue.

I certainly embarrassed myself. I certainly lost a sale. I thought, “instead of a little bit of sex, me and my feathers flew out of Sir John’s apartment”.

Oh well. My heart raced for a few weeks.

Searching for Carmen: From Barcelona to Seville

November 26, 2019

I remember tiptoeing through Seville searching for the ghost of a woman. It was like dancing with silk swallowtail wings amid a Sirocco wind.

The formidable Carmen, part femme fatale, part heroine. She is a true fable for cameras and archeologists to search for.

I likened myself to the French writer/archeologist Merimee, and the composer Bizet before me. I wanted my pictures to embody this woman’s story. I hoped my travels would become a great history for my camera.

I have been documenting my life through portraits and architecture for many decades. The idea of searching for Carmen from Barcelona to Seville seemed like a rewarding respite from my photographic routines.

I chose to begin my travels in Barcelona to prepare my camera and my eyes for the Castilian light I would engage in Seville.

I knew it was a good decision when I started to notice how light flitted atop the junctions of buildings and encroached upon shadows that may have hidden secrets of Castiles’ past.

As I watched the lights advance through the days like armies in the night, I knew that something was fresh before my eyes. I realized that the Carmen led narrative might advance my notions of photography. All photographers need a narrative of sorts.

Even when a goal might seem unattainable it is the narratives’ meaning that inspires and keeps us afoot. Alas, I knew I would not find Carmen in Barcelona.

Armed with visual inspiration I arrived in Seville, to stir up the Castilian streets.

Instantly the streets were enrapt throughout with Bizet’s Carmen. I listened to Flamenco steps echoing between the streets. Merimees’s story of love and tragedy guided my camera.

The mysteries of light and shadow enabled me to espy the ghost of Carmen in ways I could never have imagined. At first it was dark in the way that Holly Martins espied his friend Harry Lime in Carol Reed’s “The Third Man”. Between shadows lurked my subject. I knew that she was there. I knew that Carmen did not want to be found. I was certain that the reality was a dream.

I quietly heard deafening shouts of “Ole!” from the bullring. My prey was still at large.

I moved my camera to the cafes. Just maybe she was dancing and mingling among the throngs...The hide and seek was powerful. I felt the power of a new angle of repose would allow me to consider what I have seen what I have missed.

I recounted how the cityscape showered me for days with so many visual treats. I crossed so many miles looking for just one single capture.

My stay in Seville was a chapter from a novel mystery. The many adventures I had, allowed me to see Carmen through Spain’s history.

My mind’s eye captured part of a time capsule that has served this photographers’ visual feast for decades.

I never did find Carmen.

From London, to Berlin, to Los Angeles: A marriage

November 10, 2019

A young man journeys away from the British pronouncements of “Rule Britannia” to the ringing German endorsements of Sieg Heils to the sonorous shores of California where “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself”.

Fortunately Christopher Isherwood found a pronounced spirit of endorsements and calm in the Palisades of Southern California.

Half a century later I had traveled through the same British and German cities and landscapes. I had certainly lived a dreamy calm in Southern California.

My camera has been an enabler for four decades. There are tales my camera shares. There are stories I need to tell. I have hundreds of stories ahead. Today, the sanctuary of Los Angeles is a nice place to start.

The hundreds of the cultural puzzle I would come to know were artists, collectors and the peripheral world where dreamscapes informed my eyes. The LA art world had intimate vistas and intricate intimacies for my camera from 1983 until 1990. It seemed for awhile that my life was made up of days gazing at Leger’s, Picasso’s, Jackson P’s, Diebenkorn’s a Ruscha’s and Warhol’s and hundreds more artists that were laid bare for me to admire.

While the above seems otherworldly and delightful, I still wanted a bit of television gamesmanship: Behind curtain number one...!

A friend of mine, a well known artist at the time suggested I photograph an interesting artist who had lived an interesting life. I arranged for an invitation to photograph the portrait artist Don Bachardy.

I drove along Sunset Blvd, somewhere between Santa Monica and the Pacific Palisades. I was soon to be a party to California’s hypnotic coastline and all the trimmings the mythical Sirens offered. I safely turned towards Bachardy’s studio.

Before I exited my convertible, I fondly remembered the writers Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne rhapsodizing about their weekend drives to locations unknown. Most of their weekends were a spirited driving excursion for the sake of discovery and awareness.

Like Joan and John, I too drove the nearly 500 square miles Los Angeles offered me. In some ways the Los Angeles cultural history is the most American in our 50 states. The immigration maps are indelibly drawn by generations of Chinese, Japanese, Hispanic, British, German and so many more. I reminisce and coddle the city’s histories.

A blond tan man with thick rimmed glasses greeted me. It was Bachardy. How could I miss him, his German Expressionstic Blue Rider style self portraits blanketed the sun drenched walls. This was what a California studio was supposed to be like.

We moved along his terrace. We gazed at the ocean. This was an art experience that was foreign to me. There were no challenges, no challengers. The sun drenched rooms ruled my karma.

As I sort of danced through the spacious environs with cameras in tow I came face to face with a new set of eyes.

This short squat handsome older man was smiling wide. Bachardy introduced me to his partner, Christopher Isherwood! “Cabaret” anyone?

The generations we look forward to and the generations we embracingly reminisce about are our DNA. Without the the two we are empty vessels. My life as a photographer has been about connecting the dots.

Christopher Isherwood’s “Berlin Stories” and other writings were the template for Cabaret and many other plays and movies. Can’t you hear Liza loudly whispering,”Thank you Christopher”.

For the next hour or so the three of us chatted. But all I wanted him to talk about was the voices of the German Palisades. Thomas Mann, Bertolt Brecht, Arnold Schoenberg and Billy Wilder and more emigrated to Los Angeles before World War Two. It seems that the Palisades was the most German commune. Cultural phenomenons were at my finger tips.

Oscars, Nobels, and Pulitzers reveals were within a petal’s whisper.

I decided that I wasn’t creating a cultural biography. I instead kept my camera at work and pocketed my curiosity for another day.

As I began to make the pictures that mattered, I realized that sometimes the experience of great company, is a life to be lived.

BALI: DANCING WITH CHARLIE CHAPLIN’S HOLLYWOOD

October 17, 2019

Charlie Chaplin suddenly reached out and grabbed my hand. Like two star struck travelers we journeyed through Balinese history together.

When you travel, history touches your heart, stories disappear into your eyes.

I dreamed that Chaplin and Schulman encountered the Indonesian jungles together. I dreamed that we strode by the edge of innumerable rivers. Snakes and dragons beckoned us to caress the waters. The jungles whispered to us gently, “join us”.

I grabbed my heart. Of course I am romanticizing. But Bali is truly a spirited elixir.

Charlie Chaplin sailed to Bali in 1932. I flew in 2000. Our stories melded generations of cultures. From early in the 20th Century, to the beginning of the 21st Century, many thousands of people have traveled to Bali seeking a spiritual discovery. A spirited elixir is like discovering a river of gold. In fact all gods believe it is like discovering an invitation to a life lived and a window into the life ahead.

Chaplin (depending on the story you want to embrace) was looking for a step ladder towards his next story. I was merely saying hello to a dream.

Chaplin might have traveled with a Hollywood celebrated crew (Paulette Goddard, Charles Laughton and more) looking for what some Balinese exotica might contribute to their careers. I just wanted to feel a visual discovery fused into my eyes to remember for a lifetime.

Bali seems to exemplify a “False/Truth”. Everything is absolutely real to the naked eye. Everything is a dream conjured from myth. You step ashore and drift into an imaginary world that you hope is real, but the only truth is the dream that you take home with you. We visit because we want to imagine what might be real. Bali is a trap laid out by thousands of myths.

I traveled from the formations of 20-30 foot waves to the ridges of jungles that the monkeys ruled. I tasted the fruits.I enjoyed my trip as if a precious stone was within an eyes’ grasp.

My shooting commission was a grouping of the Four Seasons and more. I photographed numerous artists and too many temples. I shot colored kites and colored banners across rice fields and oceans. Bali was a voluptuous adventure for my camera.

My travels with Chaplin reminded me of Marc Chagall’s “The Dance”. We floated through dreams together. We realized that Bali becomes a private vault for your dreams today and for everyday after. The experience married my past and my present, to my memories for my future.

I sat along side the pilot in the cockpit of Singapore Air. I was now heading home. The pilot asked me about my experiences traveling to Bali. I could only utter as I gazed across the skies from 30,000 feet that, “I had a Chaplin moment”.

Architecture’s Dance Partners

October 11, 2019

Architect Norman Foster ( left) dancing with Richard Rogers in London

Often I stroll through a cityscape or a rural main street. My eyes espy the natural flow of a country’s aged life. For decades the moment is what compels me to realize that my purpose is to record life’s life. I have traveled half the world relocating my eyes to what matters. I stand on a street corner in cities among continents considering how history changes.

In life’s true spirit I capture the hands of an octogenarian couple who mirror the test of time. Their gait, dress, the doffed cap the curtesy address generations of a life lived. These youthful ghosts of eras past, are architecture’s embodiment.

Frank Gehry designed the “Dancing House” (The Nationale Nederlanden building) in Prague. It appears that there Are two buildings on the dance floor. “Fred and Ginger” are a psychiatrist’s dream. If only they were on the couch. But here they are. A Gehry stands on the corner for all to witness the architecture dance. It is a tango.

I have photographed hundreds of architects and thousands of buildings.

What I have learned is that architecture is like a collection of musical notes. Sometimes the sounds are heralded as lifetime achievements. Sometimes one needs to realize that the greatest intentions fail miserably. Imagine a Paul McCartney, Jessye Norman duet. They might sound like a begging Macaw. Yo-Yo Ma and Ginger Baker might sound like a fox wrestling in a chicken coop. The truth is that all architecture either sings melodious dreams or cacophonous nightmares.

Over the years I have been fond of watching the styles and the footprints of structures mingle together. We all know that the best dance partners are the ones whom are most comfortable together. Like dance, you want your partner to keep up with you, and sufficiently hold you up in the right light. It doesn’t always work out that way.

I regard a portrait of a building as I might a person. They both reveal similar characteristics when approached properly. As the light changes, so does the personality. I love marrying the light to the character.

I remind myself of the couple holding hands as they stroll along the streets. I reflect on their aged life as I would on a couple of buildings living intimately for so many years together. So much has changed in the time from when they first met. How have they aged together. Why have they stayed so long together?

The history of architectural photography speaks to the growth of our planet, and the need to grow together. Just sometimes, we need to jettison the weight of our past to spring forward. But then it is possible that architecture’s promise for the moon is just that...

We must be careful how the city chooses its partners. It could be a heavenly choice for the gods or a nightmare for a lifetime.

MY EYES ON RUSSIA

October 03, 2019

MY EYES ON RUSSIA

I stood guard by Dostoyesky’s bed. The River Neva was close to flooding his home. A bounty of words embraced my gaze. Frozen, I imagined a pattern of a million Monarch Butterflies escaping the deluge. Each fluttering wing carried dispatches from Fyodor: “Save my words, Save my legacy”. Dostoyevsky’s home was quickly a memory.

My eyes have seen more than my camera. But there is an indelible imprint on my brain that influences me while I travel for new experiences. The ghosts of Russia’s past: Babi Yar, Tzars and Tzarinas and whatever else I have encountered “Beyond the Pale”, live inside of me. Fortunately I have 100 stories I can tell, and 100 stories I shouldn’t tell.

Saint Petersburg is a city of ghosts. My driver (a former Dakar Rally participant) frequently showed off his skills on the snow swept streets. The fun was his, the thrill was mine.

We sped around corners and across avenues. I saw every hero and heroine in shades of ghosts, seemingly slink back into their temporary home in Novodevichy Cemetery. Though I had an intended agenda at hand I embraced every historical moment as if it was my present.

On this particular journey I was to photograph numerous cityscapes, and engage what seemed to be an arena of portraits. All of my moments have impacted me through the years, but some leave an impression that never escape my psyche.

I have always been intrigued by the former Soviet Union. Russia’s heaven and hell are like the poet John Donne’s twin compasses in “A Valediction Forbidding Mourning”: where one goes so does the other.

I walked into the Psychiatric Hospital led by a psychiatrist who cared for a patient he wanted me to meet. I was told that the artist Yakov Lev was committed in the 1960’s. Apparently he wandered the streets talking to himself?

It was imperative that I not speak english in the asylum, outsiders were forbidden. Most importantly I was not to speak in front of Yakov, because he hated Americans?

There were no sounds of footsteps or a living soul in any of the corridors. We walked silently surrounded by green walls and dimmed fluorescent lights. I felt as if this was my last light.

We entered the artist’s combined 10’x12’ bedroom and studio. He did not greet me when I entered. He was told that I did not speak Russian...

For two hours, the psychiatrist tried to coax the artist toward the easel. Yakov looked toward the easel several times as if he was trying to remember what it was for. My heart broke several times during this session.

The easel was seasoned with 30 years of paint mixed for another day. A canvas appeared atop the easel. A gesture with paint and brush addressed the canvas.

The psychiatrist seemed pleased. The artist seemed stifled. The photographer found the pose through the viewfinder. There were just a few moments left. The two men needed to rely on each other. I sat poised.

Later, I walked out of the asylum. Pieces of a man’s life died in my eyes.

I felt a bit empowered by the dread of what life might become for some. I was softly embraced by the ghosts past and present. What followed on this particular journey was extraordinary.

MY SURREAL AFTERNOON

September 20, 2019

The road to Buckinghamshire could conceptually be mistaken for something magically Orwellian or a Lewis Carroll intervention. This beautiful Fall day traveling from London, was shepherding me onward to the home of the surrealist artist John Piper. The Fall leaves curiously danced among the trees. The sunlight was bending along the roads.

There was something of a new experience about to happen. Countries, cities and landscapes engulfed every living visual moment. So many days and nights in my life seemed like I was following Alice down the rabbit hole. Lewis Carroll’s surreal fiction enlivened my road to Buckinghamshire. It is slightly possible that I was the mad hatter, if I may, through the looking glass.

The Director of the Marlborough Gallery was driving me to my destination. The sporty car was careening from side to side. I was in a false heaven. It was a great way to dream about what photographs were about to happen. The mind’s eye was on steroids.

We arrived at our Buckinghamshire destination. Imagine an animated broom hilda running at you wide eyed and crazed with joy. This bucket of love waved her arms wildly and declared, “you are here! Welcome Mr Schulman”. I was twenty-eight years old, mr. was a bit alien to me.

“Richard, this Is John’s wife, Myfanwy Piper".

You just have to love the embrace of history’s grip when you realize you have morphed into a past century while imagining the future of the present century. I did not recognize this name Myfanwy, this ball of aged youth spun so tight. She was John Piper’s lifelong dance partner.

I was welcomed. Nothing quite feels like being engaged into Myfanwy's arms. She ordered me to follow her. I marched behind this beautiful magpie of energy, this light of my day into this converted farm house.

I came face to face with the living embodiment of an El Greco portrait. John Piper’s features mimicked El Greco’s dependency on elongated skeletal structures. Yes, Piper’s life dance card was nearing the end of its usefulness. Yet those golden sea blue eyes just awed my visual sensibilities. My eyes were in flux. A myriad of dreams entered my brain. I saw what will become a portrait in a fleeting blink.

The four of us carved into what looked like a 20-30 pound poached salmon breathing but lifeless on the dining table. This became what life should be: a few hours of pleasant moments hosted by my new favorite Myfanwy. Say it out loud and she will become your next child's name. John Piper felt otherworldly. Myfanwy was a dream. I was part of an artist’s canvas.

A sudden thunderclap silenced the gaiety. "Richard you know we have to leave soon. You are going to shoot John?” Said the Marlborough dealer. I knew after sharing two bottles of a crisp white wine, a bite of salmon and more, someone was going to say “picture time”. My dreamy mind woke up to a pressing reality.

John and I walked out of the house towards the other barn. We got to the door and I stepped over a 20-30 foot Calder Mobile strewn in the hay as if it was meeting death. John stopped me from thinking too much; "Calder and I were such good friends. I never knew where to put it. It became an entrance into my world. It is my reminder of where I have been, who I have known, what I do, and why I make art".

“Really?" I said. ”Maybe” he said. With a pat on my shoulder we entered his church. It was just crazily intimate. Many small pieces languishing near larger pieces. Art, art, art, art. I quickly flung my fingers around as if I was going to taste all the paint. I was swallowing the life of an artist.

“So Richard”, John said, “where is the portrait to be made?". “Just here” I said.

Eight frames later I looked up at John Piper, and asked him to close his eyes softly. A quiet click from my Nikon. I slowly whispered “excuse me” with my hand extended. His eyes fluttered a bit. I said, “Thank you for an incredible day”. John said, “you are done?”

I grabbed both his hands and smiled.

My life (as it always does) seemed to have changed. I knew that the moment his eyes closed, his elongated figure was my portrait. I came to know what was the picture, it wasn't just a picture but the moment where you stood face to face with the most important facet, the experience. There was no more energy to shoot another. Why make something from nothing? Why not just shoot what was given and stop. Eight frames of looking, one frame of quietude. There has not been another picture in thirty-five years that met my eyes like the Piper that day. The light the colors the stretch of the imagination, the silence in the room, live in my memories for another day.

We drove home back to London. I spoke just a few breathless words with the dealer.

For me it was my Churchillian moment. A young man had made something.

John and MyFanwy Piper ,,,Buckinghamshire 1983