Art And The Age Of Alcohol

September 08, 2020

“There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.”

Jean-Paul Sartre

Some people say the day Jackson Pollock danced sylph-like adroit his canvas for photographer Hans Namuth was one of the great ballets of art history.

One day someone heard the curdling screams from rape in Lord Byron’s Bell Tower. The young victims’ shattering sounds heard by Percy Shelley across the Tyrrhenian Sea were among the most frightening sounds in literary history.

They say the jazz musician Art Pepper’s finger nails scraping the white chalked walls of the Santa Monica California Synanon asylum, challenged the most psychoacoustic levels known in jazz history.

All of the above share the suggestion of lives consumed by life’s toxic vices beyond the pale. Stories of inebriated behavior originate from 7000 BC til this very second and beyond. A book of unique intoxicating behavior needs to be written. But honestly who has a thousand years to read it.

Maybe alcohol was/is the alluring equivalent to the Arthurian sorceress Morgan le Fay’s spell for sailors to espy and follow the narrow band of light above the horizons to their death. It seems we are all lured by what dreams may be. Creative forces expect one to find a key in life that doesn’t exist.

My earliest recollections from my life as a portrait photographer are only slightly fogged by the slew of immense pleasures that the company of contemporary art history greatness embraced my waking days for some 20 years.

By the early 1980’s I had photographed many fascinating enigmatics such as Isamu Noguchi, Willem de Kooning, Andre Kertesz and hundreds more. I am not sure if I was lured by their circles of interest, or those inhabitants were slightly interested in me. I guess in this case one can have it both ways.

#ClementGreenberg #artcritic #abstractExpressionism #1982

Clement Greenberg, the esteemed champion of Abstract Expressionism and cantankerous art critic, invited me to shoot his portrait. His New York Central Park West apartment walls were filled with fabulous Clyfford Still, Helen Frankenthaler, Pollock of course...and so much more.

The time was 9:30 am. Clement offered me a coffee. Then another.

We spoke about my travels into what was his art world, and becoming mine.

I think the clock said 11:00 am when he came back from his bar with a glass of scotch. He queerly with a fraction of hesitance asked me if I wanted one as well. By 1:00 pm we had about 5 glasses of amber on the rocks.

When I left his home, the New York summer heat flattened me. I slept that afternoon until 4:00 or 5:00. I awoke to what was one of the most enriching memories in a lifetime. Art history on so may levels touched my heart. I was beginning to understand what it meant to be armed by experience.

There are a thousand stories to tell:

James Rosenquist doused me in Jack Daniels and figuratively set me on fire with stories and memories about days before I was born.

Robert Rauschenberg cranked out like a Gatlin gun shots of Jack Daniels across his kitchen counter. We drank a cask of alcohol across a decade of encounters.

Jean Michel Basquiat ordered fire breathing Jalapeño infused vodka by the bottle. We spoke about what mattered for a dozen hours. Neither he, nor I, could remember what that was.

I met thousands of societies’ cultural extraordinaire for many years. Cocktails never had a proprietary hour. I drank a bit with some luminaries. But what I remember most is that each and everyone wanted me to meet them as they were and share their thoughts and creations.

I cherished the literary voice of Christopher Hitchens. He invited me down to Washington DC for a chat, a drink and a portrait. What if I had gone?

California: I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE FEARLESS LIKE JOAN DIDION

August 27, 2020

#Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne 1998

“A world vanishes but does not die, for I have only to become still again and stare wide-eyed into the darkness and it reappears. There is then a world in me which is utterly unlike any world I know of”.

Henry Miller

I was too young to know the truth.

I cannot remember the first time I hitchhiked in Los Angeles. I might have been ten or eleven. It was something that “we did”. I do remember when I was on my way to see a girlfriend. I think we were going to play spin the bottle, or maybe just match our lips together. It was like dancing the “Jerk”, a bit awkward.

I managed a ride. The guy was older. At that stage someone twenty could be fifty to a young kid. We headed south. He was going to take me as far as as I was going. We drove by a few blvds. I was too young to know the truth. His eyes were halting. The vibe in the car was new. His hands were halting. The car stopped at a red light. I jumped out. I ran all the way to my girlfriends’ home. I did not know what halting meant at the time. I was too young to know the truth.

The age was enlightening for a thousand good reasons. Not long after that episode I was standing on Wilshire blvd and 7th street when a car pulled up. “How far are you going?” The actor James Garner said. It was James Garner for gods sake what could go wrong. The Great Escape was my favorite film and James Garner was my 4th or 5th loved star in that film. I hopped in. He too asked me how far I was going. We talked about so many things. I cannot remember a single one. He drove me to my front door. He asked, “do your parents know you do this?” He asked me if he should come in and tell my parents. I said no no. Hitchhiking was my way as a kid. I remember hitchhiking all over the west side.

Not long after, I was with my parents in Watts (South Central Los Angeles) at a concert to heal. The riots (1965) had torn apart the city. Everyone was on edge. It is possible that Count Basie and Joe Williams (and more) were the panacea for our times. My visual education was already absorbing a city’s life. That Los Angeles seems like a long time ago.

The youth in me has since retired.

I was from Los Angeles. I am now from New York. I became like Paladin: Have Camera - Will Travel. The Los Angeles I left behind was an intersect between James M. Cain (The Postman Always Rings Twice), Russ Meyer( Beyond Valley of the Dolls) and Walter Mosley ( The Devil in a Blue Dress). I have since crisscrossed the globe. I escaped my easy days.

I met Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne for a photography assignment. It was like meeting my future’s past. The life they prognosticated for me was the life I had already led. I did not know it.

Joan and John drove to destinations unknown in Los Angeles. Every weekend they landed in an alien territory just to feel the systolic pressure that inhabited the Los Angeles pulse. They spoke volumes about the magnetism that these experiences brought to the table. It was as if if they heard Homer’s Sirens calling them. Those Sirens caress my ears and eyes every time I return to Los Angeles for work and to revisit my stomping grounds. I have attempted the same challenges in New York. The DNA is not transferable.

My adult eyes are married to my youth. My camera always weds the past with the present. Joan and John awakened in me what I subconsciously knew. Joan wrote about sitting on the hood of her grandfathers truck. He pulled out a gun and shot a rattlesnake. Joan wanted to be fearless like her grandfather. I always wanted my pictures to be fearless like Didion’s words.

ALMOST NAKED IN MOSCOW

August 13, 2020

“The camera is much more than a recording device, it is a means by which messages reach us from another world”.

Cinema great Orson Welles

My mind felt as if I was surfing vapors from magical clouds covered in gold dust. My strides through passport control mimicked the cinematic gait of Sean Connery’s From Russia With Love James Bond. 1985 was filled with many photography firsts. Moscow was waiting.

Driving through endless Moscow squalor to my hotel, my first visual impressions were what President Reagan’s advisors knew...Russia was penniless. If there was gray squalor, it lived in Moscow.

I arrived at the famed Hotel National on Red Square. I exited my taxi with a Fred Astaire pirouette (I can say that. I knew him and photographed him). My eyes touched every Russian detail. I floated inside. Russia was waiting for my camera. One million images would never be enough to capture this historical treasure.

My first breakfast was memorable for the conversational companionship that might have been. The famed actor Peter Ustinov was sitting in my view of Red Square. I was certain once I asked him to move a bit we would become lifelong friends. But instead the presumed MI 6 spy just grunted and moved an inch if that. We had breakfast everyday apart for one week.

I was greeted later that morning by my KGB (Novosti a state run news agency) guide. We visited a government building to deliver an envelope for the Industrialist Armand Hammer. Yes that Armand Hammer (#Occidental Petroleum and more). The envelope glowed in my camera bag from New York to Moscow. I was desperate to unseal the 11x14 package.

Somehow Raiders of the Lost Ark omen came to mind...Be careful what you wish for. Fortunately the government official smiled when I handed him the package and said, “I can see the seal was not broken”. I am positive the envelope contained cash or secret documents.

My Soviet objective was to capture every living cultural figure. I fell thousands or millions short. The hundreds of painters, sculptors, ballerinas, singers, conductors, writers, actors, chess grandmasters I did photograph will stay in my heart until I die.

For six weeks I photographed 3-4 personalities everyday. My personal driver crisscrossed the city. The Samovars fired up smoke signals across Moscow alerting the Russians to my impending arrival. The American was coming. I was greeted with vodka and “Nostrovia” from morning to night.

There was a particular day I might have allowed myself to become too intoxicated. It was “May Day. The celebration of the revolution invaded my Red Square with howitzers, marching soldiers, tanks and helicopters. What I didn’t know was that the “square” would be cordoned off for the event. I still packed my camera bags for a day of photography. I naively went about my day.

After a day of shooting I had to navigate my way back to “the National” around the city circles(rings). Like the planet Saturn, you might need an added centrifugal force to power past each ring. I imagine after quantities of vodka that the Moscow urban master planner, Russian architect Osip Bove romantically set his heart on mimicking Saturn’s rings.

That night there was a dinner party in my honor. I had been shooting from dawn till darkness. My driver would no longer accommodate me. I was on foot. I ran as a camel might for the oasis. I finally arrived at Gorky Street. I was on familiar grounds.

I arrived to find howitzers parked in front of my hotel. I gleefully swung like cheetah from the first one...until a few soldiers advised against that.

I made my way to my party a bit later. It was a great evening that I hardly remember.

Late that night I realized I was lost amidst traces of Saturn’s Rings in Moscow. I imagined what Bove might have dreamed and let the stars navigate my way home.

My pants were for some reason strewn over my shoulder. I had just a few rubles in my shirt pocket.

To be continued...

CHASING SHADOW LINES: The Whale’s Krill

July 29, 2020

The days and nights that held me steady in the middle of the Southern Ocean (Antarctica) was a dream come true. Life seemed frozen in the balance. I waded in the brilliance of a million translucent Krill. I struggled mightily to move amid the swarming shadows.

The depth of darkness freeze framed my movements. I saw shadows that had not been seen before. Suddenly the massive numbers of Krill seemed to be thrust into a gigantic maelstrom that appeared from nowhere. Nowhere might have been 23,000 feet below.

I swiftly realized the frightening whirlpool was thrusting a ninety foot blue whale swirling and twirling it’s elephant sized tongue in every direction.

The whale just as quickly as it appeared vanished into the deep. The Krill had been devoured. All that was left behind in the oceans wake were great spirited shadows as far as the eye could see. I will never forget the enormous baleen plate of this gentle monster emerging from the deep, and immediately diving into the vortex of the sea leaving shadow lines for my eyes to redeem.

Shadows have defined my photography for decades. I have never tried to explain them. Maybe the meaning lies in the volume and subtleties that the shadows emphatically exclaim. Maybe the answer lies in Neruda’s walk with his lobster through the parisian Palais Royale. The lobster is silent, yet knows the secrets of the deep. Maybe as Orson Welles’ archingly warned on the radio,”the shadow knows”.

Steven Holl’s Athletic Center Columbia University

Thousands of my photographs breathe because the shadows work like a magicians sleight of hand. They live in the magic of technology. One just needs to follow the lines. Sometimes they may swirl like in a maelstrom. But other times the shadows are partially hiding a voice, a heart and my mind.

My portraits and my architecture’s design images include shadows that lure one into the web of the photographers intentions. The playful truth stirs the adrenaline everytime I lift a lens to my eye. Forty years of playing the lines of shadows might seem a bit claustrophobic. But every photographer needs an internal PowerPoint.

Many years ago I had a fabulous neighbor. He was the famous tinkerer, tailor and soldiered photographer Andreas Feininger. He was among photography’s most renowned engineer and scientist. He looked for art, but clearly he was a great practitioner for the sake of science. I feel privileged to have had him in my life.

For a number of years we talked about photography as if we were in the science lab together. He was a perfectionist. I was the artist.

Over a glass or three of scotch we would talk about photography for hours. We would talk about the Bauhaus, his brother Lux, his brother the priest, his father Lyonel and of course all of the work he produced for Life Magazine.

His wife Wysse (a Swedish artist who Andreas met at the Bauhaus) would always pour a thumbnail of scotch into my glass. But she never let the glass go empty. We enjoyed our scotch.

Andreas would always critique my new work. “Your photographs live in the shadows. You have created a body of work that is like a puzzle that has no last piece”. I didn’t always understand him. But I loved that he opened the door to his world.

I live and thrive with my memories of my past. Everyday enlivens my lust to live again tomorrow and make a new photograph that will become yesterday.

THREE ARTISTS STOKED MY LIFE

July 16, 2020

Raphael Soyer 1982 in his New York Studio

I have communed with the dead at cemeteries as far flung as Père Lachaise in Paris, Novodevichy in Moscow, and Louis Armstrong in New Orleans. Maybe the inhabitants of more than one hundred cemeteries have ghostly spoken to me as in Dostoevskys’ Bobok

Sometimes you feel the need to hear the dead. Sometimes you need to clearly actualize their passion.The dead I refer to are the thousands of images I am recalling for my blogs. The life that they have breathed into me stay with me every time I manage a single click on my camera. It is the magic the dead share, that maintain the fire to create my future.

When I was a bit younger I wanted my time to reflect the history of art in America. Improbable as that might be, I was visually invoking the great lives of the worlds’ urban whisperers. Why couldn’t my pictures recall the raconteurs: Samuel Pepys, Raphael Holinshed, Boswell and Steele. Maybe I am one screwed-up romantic.

Watching artists being artists was a dream that became a reality. I couldn’t possibly place them in order of significance. I only know that the artists’ works and personalities allowed me to breathe. Years later, my eyes remember these moments as I might imagine one thousand resplendent Quetzal Mayan birds in flight. The jeweled birds dazzled and mingled in my imagination.

Resplendent Quetzal | National Geographicwww.nationalgeographic.com › animals › birds › resple...

When I consider the stories I need to share, I laugh. Certainly millions of episodes come to mind. Fortunately I see the collective process through a magical toy kaleidoscope. No color, no moment left unfettered.

Raphael Soyer was this fantastic diminutive giant. The respect he garnered as an artist was equivalent to a New York Yankee “roll call”. His circle included Edward Hopper, Reginald Marsh, his twin Moses Soyer and me.

Look into my eyes and you can only see how blessed I was to have the power of art shared with me by artists who whispered passion. I am six foot three. Soyer was a mere few feet tall. But we danced in his studio as Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof might have waltzed along the roof tops. Soyer’s grace and intellect emphatically touched my visible heart with every minute we were together. I never met Sholem Aleichem but I have imagined that his ghost danced with me every step of my way home rejoicing in the pleasures that I gleaned from my Soyer moment.

The next day I traveled to the upper west side to have an encounter with my first naked septuagenarian. I arrived at the home of the artist Alice Neel. We sat down across from each other and she offered me coffee. I caught a glimpse of Alice closely tucking in her nightgown. She speedily asked me if I would like to photograph her naked. I might describe myself as a slightly “wet behind the ears” 28 year old. I politely declined.

My god was I stupid! Alice was famous for her nudes. She was hoping that I would include my nude portrait of her in the pantheon of my art world images. Yes I missed a famous moment. But at that time I was acutely aware of her suicide attempts. I was not stopped by conscience. I felt compelled to merely appreciate the tender moment posed before my camera. After I had said politely that I would not be photographing her naked, she looked me in the eyes, and without a second lost, she lifted up her nightgown and pleadingly asked, ”are you sure”? A million shades of blush passed before my eyes. Her daughter burst in. Silence prevailed. To this day I see the nightgown lifted above her head. My appreciation for nudity has never been the same. Memories are golden.

One fall day I entered the home of abstract artist Robert Motherwell. At the time, he was my “White Whale”. Hundreds of artists had passed before my camera. Why had it taken so long to shoot the portrait of one of the most underrated great artists of the century? Sometimes life presents mysteries that there are no answers for.

I was aware that his ex wife was Helen Frankenthaler. I was aware of many Motherwell stories. I was certainly not prepared for his present wife Renate Ponsold. I was sitting in the living room waiting with coffee in hand for Bob to say he was ready for our session. In walks Renate. She bellows, Why are you photographing Bob, I have several photographs of him? There is no need for another photographer’s portrait.

I rarely spar with other photographers. I have always stated that to have a life behind a camera is a dream. I merely looked up at her and said I am making a book of my own images. She twirled around with a huff, and I never saw her again.

Standing in Motherwell’s studio was like imagining the marriage between the hallucinating Jefferson Airplane gazing out at the Woodstock throngs, and Thomas De Quincey putting to paper his “Confessions of an Opium Eater”. My mind was astonishingly bended in so many ways by his colors and shapes and shadows. I was euphoric. The funny thing is that this great artist couldn’t draw.

He shared with me some of his art school experiences. His professor insisted that the students be able to draw portraits like Cezanne before they move on. One day he looked at his drawings and realized he would never be able to emulate Cezanne. The next day, he packed up his intellectual baggage and became Robert Motherwell; “Abstract Artist Extraordinarie”.

CHRONICLING THE PARISIAN ART WORLD: CIRCA 1983. THE PRESENCE OF CESAR, THE MEMORY OF YVES KLEIN

July 02, 2020

The artist Cesar in his Paris studio 1983

When I stepped into twentieth-century cultural history, Parisian cafes became my intellectual home from the very first moment. I remember lighting up my first Gauloises in Cafe de Flore, Le Dome, Deux Margot, La Coupole and dozens more. Boy did I look handsome. I had the cigarette dangling from my lips like Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless, like Bogart in Casablanca. I was American cool. The irony was that the French smoked Marlboro.

My twenty/twenty-first century has been like riding visual currents that dance in my mind like the moons’ tidal forces. I have stepped into “rabbit holes” that have run my mind ragged. I have felt at times like my mind has been invaded by a Hunter S. Thompson neurosis. Maybe something more harrowing was at play.

When sanity woke me up, my heart wished I had walked alongside Brancusi step by step to Paris. I just might have created something great in this life too.

My Paris was a place that I thought I could sit among intimate friends and talk about art, politics and girls. The city became home for my camera. It was a place where I eliminated all creative inhibitors. Every morning I would wonder what I would see. Would the camera realize what was triggering my excitement. Certainly this look back in time would be my evidence. I was there to photographically chronicle the art world of Paris. Those immeasurable adventures till this day touch me every time I look though my viewfinder.

Paris was where I first experienced the sensation of gamboling among a coterie of artists. Paris may have been yielding to the New York art world supremacy, but jois de vivre is sublimely french. A young photographer is best suited by discovering the importance of life’s passions before he/she experiences the chaos that awaits the future.

I was introduced to the artist Cesar Baldaccini, “Cesar” by the curator of the Pompidou in 1983. The meeting became for me a James Bond martini, “shaken...”

This volcanic personality awakened me to creative possibilities. He was surrounded by lovers and other strangers. Yet it seemed as if he was only concerned with making my Parisian experience, a life’s moment.

I am always reminded of one of my photography heroes when I think back to that 1983 day. Embedded in my visual history is a story about the Japanese photographer Eikoh Hosea receiving an early commission to photograph the famed Japanese author Yukio Mishima. Upon arriving at Mishima’s home, Mishima asked the budding photographer, “what would you like me to do?”. The youthful Eikoh suggested that Mishima strip down naked and the photographer would wrap him up in rope!! To this day it is an inspiration that I have never approached. I have not yet made the photograph that needs to be made.

Cesar was open to anything. I had photographed noteworthy artists like Jasper Johns Ellsworth Kelly, Robert Rauschenberg and hundreds more. I was still in my creative infancy discovering the photographic equivalent (for what the surfers describe) as the mystical “stepping into liquid”.

For about a week I found myself sharing part of each day with Cesar (the French cinema award is named for him). One day Cesar climbed up to what I refer to as an interior widow’s walk. A perch I sometimes sat to watch him work or cavort among his circle. In his best English asked me if I was going to attend his exhibition at the Pompidou?

A few days later I stood in my “Sunday best” surrounded by a contemporary French cultural elite: Jean Tinguley, Nikki de Saint Phalle, Leanora fini, Pierre Soulages, dealers collectors, curators, and moi! I was young and proud. The night came to an end. Cesar suggested that I come with him and a few friends for any evening finale.

Some people grabbed a taxi. Some walked. It seemed maybe one hundred fanciful personalities had gathered like Fellini s denizens from La Strada on the terrace of the Petit Palais. We wondered what the occasion meant as the clock neared midnight. Cesar waved his arms for us to gather round the balustrade.

A countdown began. We were ordered to look in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. We heard “One” shouted. From the Place de la Concorde to the Arc... all of the street lights fell dark. Thirty-seconds later, as far as your eyes could see, Paris street lights reappeared in the hue of Yves Kleins most memorable blue as the night became midnight. The mysterious celebration engulfed everyone of us.

Cesar was the impresario that led this particular visual journey among Paris’s cultural elite Klein’s celebrants. The city was blanketed Yves Klein “blue” that night. I was forever elevated to a place where experience was limitless. Life forces, life’s engagements stay with your heart until you die. They remain to protect you and enable you.

Yves Klein “Blue and the arc de Triomphe

Musings on Architecture: It is in the Details

June 19, 2020

Gang, Diller-Scofidio-Renfro, Mayne, Gehry and Kuma.

There is a lot of blubber in architecture. Blubber aside from referencing whales and obesity, in architecture is mostly about architecture that merely builds the same building as predecessors have for an eternity...but sadly offer a mere twist or crown to suggest something new is at hand.
I have photographed thousands of buildings. I have spent days, weeks and years ruminating about the layers of interest a structure suggests, offers, shares with my eyes. When I engage a structure I always feel as if I am entering my own secret garden. It is a place that is private to my eyes. I sometimes think I am a character in Peter Matthiessen’s search for the Snow Leopard. I am alone in my own intellectual wilderness. I see all but I am alone. I am no longer in my Private Idaho, but in a welcoming seduction of craft and art.

Most often for me, I find comfort living inside the the mind of a tiny child experiencing his/her first carnival, first Disneyland staring up at the vendor with the pink and white cotton candy. The eyes are shining with desire to reach out and touch. The child may know what it will taste like, but perhaps something new will be tasted. That is what I feel like when my camera sees architecture of desire. I know what I see but sometimes my mind is ablaze like Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters in Tom Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. If the design is electric, I am excited to grab even more than the camera can see.

The hundreds of architects I have photographed have provided me with a window into the best designs and ideas the world is seeing today. I will never see everything I need to see. I will bask in the opportunities that were shared with me. The architects listed above compelled me to think about what photography of architecture means to me.

Coming to terms with the values of the design of architecture is an enrichment that can never be underestimated. These designers have unique agendas that have what Christmas brings every year; A gift. They have a sense of sparkle that ignites the fire within. We admire with jaws dropped. Yes other do as well, but this is one of a series of blogs; patience please.

Photographing entire structures is sometimes a matter of understanding the architects/clients agenda and footprint. I alway stress the need to start with the widest angle and like a lion slowly stalking their prey move in for the kill. The game is about swallowing the entire project and move to where the most enriching detail pauses your breathing. Then slowly reverse your steps. The best photographs speak to what you include and exclude. That is the essence of any photographic narrative.

The endgame is to find clarity.

Clarity is the time Dame Kiri te Kanawa (a story for another time) stood aside a piano in this wonderfully London skylit studio one morning. She was rehearsing for a solo performance. I sat across the studio. I sat in my cotton robe with coffee in hand as she rehearsed a section of two arias. The pianist began. Kiri began. I sat engulfed in the purist cultural experience of my life. The soprano genius invoked some of my best visual aha moments. The morning perfection of sound and light has fed my inspired appreciation of photography ever since.

Languishing In My Paris Bathtub

June 05, 2020

Surrealist artist Marcel Jean 1983Paris 1983 — Surrealist artist Marcel Jean 1983
Paris 1983

I raised my head in a Paris morning, plodding along from my hotel bedroom to my bathroom. The path was steeped in an imaginary bank of clouds.

I stretched my body into the massive bathtub filled with hot water. I hefted a volume of Anne Rice’s Interview With a Vampire in one hand and James Joyce’s Ulysses in the other. A bit of an odd marriage that works my need for escapism and my intellectual spirit.

I opened my bathroom windows to the city rooftops, with Paris fall weather blowing across the heat rising from my tub. The heat and cold managed a foggy stationary front lofting above my body.

The ghosts of Joyce’s Stephen Daedulus and Anne Rice’s Lestat sat on my window sill while I reanimated. They were either guarding my soul or alerting me to an omen yet to be recognized this morning. The morning read was my rite of passage during my Parisian travels. My hours reading were sometimes long and tranquil. But today my ghosts interrupted the tranquility with a motion for me to get along. Yes it was time to hit the streets. I dressed and stepped out to experience the mysteries that will arise. Today I was meeting the fabulous surrealist artist Marcel Jean.

But first, my eyes caught my favorite cheese shop...to buy my favorite saucisse (sausage) in buttered baguette with sharp mustard and agreeable cheese to accompany me up to Sacré-Coeur. My French hotdog in hand, my ghosts in tow I stepped along Rue Bonaparte to Rue du Bac. The route delivers many amusing diversions. Among my favorite was Deyrolle, one of the great companies of entomology and taxidermy in Paris. Not only is it the home of many natural history curios, but sometimes I can feel the ghost of my intellectual hero Walter Benjamin stand with me. We become like two chemical compounds merging into one. My eyes invade Benjamins. We stare into the shop like children teared with wonderment. Benjamin bemoans the loss of the Parisian Arcades. Together we share the passing of time. Our eyes pass from curio to curio imagining the histories to be told, and the lives lost. It is a lovely saddening experience.

All of Paris is the life of fantasies and realities merging before our eyes.

A photographers life is essentially a conversation between a camera and a human being. Maybe I am a bit drunk with life like James Stewart in the movie “Harvey”. One is alone with his thoughts as he/she marches through life. It can be extremely animated, but obviously alone. You hear voices, and watch myriads of people. It remains a great life, that is filled with quirks. Those quirks are filled with moments listening to sounds that motivate your mind and passions. Sometimes just wandering the streets my stride might be driven by head scratching sounds: Little Anthony’s “Hurts So Bad”, Brian Ferry’s “Avalon” or Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher”. “Quirks”.

I summon my ghosts to dance along with me. We pass the Hotel des Invalides, the Sorbonne and a bit of Pigalle before landing in front of Sacré-Coeur. Montmartre Cemetery is a breath away. The walk had been a bit quixotic a bit romantic.

Once I arrived near the Montmartre Cemetery I remembered photographing a half dressed model riding atop a barren headstone... She was dressed like Ludwig Bemelmans illustrated schoolgirl “Madeline”. It was a lame attempt to mimic the photographers Guy Bourdin or Helmut Newton. But that is what young photographers do. Fortunately I moved on towards my own voice.

We went past the cemetery and finally arrived at the home/studio of Marcel Jean.

The Surrealist artist was one of the most fascinating artist I have met. His English was slightly better than my French. He made great efforts to show me his work and more importantly make me feel as if for those short moments, I was the most important person in the room.

For me he was the French version of an earlier blog about the English artist John Piper. Publishing intellectual theories and essays about contemporary artists seemed to be more important than the artistic creations.

I have mentioned more than enough that even in 1983, artists were more curious about the other artists I had photographed than the shooting moment at hand. In hindsight it was something to embrace. But I have always tried to drive the conversation towards the subjects ideas and passions. There is this constant curiosity that needs to know what someone else is creating...I don’t know why, but it has been a constant.

He pointed to a round table near his paint brushes. Waiting for me was some coffee, a few cookies and a bottle of whiskey ... We continued to share our worlds until the

morning had become afternoon. It was time to finish I what I had come for.

I raised my camera and ...

Paris again was waiting for me.

Surrealist Artist Marcel Jean Paris 1983 — Surrealist Artist Marcel Jean
Paris 1983

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