Across the Great Divide: Architect David Adjaye

December 01, 2022

#DavidAdjaye #SugarHillDevelopment #Harlem

I have photographed numerous Adjaye buildings

“Run, run, run” The Last of the Mohicans Hawkeye’s mind screamed. Daniel Day-Lewis and Hawkeye morphed into one. They (he) raced through the woods. Their strides never pausing until the Tomahawk blade was thrown-into his mortal enemy Magua’s skull.

“Run!!!!!” My mind screams as Burt Reynolds’s “Lewis Medlock” races through the forest. His strides never pause until he shoots his arrow through the heart of his mortal enemy and saves Jon Voight.

I have always thought that in a small way, the author James Dickey’s Deliverance echoed James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans. The two star protagonists shaped their moments similarly. Though Daniel carried himself like Steve McQueen and Burt looked like architect Peter Marino. I have an eidetic memory for such things.

#Portrait #DavidAdjaye in my #Newyork Studio

The stride:

Could I at one time run like Hawkeye and Lewis? Have you seen me run through airports and train stations and across roads halting people and traffic? With camera in hand sometimes I am carrying more than one hundred pounds of equipment across my body while capturing more metropolises than I can remember. I stride, I race. My neurons transfer successfully through a synapse. I hear snippety snap snap. The photograph is done. I can breathe. I am exhausted but happy. I need speed. I need adrenaline. But I think pausing is where the photograph lives.

The pause:

For years I have captured everything that reminded me of architecture’s beauty. But if I could stop time, like in Rod Serling’s “A Kind of Stopwatch”, maybe I could engage the world as a great architectural diorama. I could pretend I was like a Cuvier beaked whale; I could breach the surface from 2000 meters below sea level and feel myself blessed with air. I could simultaneously capture the rapidity of movement and the pause in one frame. My photographs would be like capturing Aesop’s tortoise and the hare at the finish line: The monumental built world in a single frame: The art of architecture frozen in time; my time.

I rode the subway about one hundred and fifty New York streets. The underground if only momentarily, manages to mask perspective and time.

I arrived at 155th street. I felt I was in Spike Lee territory. I was a foreigner in my hometown. My breath, my stride, my eyes were wide open like Alex in “A Clockwork Orange”. This was not rehab, this was Oz. Every building, every tree was like my first Canaletto viewing experience; vivid with a history lesson on every stoop. Yes, yes, I have been to Harlem a hundred times. But this morning invaded my body like no other. My eyes wide, my mind was bopping like a dog in a “low-riders car”. My smile was blinding.

The shape of my prey, my intended building was advancing. I neared architect David Adjaye’s Sugar Hill Development. I heard the nearby church doors swing open. The Deacons all in black robes led the congregation to the street. The drapery of the gowns seemed to dance to a silent sound. I closed my eyes and shot a naked snippety snap snap. I was ready.

The sun was still rising in the east over the Macombs Dam Bridge. I dreamed I had wings and flew above St. Nicholas Avenue. The sunlight steered my eyes sharp right south into Adjaye’s building. I ran further south. I ran east to the bridge. I ran west towards Jackie Robinson Park. I embraced my memory of Baseball’s Robinson the great Dodger. I sat on the edge of the park. I admired the little I had seen of Sugar Hill. I watched the building evolve before my eyes. All the while my mind is accelerating and pausing as if at a yellow light. I am revving my engine, but haven’t made a decision. How do I make this image a conversation about photography and the art of architecture.

I reminded myself of conversations with the famous Illustrator Saul Steinberg; “Shoot me on my bicycle, that will be the photograph”. Steinberg meant that I only needed one image to capture him.

I began to imagine an “Adjaye” standing pronounced in a Steinberg’ Manhattan illustration. My Adjaye image would be a 250th of a second. I made a snap.

I had spent hours at 155th and St Nicholas Avenue. Past photographs were whispering insights to me. A successful single frame was like a single tomahawk blow through the skull, a single piercing arrow through the heart. My mind was aligned with two great novels.

I made my way to the subway heading south. I paused before entering. I allowed my mind and body to spin a thousand rotations like a whirligig in a hurricane. I wanted to connect everything that was anything in Sugar Hill

#DavidAdjaye #RivingtonPlace #photography #London

#DavidAdjaye #smithsonianNationalMuseumAfricanAmericanHistoryandCulture #WashingtonDC

Husbands and Wives: The Waltz Above the Clouds

November 17, 2022

Joan and John, Claes and Coosje , Robert and Denise, Leon and Nancy; They have all passed.

One twilight afternoon I stood in my living room. I had a martini in hand. My wife and my mother (who was visiting) had a glass of champagne. The city lights to our north twinkled like a cache of jewels stretching to the Pacific.
We began to listen to Puccini’s Tosca. Kiri Te Kanawa’s “Vissi d’arte” exposed our hearts. I extended my hand. I danced with my mother for few moments. Her tears embraced all of my years. “I haven’t danced since before your father passed”. The shaken glow throttled me.
Years later, (thinking of my mother and father) the moment allowed me to recall all of the twosome portraits I had photographed in my career. My archives are filled with many couples shyly jockeying their egos and their hearts in my photographs. For vague reasons most subjects felt this was a seminal moment in their lives. I know it is weird, but true. For me the sessions were like observing a patient with Alzheimer’s: let the subjects say and do; just pay attention.
The night before the a portrait session of two art dealers, I by chance watched the movie “To Have and Have Not”. I told the dealers they were my Bogart and Bacall; They giggled.
What I didn’t realize at the time, was that from the very first day I had made a portrait, I was considering how my subjects, whether one, two or ten related to each other. I have concluded that a successful photograph is about the dance. I might dance like Eugene Delacroix for my fees. I might compel my subjects to dance for my camera. I was on to something.
When Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne, Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen, Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown, Leon Golub and Nancy Spero looked into my eyes I knew that I was sensing Bogart and Bacall in the room with me. It was the beginning of the waltz.
Joan and John wanted to walk with me. They wanted to see how I saw my photographs. They wanted to participate in my experiences. All the while, they would share an amazing exchange of their own lives as if it would be the way they would write our moment: (The photographer) I continued to take pictures and we three spoke about how our moments had similar DNA, but our lives lived generations apart. Their faces looked to each other for comfort and queries. They like owls spun their heads around to try and see what I was seeing. Their gaze returned to my camera. A photograph was made.

Claes and Coosje did not use the pronoun “we” once during my first session with them. By the second session ten years later, “we” was a constant. I am not a critic of social behavior or art. But I did notice that their care for who they are and how they presented themselves had changed dramatically. My first portrait was Claes with Coosje. My second portrait was about conjoined female and male. They completed each other’s sentences. I watched them inhale. The room felt like an early dawn with Loons whispering and cooing. I knew I was about to make a portrait. I saw two people as one. Ten years, two artists, two portraits, Claes and Coosje had become one. I snapped my shutter. The image was realized.

Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown met me on a Saturday afternoon. Controversy shadowed their professional profiles. They were equal in their eyes, There is always a but.
Their studio/office was completely empty. I felt as if I could ask them to jump naked into the Roman Colosseum’s arena of hungry lions they would have complied. They were there for my moment. Whatever it took to appeal to my sense of accomplishment. Every thing we spoke about was left open ended. They seemed to reserve every sentence for the possibility that I would ask them for more: they were ready to share. If I had heard secrets, they knew that they were between our three. No brighter sunny Philadelphia day was ever shared with such engaging souls.

Leon Golub and Nancy Spero might have been the most spritely angels I have photographed. They were artists in love; with an edge. They had a political bent. Their art was steeped in contemporary political history. They raised the cultural roofs for political change 24/7. They whispered. Their powerwall pulsated under canvases across the planet. If unleashed, the dream was that a cultural democracy would prevail. I danced. Their bodies began to move together but apart. Their hearts and minds performed a pas de deux. The intimacy for my eyes only was staggering.
Sometimes I feel my life stories remind me of the Miles Davis title; “Seven Steps to Heaven”. I feel I am moving in a direction. Maybe it is towards a finale of sorts. My memories are of those who have lived in my life. Those who have passed waltz in my minds’ eyes above the clouds

U2s “The Edge”, Caviar and the Hands I Shake

November 09, 2022

U2s “The Edge”, Caviar and the Hands I Shake

“The Edge” Nam June Paik, Yoko Ono…

Charles Lamb (Elia) wrote; (“Every man hath two birth-days: two days, at least, in every year, which set him upon revolving the lapse of time, as it affects his mortal duration.”

I was once a kid for sixty years. I have been Dickens’ Tiny Tim and dozens of other bits of fairytale children for way too many years. One New Year’s Eve night I stood in the apartment foyer of a friend’s New York apartment. I am not a party guy. I am not a party dance guy. I figured a few steps from the front door might make for a quick exit if need be.

I was chatting with a few faces I knew from my building. In walked this guy. My eyes widened like a grizzly spotting a drift of ten thousand Chinook salmon heading up stream. It was like a billion geodes exploding in one hundred square feet. U2’s “The Edge” peeked in. He moved across from me and my friends. He too was positioning himself for the inevitable “Casper” exit.

My favorite guitarist is Jimmy Page or Hendrix on most days. It was always more than about music. Their sounds transform not what I hear, but the way I see. I remember listening to “The Edge” on “The Joshua Tree” soundtrack. I was standing on a hilltop in a world unbeknownst to me. I listened to his chords. I wanted to let it play like a scratch on vinyl. So when he walked into this New Year’s Eve party, surrealism engulfed the moment.

Festivities were in the air. People are chatty on New Years’ Eve as if you have shared a lifetime of friendships. My mind was brimming with all kinds of stuff I wanted to “chat” about. Most people want to embrace the past 364 days and look forward to the next. SuddenIy in one part of my occipital lobe I thought The Edge was going to lean in for a kiss. I said “Nope, nope that can’t be!” I began to hear Dooley Wilson (from Casablanca) perform “…A kiss is just a kiss…”.

I could feel my mind hallucinating. Zero mescalin in my blood stream. I was turning many shades of green, and then Casper white. I saw what seemed like a ticker tape of Aldous Huxley’s “Doors of Perception” text race across my eyes. Maybe it was a rite of passage for everybody to kiss. I placed my cocktail down. Faces moved in and out. I grabbed and shook The Edges’ hand. I stepped into the hallway. The party continued to blast. I still had a few questions for my new U2 friend. When I arrived at my apartment, I began to vomit. I was so relieved that “Dooley” was wrong. The caviar and an excessive evening almost caused me to think the absurd. I was so happy I was hallucinating.

Later that night I heard Jimmy, Jimi and The Edge play until the new year’s early dawn.

I was invited to an evening at the National Arts Club in Gramercy Park. I was a guest of the artist Will Barnett. I was there for an evening to celebrate Yoko Ono, John Cage, Nam June Paik, Gordon Parks

and more.

Yoko began the evening by talking about being with John Cage and Nam June Paik in Germany.

Her first utterances were that Paik was devastatingly gorgeous; The most handsome man I have ever seen. That night I made introductions with Nam June Paik and Gordon Parks. I had already photographed John Cage with Merce Cunningham. I never did get the opportunity to photograph Yoko.

A few weeks later I walked into the studio of an artist who first described the future of telecommunications as the “Electronic Super Highway”. Nam June Paik was easily the most generous artist I have met. I am sure that once he had his stroke, that he understood that he needed to be fearless in order to engage the infinite possibilities that his mind and art might contribute to the art world’s dialogue. You combine that with his warmth and genuine need to share, his world, gave me pause and a bit of faint.

He might have been a prince of the Fluxus art world. He was the most cutting edge artist I had met.

Paik and his wife the artist Shigeto Kubota could not share enough of their cultural explorations.

He was no longer the most devastatingly handsome man. His love to engage the moment broke my heart many times. His devotion to his creative life soared universes beyond the Yoko Ono appreciation.

The best part is that the world knew his devotion to creative processes were his soul. One of the surprisingly touching moments for me was when his wife( and collaborative partner) Shigeto walked me out after our first session: “You make my husband very happy today. Would you like to see more of his work? Shigeto grabbed my hand. I sat in my heart as I realized that two people who had issues with translation and the simplest exercises of communication embraced my moment.

When I returned for a “next” session I decided that I wanted my camera to meet Nam June Paik’s visual desires head on. As they say in the wilderness; “I was armed for bear”. I will never know if I was successful as a photographer. I will know that I choreographed every shutter speed. I monitored every tone of light. I measured every inflection. I was a surgeon in an artist’s heart.

What transpired at the end of the afternoon was that I did not see a supernova, but I felt the power of one when Shigeto walked me over to Nam June Paik and placed my hand on his. His hand that sat on his wheel chairs’ arm. Nam June Paik wanted to say thank you. Three hands. They were pressed together. My god I am a pretty big guy. I can’t remember ever trembling like that before or after.

CHASING GHOSTS: CULTURAL GIANTS

October 26, 2022

Oscar Niemeyer’s Niteroi Contemporary Art Museum in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

My camera discovers the light in darkness

As I stood in the middle of Uriah Maggs Antiquarian shop, I could collectively imagine holding Napoleon Bonaparte’s penis, imagine listening to hundreds of the Codex Sinaiticus vellum sheets being shuffled like a “Carney” man shuffling cards of naked girls, and imagining reading every collection Uriah had accrued in history.

When I stand in the middle of history my mind feels like it is ghosting Hieronymus Bosch’s surreal as he steps to his canvas. I imagine the DNA from Vasari’s Lives to Olafur Eliasson’s. My camera pauses. I take a cultural breath. My camera holds steady as history unfolds.

My destiny is to dance naked atop a pod of blue whales. My destiny is to navigate a pod of whales atop the pinnacle of all the cresting waves of the seven seas. It is the only time my mind and body feels nuclear acceleration into new horizons.

When I was pinkish young, I was fearless. Now that I have spotted a tuft of grey hair, I am anticipating history to repeat itself: Fearlessness reappears in my destiny.

I have chased visual desires since the day my father bought me my first camera. My camera is akin to Aladdin’s lamp. Everyday single day I pray for its magic. Every single frame is magical. I write my blog to remember the magic I am destined to forget.

My career sometimes feels like I am straddling my private Bardo (like George Saunders’ “Lincoln in the Bardo”). I speak to thousands of cultural soldiers whose lives have passed and posed before my camera. I speak with them with every breath: they are me, I am here because of them.

Overtime I have realized that so many sessions have left me with so many questions. My camera is my memory. I need more. “Chasing Ghosts” is about those I am prevented from sharing additional discourse with ever again unless we meet in the Bardo.

I spent hours with the fabulous architect Oscar Niemeyer. It would be a highlight that Zaha Hadid and Santiago Calatrava would have loved to been able to share.Later my camera met his contemporary museum in the Niterói. I never got the chance to talk with him about the feeling of poverty and crime that lurked in the municipality surrounding the museum. I needed the story. I merely wanted to hear his voice again. I wanted a greater discourse with one of architectures’ greatest creator about anything and everything.

The mercurial Jean-Michel Basquiat and I had finished off a couple of bottles of peppered vodka. After hours of joyful conversation, what remained were some unanswered questions. I wanted to address the inappropriate: Fame and success. He was on a rocket to fame. I wanted to know what it felt like.

Jean-Michel Basquiat in Andy Warhol’s studio 1984

The darkest hours of the morning surrounded me. I was walking north on Park Avenue South. My photography equipment slung over two shoulders. The resident avenue prostitutes moved in on me. It seemed like there were 500 girls in various acronyms of sexual orientations and stages of nakedness. A taxi beckoned me to get inside. I told the driver I needed to walk a bit further. I wanted to return to Basquiat’s studio get answers. I reluctantly jumped into the taxi. A head filled the rear window. I motioned to drive on. It seemed like an hour before the taxi accelerated. I would never return to Jean-Michel’s studio.

I spent hours looking at Roy Lichtenstein on a beautiful summer morning in Southampton, New York. For me it was one of my greatest days. After I felt I had made my final snap, he handed me a beer and told me to take a walk on the beach. “When you come back, we’ll have a bite for lunch”.

I took the beer and tried to take a measure of the day. It was what I had hoped. The perfect picture, if there is such a thing.As I walked a bit further, I turned for no particular reason. Roy’s eyes were trailing me. I stopped and asked him why he was looking after me. “I wanted to make sure you were ok”. After lunch we sort of bowed accordingly. As I drove home my brain felt like it was twisted like a pretzel. I just wanted to drive back and get a real answer to why his eyes were trailing me along the beach. I felt like a character out of “Dr. No” or “The Prisoner”.

One Fall day in East Hampton, New York I waved goodbye to Willem deKooning. Before I turned away from him, I wanted to ask him the question: He was standing at his studio doorway, waving to me. But I needed to ask him if it was true that he had early stages Alzheimer’s. I needed to know.

We were together for nearly three hours. He was as lucid as a Myna bird on Red Bull. So many people had warned me about his mental health. None of what anybody had warned me about made sense. But as I walked, my karma was begging me to turn to him for just a moment. I just wanted more of what brilliance is about.

The hundred thousand visuals my camera has seen is like a symphony of movements. The notes of my past play in my mind. The history remains. The archives are frozen like a scorpion in amber. A glimpse or a word from the Bardo emboldens my future. I will always chase my ghosts.

Artists Serenade

October 13, 2022

The Avenues: A B C

The streets dreamingly adorned with patterns of arabesque reimagined the paltry kiosks from Bangladesh and other third world fringe environments. But inside New Yorks’ 1980s East Village gallery world, was an explosion of art that were akin to millions of pomegranate seeds fired from a thousand kilns.

From where I was seated in the outdoor cafe “7A”; Seventh Street and Avenue A I imagined all of the struggling adventurers posing ala arabesque: “Basketball Diaries”, Jim Carroll, Henry Miller’s “Quiet Days in Clichy”, Orwells’ “Down and Out in Paris and London” and of course Thomas De Quincey’s “Confessions of an Opium Eater”. Years later I remember seeing the broken but proud Zampanò from Fellini’s La Strada. The ABC’s art world pulsed in ways the city had not seen. It was as if from the rooftops of tenement buildings a chorus of Miles Davis trumpeters played through the day and night “Elevator to the Gallows”. Everyone noticed. Nobody noticed. Alphabet City did not die, but changed.

I was always and forever going to make my life about photographing the artists of past and future art worlds. What an amazing visual expression could be had. My outdoor seat at the corner cafe 7A was not the epicenter of the East Village. Though It was the one that most reminded me of Paris’s Montparnasse. A feeling of being uncomfortably in the middle of something, but equally comfortably apart. The days always seemed like misty afternoons where one could imagine a smattering of artists skimming the sidewalks.

I had already photographed the names that sat on pedestals in Soho, 57th street and the Upper East Side: Dekooning, Warhol, Johns and Rauschenberg and hundreds more rested in my archives.

To the denizens of the ABCs I was already an aged photographer. I felt distanced like Eugene Atget must have standing in his damp Parisian studio away from the world he once paced proudly across.

I have seen where artists live and how they have lived

Some artists were without heat. Most studios seemed to have white Pressed Tin collapsing. The East Village looked a bit like an Escher world. I was there to let my camera go snippety snap snap.

This new more youthful generation of artists wanted to be photographed by their own. I mentioned my days with famed artists. The community only cared about Warhols’ name. They wanted stories about Basquiat and Haring. I prevailed. I corralled Rodney Allen Greenblatt, Stephen Lack, Philip Taffe, Thomas Lanigan Schmidt, Keiko Bonk, Troy Brauntuch, Basquiat, Haring, Kiki Smith and dozens more. Their dealers like Pat Hearn, Gracie Mansion, PPOW we’re spreading the word. My camera didn’t flinch.

For me, the photographs were an adventure; I wanted to see the new before they were defeated. I wanted to see the new youth oriented army of artists as they aimed their sights on the successes of their Soho superiors. At one point many unique personalities were vanquished by the life they intended to be part of. Most artists I have met who succeeded against all odds remember fondly the experiences they lived in “Alphabet City”. It was walking a tightrope.

Still, I could feel so many lives soon to be extinguished from their dreams. In a way it was a wild Hieryonmus Bosch world. Against all odds so many artists prevailed. My camera saw a world that was breathing fire and excitement.

Excitement filled the streets, galleries and studios. The ABCs were the beginning and the end of community.

The Fragility and Promise of Glass Architecture in New York

October 06, 2022

#WhitneyMuseum #Museum #RenzoPiano #Sculpture #art

When the World Trade Center collapsed, billions of hearts in shades of Madder Root fell across the skies in unfettered unison as if conducted by the God given orchestra of angels.

#WorldTradeCenter #SkidmoreOwingsandMerrill #santiagoCalatrava #Oculus

Mourning binded our souls in confusing stages of mental turbulence. There was no rhyme nor reason for these periods or patterns of mournful distress.

Many years ago the Architect Richard Meier commissioned me to record the footprint of the devastating attack on 9/11. I ran like an Ostrich after sipping spiked punch, stalking a sneaky snake. Round and round I ran. The urban sounds of sirens pierced the air. Uncontrollable crying and warnings of apocalypse filled the air. Snippety snap snap my camera clipped. Wide angle and zoom lenses captured what they needed to capture. Authorities grabbed my camera. I explained my legacy, New York’s legacy, and they let me continue.

I remember standing on the second level of a pizza shop across from the disaster. The proprietor and a dozen or so patrons came up to the second floor to watch me shoot. They wanted to know what I might see from this angle. The proprietor slipped me a few slices of pizza. I kept shooting. I felt a bit like Rear Window’s Jimmy Stewart sans Grace Kelly. Through the looking glass I waited for movement, I waited for my camera to see the history that lived. There was nothing in the WTC footprint but ghosts. The camera taught me to see the living and the deceased. To this day I have not seen what my camera saw.

I have often thought of Queen Victoria’s husband Prince Albert. He was the cheerleader responsible for the building and dedication of the 1851 London Crystal Palace design. It was one of the first and great glass designed buildings in modern history. It was a great achievement for the Prince. It was a great achievement for architecture. When it caught fire many decades later, I wondered how the Prince might have re-acted: I considered that he would fall to his knees and mourn the death of creation. He would look up towards the consuming flames while glass remnant shards rained on top of his heart. I can imagine his fervid cry, “what a life”. Albert is dead, all that we remember of the World Trade Center is buried below the city.

Emboldened by my dreams I stood facing (as if floating inside) giant panes of the new One World Trade Center One. In front of me was the new New York. In back of me was the past and future conjoined as if two babies at birth: Old New York‘s heart was feeding the glass high rising architecture into a new stratosphere. The poet Frederick Garcia Lorca would have claimed that he was “murdered by the sky”. The poet would be disoriented by the unforgiving angles of progress.

For this photographer, The architecture (World Trade Center’s substitutes) Skidmore and Owens and Merrill, Norman Foster, Fumihiko Maki and Santiago Calatrava braced me. It has always been an universal motivation to see tragedy and build from it. This is the way of the camera too. The camera sees what it need to see. Not the other way around. The camera shapes your vision. The lens sings the mantra:”Go forth”. It was as if Aaron Copland’s “The Fanfare for the Common Man sprung my feet free.

Before my eyes lifted north on broadway, I noticed an array of colorful pigments on the ground. They were probably remnants from an amalgamation of sorrow: what stood before my feet was a period of history. I imagined art history’s Albrecht Dürer was gathering colors for his “European Blue Roller” or such. But as my eyes moved north I glimpsed at a single Barthman’s Sidewalk Clock at the corner of Broadway and Maiden Lane. The circular glass clock embedded into the sidewalk pyschedelically morphed into thousands. The sign was clear. I marched like Joe Pendleton in “Here Comes Mr. Jordan”: I stepped on every (Clock)ivory key north to heaven. I was flanked by hundreds of glass buildings standing erect like a soldiers salute. Heaven is where every standing unit of glass architecture poses for me.

#HudsonYards #Related #Chanel #Cartier #Theshed #DillerScofidioRenfro #Heatherwick

My voices whispered. I was in the company of millions of architectural stories. I stood in the middle of The Canyon of Heroes. I dreamed that ticker tape rained on my head with streamers made from melting gold hung from patina rooftops. Alas, not a single ticker tape sailed above me. I was alone. I am always alone with my voices and my camera.

I took snippety snap snaps of every reflective light. I heard the Mingus Harlem Jazz Ensembles usher in encouragement. I heard Miles Davis’ “Dingo” pace me through my walk: East on Wall Street, west across Liberty Street, thousands of gleaming glass buildings awaited my purpose. Ten thousand glass poseurs awaited my lens.

To the Bronx possibly I marched.

#apple #Sherry-Netherland #hotel #Cipriani #Restaurant #cocktails #applestore

John Patrick Shanley: Moonstruck, Cher, Nicholas Cage, Pulitzer Prize: New York’s Universe.

September 29, 2022

#pulitzer #JohnPatrickShanley #Moonstruck

I stood pilloried as if a 16th century vagrant. I stared down at my feet. I caught a glimpse of myself hidden inside a shard of glass. I realized that not only was I part of the universe. I was the universe. The enveloping folds of the sky moved in time. An aliens’ metronome ticked and tocked. Slowly the galaxies’ stars melded. The Black Hole beckoned.

When I was a young boy I was the only one I knew who went to the Dodger/Yankee World Series.

When I was a young boy, I was the only one I knew who lived with Elsa’s “Born Free” lions.

When I was a young boy I was the only one I knew who rode aside Henry Fonda and stared into Americas’ dilemma: “The Grapes of Wrath”.

When I was a young boy I was the only one I knew who sat on the back of Peter Fonda’s chopper: I mimicked his distant stoic: “America is here”, “Easy Rider”.

When I was a young boy, I was the only one I knew who thought “2001 Space Odyssey” was a true story.

I stood like Chaplin’s “Tramp”with nothing.

I stood like Rocky Graziano with nothing.

I heard my mind sing in falsetto, “When You Wish Upon a Star”.

My father reminded me to read the science-fiction novel “A Canticle for Leibowitz”. The apocalypse happens. I realize I am alone in an unknown universe. My temperature is nearly 104 degrees. My fever is burning what is left of my mind. New York’s summer heat wave tangled with my health. I remind myself that I need to push forward: So many thoughts arise when you think the world’s eyes are querying your every move. The populous of another land seemed ready to pounce on me. I awakened before I died. I could faintly hear the Bronx cheer from Yankee stadium. Silence followed. The door buzzer for the Bronx apartment rang. I heard ”Come on up, third floor”.

I have photographed a number of famous writers: Joan Didion and Gore Vidal come to mind. But there was something different about John Patrick Shanley. He was young and about to explode on the scene: Hollywood and Broadway were beckoning; A star in the making.

Before Shanley could utter a word I apologized for my appearance. I had this wretched fever,I was clearly a mess. The writer’s heart rescued me. He handed me a glass of water and placed a floor fan in front of my face. If there were words that illustrated my predicament: The fan made me feel like a lion with flowing mane. My fever seemed to singe every hair follicle on my frame.

I immediately launched right into whimsical conversation about his writing, his success: I wanted to know about his movie, “Moonstruck”. I wanted the juice about Cher and Nicholas Cage. I wanted to know about his process. I wanted to know about John the writer. I wanted to know whatever he might share with me.

He was distant. I understood. He was clearly thunderstruck by my appearance. I asked myself, “have you looked in the mirror?”. He prevailed, we prevailed.

After about an hour and change, I knew I had accomplished what I needed. John was clearly exhausted. I think he suffered for me with every move I made. Maybe I am being a bit generous? Maybe he couldn’t wait for me to be finished. But then something funny happened.

He invited me to take a walk around the neighborhood.

I packed up my gear and we reentered what I had initially felt was my first dystopian war zone. We hit the streets. I cannot remember a single word I said. But I can hear his voice. The moment seemed like a Ken Burns’ narrative documentary. A history lesson on the “Fort Washington” neighborhood filled my ears. I was completely mesmerized by his knowledge and appreciation for the history and just about everything that moved.

I took snaps as he spoke. We wandered for blocks. But then like a bad movie, I felt a cool breeze blow though me. I will die on the spot if I am exaggerating: I was healed! My fever was gone. I was suddenly the person I wanted to be from the first. Then I caught John Patrick Shanley reading my mind. He was like a psychic sharing the great truth. Before I could say another word he said.” I think we have had enough for the day, don’t you?”.

My day started out as if I had died ten times over. I finished my day feeling close to something like a spiritual second coming. I shared my gratitude with him. Before I danced my way home, I listened. The Yankee’s stadium Bronx cheer echoed to the four corners of the universe, known as the Bronx. Along the way I felt that I survived a bit of the “Bonfire of the Vanities”, and a bit of “Fort Apache the Bronx”. More importantly I realized that my camera has never stopped seeing the city that is mine, New York.

Kevin Roche’s Legacy: An Amazing Contribution to Architecture

September 22, 2022

I arrived at Kevin Roche’s office in Connecticut. I immediately embraced the hallucinatory fusion, and cultural disorientation. Connecticut was oozing bucolic heart beats. I have been to Philip Johnsons’ home. I have been to Jens’s Risom’s home. I have been to Yale. But arriving to meet Kevin Roche was like hearing Jack Nicholson’s inimitable voice saying “Welcome” with an Irish brogue.

Millions of movies from my past splashed alarming omens: “The World According to Garp”, “Cider House Rules”, “Overlook Hotel” from “The Shining” and of course the “Oregon State Hospital” from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”. They all invaded my mind like a cinematic kiss. I breathed. I took baby footsteps. Something unique and surreal waved at me.The film started to roll.

I was escorted into Kevin Roche’s office. He smiled and extended his hand. Had we shared an Irish Pint before? Maybe only Philip Johnson, Eduardo Souto de Moura, Oscar Niemeyer, Richard Rogers, Zaha Hadid and Greg Lynn were better dance partners. I felt a bit of a lilt in my voice. The “wee people” lifted my feet. I was dancing and singing with another architectural design god. My whole lovely entanglement with architecture was standing front and center.

Roche Came From Saarinen

I had photographed Kevin Roche almost twenty years ago. He passed away in 2019. His career as a young intern might have been influenced by his employer Eero Saarinen. Saarinen died before he conquered the planets footprint. For me Saarinen was/is the link between the exciting and the extraordinaire. The intern designer Kevin Roche was in a sublime position to put the finishing touches on Saarinen’s American icons: TWA, St. Louis Gateway Arch, Yale University’s Ingalls Ice Rink and more. One can spend too much time examining the influences an architect associates with his/her post internship work. But nobody can deny that Kevin Roche probably felt a bit like Willy Wonka creating and embracing the Saarinen world.

The architectural rite of passage is remarkable. I hope everyone will forgive me, but sometimes you sense that the rite of passage is akin to Michelangelo’s “Sistine Chapel” rendering of God giving life to Adam. When the younger generation (Jeanne Gang, Bjarke Ingles, David Adjaye) blazes an exciting new trail, the world is lucky. Everyone has a history. Someone: Maybe Rem Koolhaas; Maybe Zaha Hadid; Maybe Frank Gehry gave the next generation life.

Our time in his studio was a bit like Monty Hall yelling to someone in the back of the audience; ”Lets Make A Deal”. Behind curtain number one, number two and number three, Roche seemed to share a past or new designed model. I was riveted not only in the models, but the generosity of time and effort to make my stay so pleasurable. I felt like I was taking part in an advanced architecture class. I was merely waiting for “Molly Malone” to play above the rafters.

One Day with the Israeli Mossad

I have photographed about a dozen of Kevin Roche’s designs. One day I was photographing the Ford Foundation, for a new book; “Portraits of the New Architecture 1”. For days I would return to engage the light. One day, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Two men stood behind me. They identified themselves as Israeli Mossad Agents. Their New York headquarters was across the street. They requested that I not panic. They just wanted to know why did my body form variations of a pretzel every time I took a new picture. I was certainly perplexed and just a bit nervous. I explained that I was trying to create new perspectives on a building that had been photographed a million times. For a split second I thought they were going to interrogate me for some crime. In the end one of them said, ”We thought you were amusing. Certainly a diversion from our daily duties”.

I continued to make dreams with my camera. I couldn’t help thinking that Ford Foundation’s style and so many more of Roche’s and Saarinen’s are best described as “magnanimous” They give so much for the eyes to adore.

Kevin Roche escorted me to the end of his property. He was done for the day. I was exhausted. I knew a friend had been made. Months later I had to break the news that he would not be in my book. I briefly felt like Janis Joplin singing “Break another little piece of my heart…”. I was overruled by the publisher’s savant. I felt our pending friendship was fractured.

I put in so much visual integrity. I put in so much demanding leg work. My mind was swimming in nightly dreamscapes. I cannot explain why my heart breaks. A day with Kevin Roche is not a day to be forgotten.

Percy Shelley and Lord Byron: Rape, Murder and Greed. The Life of a Romantic: A Photographer’s Life.

September 15, 2022

I placed my hands inside the listless body atop the funeral pyre. The heart was within my grasp. I placed two hands under it and lifted the burning heart to my lips. My hands seemed charred to the bone. I inhaled the powers of another. I preserved the heart into a box. I awakened in the night: My dream, poet Leigh Hunts’ reality.

My dreams have had me wearing many guises. I always thought I was a photographer running with Kerouac and the Kesey boys on the bus. I always thought I was the adventurer Sir Richard Burton, steps away from Mecca. I always thought I was Henry Miller in Clichy. Youthful imaginations seem to give a life, promise.

When I look in the mirror I see an Irish Wolfhound/sighthound in heat. I imagine standing on the roof tops of cars, trains and planes howling. I howl to nobody in particular; But for joy. A great moment of being alive is when the secrets of hearts and minds are on the roads ahead.

“The road is where life begins”. The howling sighthound is only a guise for someone of a certain age who imagines secrets are there to be discovered.

I have known since my earliest photographs that the destination was a forgone conclusion: what transpires would amount to great cultural stimuli. But the road was the place where the wildest of imaginations materialized. For seconds and minutes, real events, real discoveries were painted like frescos dancing in the skies.

One day I read a particular book. I can remember the premise and some particulars. I cannot remember the title or where the book hides.

There was a death that occurred between Casa Magni and Villa Dupuy: The homes of The Romantic Period poets, Percy Shelley and Lord Byron respectively.

I was in Italy for work and vacation. I visited with friends in Lago Maggiore, Italy. For a French magazine I photographed and interviewed artist Fernando Botero in Pietrasanta, Italy.

This journey was also of personal interest. The English Romantic’s in Italy always seemed so alluring: a life of leisure and grapes from the earth. Aside, I had a more pressing motive. I could assume the roll of Monsieur Maigret. I needed to solve a murder.

For days I raced alongside the Ligurian Coast from Pietrasanta to Livorno. I would pass by Lucca and Pisa, and make the u-turn back to Pietrasanta. It became like a game of “Jacks” or “Pick-up Sticks”. My camera grabbed every whitecap to the west and every building to the east. Every movement had a clue to how Percy Shelley died at sea.

I reimagined the history; The moment I heard the screams from the bell-tower. All of Italy went silent. The whole country wore Caravaggio eyes. I could hear Frankenstein’s creator Mary Shelley’s dark premonitions: Murder was in the air.

My camera has its own intuitive reflex. My camera’s film absorbed what I needed to see. My Nikon and Pentax saw prostitutes, damsels and sailboats everywhere. Ghosts hid in the shadows of the coastal architecture, sculptures and landscapes. There was an Italian whisper in every corner.

I slid out of my car as a Formula One race driver might at a pit stop. I listened to what my own voice whispered so slightly; “Just do what you are doing”. I remember what Ted Kennedy said to me. I remember what Joan Didion said to me. I remember what Gore Vidal said to me. I remember what a thousand subjects said to me: “Just do what you are doing”.

In the coming weeks I will continue with the untimely murder of Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Photography’s Voices Reveal Architecture’s Episodic Moments

September 08, 2022

Thomas Phifer’s North Carolina Museum of Art

My feet move to an everlasting waltz. My brain seems to be soldered to a shortwave radio. My mind can’t settle on a particular frequency. The loud confounding static has my mind spine-tingling like a thousand spider paws tickling all of my neurons. “Inhale” and “exhale” I bellow. I need to slow the universe down. I need the camera’s aperture to slowly capture every living moment.

Snohetta:Hunt Library Raleigh, North Carolina

When I travel to a new destination, I often ask others what I should see. I am usually in a hurry. I try to grab whatever information I can and step on my accelerator. It is not always wise for a photographer or a traveler to race through unchartered territory: There is a lot to miss. There is a lot to see. I have discovered that I should be more like an astronaut landing on the moon: set your flag and explore the universe. Time and patience might be our friends, with luck.

When in need of inspiration I search for voices across the cultural divide: Italo Calvino, Bruce Chatwin and Walter Benjamin usually stir the pot. Their observations on the banal and the extraordinaire help me see. It is not just seeing, but their words inform the way I compose myself and my photographs.

Certainly it isn’t merely three voices that I hear: I hear thousands. The poignancy of Thomas Mann’s reflections on the effects of war in Munich; or the inspirational voices among the shadows that haunt spydom’s Le Carré’s novels. Maybe it is the naked truths that sear and trigger my imagination while reading the novels of Roberto Bolano’s Latin America. It’s just possible that the imagined guttural screams from Yukio Mishima’s act of Hara-Kari freezes my heart and soul. I am then driven. Passionate realism begins to breathe new life into my photography.

There are ghosts. Ghosts from our histories that I imagine hearing while I am awake and while I sleep. I may be communing with the souIs of revolutionary Russians, French or Americans. But today I hear the Confederates’ and Yankees’ shout and scream across the lands.

Thomas Phifer’s Raleigh North Carolina Museum of Art

Lincolns’ North and South Civil War voices speak volumes about our history. I hear what I need to hear. The buildings in Raleigh, North Carolina sit miles apart. They are home to a spectacular museum by Thomas Phifer and a spectacular collegiate library by Snohetta.

Snohetta’s Hunt Library in Raleigh North Carolina

I stand alone before my camera. My mind suddenly feels stripped bare inside the cacophonous ding, ding, ding of a penny arcade. I search for my calm of necessity: the spirited mist caresses the oceans’ white caps. I begin to make a photograph. I have a few hours to imagine how much more I will see. But Nature’s light is unpredictable. My hours may turn into seconds. If the the light vanishes, I will have to search for new ideas. I listen for the everlasting waltz.

In the end, there was my camera, a library and a museum. Voices lured me to what I needed to shoot. Voices and ghosts from unique places in my mind, in my history are always there for me. It might be the only way I can successfully articulate my visual thoughts.

Thoma Phifer’s North Carolina Museum of Art

The French Artist Arman: deconstructions/recomposition of objects: Trojan War and My Soupe de Poisson

September 01, 2022

My mind and body raced from London to Paris to Rossiniere, and south to St. Paul de Vence. It was an exciting piece of my life. I seemed to be living a lifetime of nano seconds. I felt as if I was static. The earths’ rotation was circling faster with every revolution. It must have been a dizzying sight to see from outside the universes’ snow globe. In another way, it was like tumbling down a one hundred foot wave into depths unknown. Neptune empowered every fish in the sea to freeze. The stars in the universe, the ocean’s stillness, allowed my mind to focus on the important things: Taking moments with my camera.

When my mind finally rationally slowed, the world slowed. I was standing across from James Baldwins’ home. I was waiting for him to peek through his window. But my taxi arrived first. The twelve minute ride from St. Paul de Vence to Vence was riddled with esses. These road trips no matter how short or long always remind me of George Orwell. I conveniently borrow parts of his titles: ”The Road to…”, “Coming Up for Air”, “Homage to…”, Down and Out…”. The adventures and the self examinations seemed to stir my heart and stimulate anything I have left in my brain.

With Orwell in mind, everything seemed to slow and fall into focus. Not just my eyes but what my day might be like. Sadly I did not know what to expect. So I anticipated the return to my little hotel on the hill of St. Paul de Vence. My favorite soupe de poisson with a saffron Rouille and Gruyère would be my reward.

Father and Son: #Antonio and #Arman Fernandez

When I arrived at the estate/studio of the famed French artist Arman Fernandez (Arman), I was greeted by his father Antonio. He walked me into the property. Everything about me seemed electrified. I was realizing that not only was my drive a spectacular visual, but my photo session was going to be thrilling.

Most people don’t realize that as a photographer in foreign territories I am alone. Alone has a massive appeal, because it is like facing a dinosaur: You only have what you know and the rest you will learn over time to fend for yourself. If you are right now asking, “Does the author talk to himself?” The answer is “constantly”. Thank god I am the only one who can hear my thoughts.

Arman introduces himself. He acknowledges the introduction from the New York Times critic John Russell. Though I have traveled thousands of miles for this photo opportunity, Arman seems anxious and in a hurry. So we begin.

The morning dew winked at me from the tops of just about every garden delight. We began our session inside one of his studios.

Most of my subjects deflect questions about their worlds. They beg me to fill in the eloquent emptiness between two artists. So I talk about the artists I have photographed. I feel if it keeps the session flowing then why not.

I continue my snippety snap snaps and share moments that I am particularly aware that Arman would appreciate: stories about New York and Andy Warhol, Cesar, Kurt Schwitters and Pierre Soulages.

After a bit of time, the father (Antonio who lives on the property) invites us for a bite. We share a cold burgundy and nip at fresh Tuna Nicoise. We seemingly talk for hours. We are acutely aware it is time to call for a taxi.

Arman leads me over to a dark wooden box. He suggests that I close my eyes and place my hands inside. It reminds me of when I was at the Menil Collection in Houston. The curator invited me to place my hands inside various Joseph Cornell boxes. She urged me to move pieces around. It was an extraordinary feeling of power and imaginary forces at work.

So here I am in Vence, France, playing a similar game. Arman suggests I pick out what I can’t see but what tactilely sensationalizes the moment. I lift Achilles’ sword from the box. Yes there is no truth in this. I am today a fabulist. But a sword I did hold. Apparently I raised a warriors sword! Why not assume it was Hectors’ or Achilles’?

Arman explains that he and many art world “talk of the town” personalities went on an archaeological dig. The dozen or so travelers brought back treasures from another time in history, from another time in fiction.

So today I won the battle. I was a photographer alone in the French wilderness. I had a memorable day. I stepped into my taxi. I began to dream of Trojans, Greeks and Persians as my taxi hit the curbs around the esses. My dream vanished like Barbara Edens’ smoke in “I Dream of Jeannie”.

I stood in front of James Baldwin’s home with my Trojan weapon from antiquity in hand. I yelled. “Jimmy I will find you one day”. I took a nice long shower. I sat sipping from my spoon a delicious “Soupe de Poisson avec Saffron Rouille and Gruyère. I dreamed of The Trojan Wars. I dreamed of Homer’s Paris. I was momentarily Achilles. I was in the most inestimable way a chronicler of our cultural history.

One more glass of regional red wine allowed me to sleep with my dreams.

Fusing Architecture, Art and Design

August 25, 2022

“Excalibur”, I breathlessly breathed. My little feet carried me to the ends of the earth. I wielded my magical sword toward the skies. Knights followed behind me. I was Arthur, King Arthur of my backyard Realm.

T.H. Whites’ “The Sword in the Stone” has had a secret hiding place in a hemisphere of my brain. The story’s (and of course others) revelatory dreamy heroics rescued this child whenever I was in need. Every child has secret treasures hidden in one lobe or another. At five years of age one doesn’t know the secrets exist, yet.

Age five was a magical age. But for me five might as well have been yesterday or possibly today. I am still tempted to wield my Excalibur toward the skies. I dream with every breath. With every breath I dream. I hold my magical Excalibur close. Everyday I search for some magic. My camera is my Excalibur.

Sometimes I imagine I am like towers of ice crystals pirouetting across highways and landscapes. Refracting lights luring me towards new exploration, new discoveries. The lights led me to Artists, Architects, Designers and so much more. The discoveries led me to the art of science, the science of art. A seismic shift entered my life.

There are people who are made to explore: creators who are crossing lines and challenging disciplines. da Vinci was a unique beast. There is almost nothing that he couldn’t master. Others are comfortable narcissist. Some are bored and need to move on. Then there are those who genuinely have the wherewithal to put the challenge to the test. Plainly said, I have been introduced to some of “the extraordinary”.

I Have Seen Their Secrets

My camera has found good fortune by luck and sometimes what might seem like a fribrillator.

When on a commission in London, I was racing with equipment strapped to my back. I was to meet a client at the London Paddington Station. “Late, late, late I screamed. Suddenly there was this Thomas Heatherwick. I had left Heatherwick’s office the day before. I had a list of his “pieces” locations. Here I was just about running like Buster Keaton smack into his sculpture.

Out of breath and late. My mind begged for a fribrillator. I knew I had to shoot it and sacrifice my appointment. I snapped and screamed again; “I can make it, I can make it”. A bit late but there I was.

I had spent a shooting session with Herbert Bayer. He had suggested that he would like to see what I come up with shooting his outdoor pieces. My life was about knowing his photographs. But I was to discover his brilliance on a Los Angeles boulevard by accident.

The music in my car was caressing my temples, soothing my angst. Traffic was one thousand cars trapped fender to fender. My first Bayer appeared suddenly. It was strange, bright and waving hello to my camera. The light turned green. I selfishly stood up in my sun-roof. I held up a thousand cars while a snippety snap snap snapped. The fm radio cranked. I breathed and thanked a million motorists.

Vito Acconci was known for his performance and installations. While shooting his portrait I told him about my book. He stood away from my lens and said;” Please shoot my store in Tokyo. Please include his Tokyo architectural design in my Portraits of The New Architecture 1 book.

Tokyo was new to me. I was lost. It was my last day. I had so many things to accomplish. But I promised I would take a look.

Tokyo is not a city one can cross on foot. But run I did. From one corner to another, from one ward to another I ran. Yes the train or a taxi might have worked out better. I thought I was near. But being wrong isn’t a terrible thing in a new city. I felt as if I had my face in the middle of Hallmark flip cards. One hour later I stood in front of my Acconci. For me in that moment all of the sweat that poured across my forehead was worth it. I stood, framed and made my Vito Acconci. I was proud. I never learned if he was.

My subjects have sought the special in the ordinary, and have made the ordinary extraordinary.

I have engaged every moment as if it is my last. There are only so many moments in a lifetime. What does it say about the curious: those who investigate possibilities.

My camera has been in thousands of moments where the fusion of art into science, design into art, art and design into architecture. Then I rewind. I replay every moment that has shattered my expectations

My friends Greg Lynn and Ross Lovegrove have enabled me to tackle their brilliance.

Or in their words: “do whatever you want”. My camera slows the earth’s revolution. My camera stands front and center. My mind sees the extraordinary in the ordinary. My camera wields like “Excalibur’ to illuminate their magic.

Stairway to Heaven: Mahler's 9th meets Led Zeppelin and Jimmy Page

August 17, 2022

I have often danced naked atop the white cresting waves of the the “Seven Seas”. I have often used the moment to assimilate sailors climbing the rigging to get a better look at land “ahoy”. I have often wondered what the Blue whales thought; as massive waves draped them. The waves rise and fall

I am still atop.

The people who have lived in front of my camera represent moments. I estimate that I have had more than eighty-thousand moments in my photography days. I have always wanted those memories to reflect on my kinship to Don Quixote. More and more I feel that I have married the sensibilities of two women; Patricia Highsmith and Flannery O’Connor. I have read thousand of stories. But only these two women shake me throughout the night. It is not merely the words, but the darkness within their light that stirs me.

I read something about Mahler near his death. He was composing his “Symphony No. 9”. He would beg for silence. He would plead for quietude. Each note had to be heard separately from the one before and the note that follows. I breathed. My god, that is like my 6x7 Pentax shutter; so loud, and separate from all other sounds; Until it goes off again.

I have always understood Highsmith and O’Connor to manipulate their words and provocations in the same manner as Mahler’s “9th”: A quiet power reigning over our minds.

Jimmy Page stood. A single chord was heard around the world. The opening chords of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” followed. My fingers flailed on to my computer keys like a turtle swiping at the sand preparing to lay eggs. Mahler, O’Connor, Highsmith and Page gathered in my dreams. Mahler and Page stepped a minuet.

Not a day goes by without a vigorous repetition of “Stairway to Heaven” dancing in my ears as I write. It is almost my personal anthem. My headphones will swear by it. When my ideas get strewn throughout my brain, I begin to hear Mahler’s “9th”. It slows me down, paces my thoughts. Maybe it is me imagining wearing Mahler’s long black tailcoat atop the ocean’s waves that bolsters me. I am cautiously focused. “Stairway…” still plays on.. Somehow, someway the song helps me write about a life lived. It helps me see the artist striking a pose, It helps me see the light that bends buildings. I dream about many things.

Lately I have been dreaming about many of the artists who have stood before me, and now have passed away. I think that is where the words of Highsmith and O’Connor come in. There is so much grand storytelling to do. But a shock of life’s expectancy carries the day.

The artists Anne Madden and Louis Le Brocquy entertained me one afternoon. My camera made sounds. It was there wonderful raconteur that I remember as their accents lilted through the rooms.

The art critic John Russell had introduced them to me. He warned me to beware of their mystical transcendence.

I left their place late afternoon wondering what had happened what was said. Mostly I remember my smile. When I received their invitation to visit a summer in France, I guessed that all went well with our session.

When I met with the artist Jack Tworkov, his studio was filled with art and barely a whisper. There was something painfully empty in our moment. Maybe it was our age differences. Maybe our histories didn’t mesh. Just maybe something was amiss. When he invited me back for drinks and cookies, I guessed that it was a very good session. Why wouldn’t I want to share time and try and add a voice to an empty room.

The life photographing artists was obviously a ton of fun. At first so many were much older that I was. I felt that death would catch them before I saw them again. Even when the sessions were electric like with Bob Rauschenberg who was mostly like an “African grey” on steroids. I loved every minute of his scat. Maybe I was impressed with a refrigerator filled with Sake. Maybe it was sharing the sake. I wondered if that glorious day was the last.

When the sessions were my final moments with art stars and excruciatingly talented men and women who lived a life just to be an artist, where is the down side.

Philip Pavia asked me, “ How long is a great life anyway?” The voices keep coming at me from every direction.

I keep fielding them in my mind because they are like Odysseus’ sirens reminding me of the days…

I Can See the Secrets: Road Trip

August 11, 2022

My life is a massive road trip. Every single day of my photography career has been a road trip. Every single day of my career has been a day that I have seen what I have never seen before; Think Hopper, Nicholson and Fonda; Think“The Lost City of Z”. Take a moment to measure the full moon. Take a moment to eye the sunset and sunrise along the horizons. The enormous collection of adventures, has influenced my manner of taking pictures.

I begin everyday as if it is the “Ruy Lopez” Chess opening. It is among the most famous chess openings for a reason. The discipline plays daily. Begin your day with an opening move that will prove successful. Then imagine the next twenty-five moves before sunset. It is merely what is essential to being a photographer.

I took the 6 train to Fulton Street. An early morning assignment landed me at Broadway and Fulton Street/Liberty Plaza. I walked slightly out of my way to revisit Noguchi’s Red Cube. The Cube is something to commune with. (I have communed with the works by Alfred Stieglitz, David Smith, Jean Tinguely and one thousand more creatives.) It is like having a conversation with Noguchi’s ghost from another time. He was brilliant. I photographed him twenty years prior. Dancing with his ghost is an essential Merlinesque moment; The magician validates my existence- Linking the years past and present together. Standing alone in the skyscraping wilderness of Manhattan can bring out the dreamiest thoughts and sightings. Celtic Faeries often appear in every nook and cranny along the avenues.

I left the “Cube” and strolled. I felt a bit empowered as I stepped onto Pine street. I knew I was entering foreboding glass towers. I could see them waiting for me. But what was next, what might my next move be? My dreams are filled with oddities, but they are my realities.

Harry Cobb: Bank of China #BankofChina #HarryCobb #PeiCobbFreed

A most endearing memory

Many significant architecture firms were in downtown New York. I.M. Pei, Harry Cobb and James Ingo Freed were a major firm. We scheduled three one hour sessions over a few weeks. Each portrait session was a magical meeting with a gentle giant. Each architect was sublimely extraordinary in their own way. When you consider their success and influences, it might seem as if they were matched through algorithms. Each was unique to the core. Each was a champion of their own work. They were a force to wrestle with. I adored each session.

I am always the guest. So over three separate sessions almost like with “Stepford Men” we chatted. Legs crossed, a cup of coffee in hand and my time face panicking in my heart. Three intriguing architects held me spellbound. In each case almost to the minute I had to interrupt a beautiful mind. I needed to pause in order to make a picture. I would need a lifetime to entirely enjoy their gift’s. I needed to recall a lifetime of photography to make a bit of magic in fifteen minutes. Wow, those moments caress my heart.

A few minutes past the hour I headed towards the FDR Drive. It was a walk I needed, to separate a photographers’ dream from the shutter screen closing. The portraits were seemingly fast as a thunderclap. I knew I was finished but what was I to make of the day. I might exhale if my eyes could see the thunderclap.

I headed north. I gazed east towards brick faced housing projects. My camera snapped towards broken down cars. My camera gazed west towards midtown bridge suspensions that carried promise. Abbey Lincoln’s “Let up” whispered.

I arrived home with Pei, Cobb and Freed completed for my book: “Portraits of the New Architecture.

It would be hard to imagine 7,500 days just like this one.

A Symphony of Artists: How I Found My Sway

August 04, 2022

A Man in His Own Heaven

I was younger than young when I began entering the studios of artists. You should have seen me. I stood six-foot-three and as they say in the NBA, “ready to go to the hoop”.

My time on the streets of New York was focused on carving out a career as a photographer. My playgrounds in NYC were never traditional. They were habitats of others.

I felt as if I had on elevated “toe shoes” when I entered Willem de Kooning’s studio. My gawky gait wouldn’t suggest to anyone that I could dance in the ballet. Nor did I ever own a pair of toe shoes. Psychologically I tried to imagine a more suave presence. It didn’t work. The church of my new life was suddenly overwhelming. My shoes were whispering for me to relax. Not only was de Kooning among the most famous living artists, but he was my first recognized portrait.

#willemdeKooning #artist #abstractexpressionsism

I cannot overstate the feeling. I felt as if I was in an unparalleled universe ala Marc Chagall’s floating dream. Profoundly religious air made me timid and alive. I was handling paintings and sculpture by the most famous artists. That day I caressed de Koonings’. The gods of modern art were waiting for me to make my camera go “snippety snap snap snap”. I was entering a description of my descriptive memory.

My memory of photographing artists is like a Queen bee or a Beyoncé BeyHive; remembering the names of the 80,000 or 80 million worker bees is impossible. Yet the stories never cease to enliven my day. If I were to die after my last artist portrait, I would say that I died “a man in my own heaven”.

I lived in the church of art for ten years.

I found something as a photographer. I realized at twenty-five that if I could hear the music, I would find the picture. I started not only to see, but listen. Listen to what the artists’ shared but also listen for the music. The words, the music, the space and film became my own Rubik’s Cube.

I have continued to spin for forty years. I am not Yo-Yo Ma.

One evening I was making snaps of Yo-Yo Ma. I asked him when does he practice. He said that he performs Three-Hundred and Sixty-Four days a year; That’s his practice routine. Now of course I am no Yo-Yo Ma but I have never missed a day even taking a snap.

Photographing artists’ lives has been a symphony of amalgamated sounds. The studios neither resembled a Sunday Gospel nor any diagram of lines and spaces on a musical stave. Music became my preeminent way of movement towards my subject. Music became my preeminent way of comprehending where I was. Music became my “ Star Trek”: “Where no man has gone before”. Music traveled through my eyes and into the moment. If you have known hallucinogens in any context, then you know.

Sandro Chia (who I have photographed three times) always had something echoing through his vast studios in New York and Italy. David Salle who posed twice was master of the classical seduction.

Jeffrey Koons and Robert Longo tunes had bombastic bass drums influencing something.

Hockney was losing his hearing, but his Mendelsohn rested my soul. The temples of Reuben Nakian, Larry Rivers, Henry Moore, Claes Oldenburg, Rauschenberg and hundreds more echoed sounds of change. This very young naivet was along for the ride.

#Robert Therrian #Roberttherrian and #Juliabrownturrell

One day, I photographed Jonathan Borofsky, Robert Mangold and Robert Therrian. I realized there was a certain photographic motif reigning in my world. It was time to step aside and move on. I was done.

I left their studios with a little “Cheshire” from ear to ear. Ten years of photographing artists was an incredible introduction into the church of art, and the music that developed my photographer’s sway.

#peterBlume #artist #american #surrealist

Marco Polo Knows

July 28, 2022

The name Marco Polo has been positioned in my brain since I was a toddler. The shallow end of the Las Vegas Tropicana Hotel pool was a playpen for the most spirited “Marco Polo” splashers. When you heard “you’re it”, little people with piercing screams scared the bleary eyed at the craps table. I was one of the screamers.

I can’t remember when I first dreamed. But I can absolutely agree with myself that cinema’s“ The Great Escape”, “El Cid” and “Godzilla” had a lot to do with it. I was once that young.

My enthusiasm was/is always maxed out when watching “against all odds” characters. I too imagined a career challenging great odds. I imagined seeing the great wonders that had not been seen. I was “Huck Finn”. I was “Kim”. Yes I was even Robert Mitchum in “Out of the Past and maybe even “Mouse” in Mosley’s “The Devil in the Blue Dress”. For two hours on a screen or hundreds of pages read I can walk in step with great fictitious characters. I wanted to be them if only for a moment.

Great wonders may be far and away, or they may be something small and intimate. When I became a photographer I discovered the hinterlands. My hinterlands were places across the continents. My hinterlands were spaces rarely visited. My hinterlands were unique conversational exchanges. My hinterlands were moments that a brief snippety snap snap snap produced a lifetime of happiness. When I returned from the hinterlands I had something to share.

Experiences May Lead to Privileges

The real Marco Polo crossed the hinterlands to meet and greet the great Kublai Khan. The job I wanted was to march across continents with Ghengis Khan. But Kublai Khan will do. I imagined Marco in the guise of Gary Cooper’s euphonic telling of his visits to the hallowed grounds reigned over by Kublai Khan. I imagined George Barbier as the great Khan. I imagined the great dance between the two cultures. It is what I have dreamed about for decades.

Today I look in the rear view mirror. I can see Andy Warhol whispering significant nothings. He stood nose to nose making sure I knew what he needed. I stood with politicians. Most were sure I knew what they needed. I stood in grand rooms with art collectors. They knew I knew.

The intimate moments, my dance with Khan’s from another time was a blessing of experiences. But who might I share this with?

I stood in the middle of the earth one morning. Samarkand was not the middle. But I was alone with my Pentax. More importantly I was alone with beckoning mosques. I felt the chattering voices espousing their fervent devotion. They sounded like a gathering of nations, but in my passionate ears I listened to the pitter patter of idle children. But who might I share this with.

I was invited to photograph the art collector Baron Von Thyssen, But who might I share that moment with.

Marco Polo had nations to share his stories with. But when I look back I held up my images as if a jeweler might hold up a new found stone of distinction. The sparkle in his eyes, were like mine. The stones’ colors dancing in the light were like my projected images against naked walls. The beauty was in the moment, but who might I share that with.

#JohnRussel #NewYorkTimes #artcritic
and
#RosamondBernier #Art #Artlecturer

One day the New York Times critic, John Russell and his wife Rosamond Bernier invited me to their home. Nips of scotch in sublime silver goblets touched our lips. A few hours later, I realized what a web of intricate cultural design looked like.

I will never be Marco Polo, but I have volumes of memories to share.

#RichardSchulman #SaintPetersburg#Russia

Old Friends

July 20, 2022

One day I will look back on my moment making portraits. One day all of my portraits will become ashes. One day all of the people who once posed for my films or digitals will have passed.
Today my images (all 80,000) have become my old friends.
Everyday before I begin my blog, it is as if my negatives imitate dancing butterflies. Almost as if my negatives like the butterflies realize their final resting place. I dance amidst the negatives like butterflies forming a kaleidoscopic display flittering into the skies. The continuous circle vanishing breathlessly into the waning light of day. The rites of seasons live in me everyday.

Imagine a 6 cylinder car that I drove like a 12 cylinder car. Two cars in one I told the officer.
I used to drive regularly west on Sunset Blvd. Sixteen to twenty-four years of age were fun driving years. I set every speed record that I could imagine. I imagined a lot while unintentionally finding my car side wheeling while banking on Sunset Blvd
You remember when you had the wind knocked out of you. It feels like you have been punched hard below the solar plexus. You rise slowly. You focus. You breathe and gingerly move forward. The opposite occurs when you are making an accidental side wheelie. The earth spins a thousand times faster. But suddenly your mind slows and you see and feel your options. You lean to the right. The car bounces a few times. You realize you are steady on all four wheels. You turn the dial on the music up a few notches and scream; “I can do that!!!”
I was just a few years older driving west on Sunset Blvd. I was heading to the Palisades to photograph the famous “Color Field” artist Richard Diebenkorn.
I drove casually which might be construed ( in some circles) as wildly. I remember thinking that my eyes saw more on that day than ten times Ed Ruscha’s “Every Building on the Sunset Strip”. By the way Ed Ruscha, if you are reading this, you owe me a copy of that book.
I arrived:
I entered Diebenkorn’s painting space. He looked like King Richard, Richard the Lionheart waiting for one of his gallant knights to report on the Crusades. In a parallel universe this Richard was hoping I was his knight gallant. The two Richard’s had much in common. Both were stately. Both above the fray. Both comfortable in their skin. The “King” Richard I never met. But eyeing this artist Richard I can certainly say that Richard Diebenkorn was more like a gentle, kind and super smart courtier. He was like a great leader ready to pounce on anything that sounded disingenuous. He was armed and ready for a session among like minded men: Men who were curious about the art world and it’s inhabitants.
For the better part of two hours, his ears embraced everything. He wanted a report card on the status of art and artist in his realm. When I told him I photographed the artist Joyce Treiman his neighbor across the street his ears and eyes perked up. He looked like a naked Caracal Cat with Jack Nicholson’s mad man teeth from the Shining. He wanted to hear gossip immediately: “What is she working on? What a sweetheart. What a wildcat. What a terrific artist”.
Diebenkorn wanted to hear about Dekooning and Jasper Johns. His brain was filled with excitement. His earnest love and appreciation for his peers was unparalleled. Simply, his thirst for information ran through his brain as if sitting on the earth’s axis. Round and round he seamed to spin with each bit of word from other lands, (aka) artists studios.

When our shooting session was over, I mentally bowed, but physically I extended my hand in gratitude. It was a beautiful moment for me. I was in my twenties, he was just sixty. I felt as if I had just met Santa Claus in Macy’s. If I wasn’t so big I was certain that at any minute he would have asked me to sit up on his knees so we could exchange more stories.
When he died in 1993, I was sad that I had not visited him more often. When I think about him, it reminds me of old friends.

:::

The images below are examples of “Old Frends” and more that will be appearing in my upcoming blogs

#ARTCRITIC #ARTLECTURER #JohnRussell and #RosamondBernier

Secrets told to me by Architecture and Portraiture

July 14, 2022

#Guggenheimmuseum #NewYork #FrankLloydWright

PHOTOGRAPHY IN A FRENZY

#AndreKertesz #Photographer #photography

I walk through the doors of history. I empty my camera equipment. My subject raises an eyebrow or two. I began to waltz into position. I wish I had had the guts to do the Watusi.

My heart beats. My eyes spin. The atmosphere is one of composed excitement. My eyes were fixed into the gaze of Andre Kertesz. Kertesz was one of the world’s great photographer’s. My heart paused, the shutter clicked. The quiet breeze that prevailed was as close to a death knell as I have stood. Kertesz’s life with us on the planet was to soon pass.

He lived a great life until he didn’t. He migrated from Budapest to Paris and landed in New York with more creative energy than most. He ended up a disgruntled artist who felt his fame had been taken away from him. He could not understand what it meant to be forgotten. He spent his last years alive asking “what happened?”.

For two hours Kertesz dissected his life in photography for me. He loved his work almost to a fault. In some ways he was as admired as Picasso. But when he came under the wing of Alexander Lieberman. Then the story becomes he said, she said…and the truth will never be known.

I knew Lieberman and I knew Kertesz. The verdict is still out.

My time in his studio felt like a mentorship. He wanted me to understand who he was. He wanted me to understand the life of a photographer through his eyes. Today my work reflects his in only the manner of exploration. If I were to credit anyone with the expression “angle of repose”, I can remember John Ruskin’s writing. But I can also hear Andre Kertesz’s accent purring with urgency the benefits of those words.

When the session was completed I asked Andre if I could have the photograph on the wall. He asked me why I would want that one. I told him because the “Dancing Faun” reminded me of how I wanted to travel across the planet; dancing like a free spirit. I never got that picture. But it is probably best. If you knew me and my mind, you might realize that I crossed the planet more like a “Sally Lightfoot” than “A Dancing Faun”.

My frantic mind has always treated photography like a racing contest: How many seconds does it take to process ten-thousand memories into one single frame. That is what it feels like I have been doing since my camera started chasing Sanderlings across Southern California beaches.

Architecture has kept my photographs honest. I remember telling Frank Gehry, that if it wasn’t for photography, he might not be famous. Photographs share subliminal messages. The architectural designs are usually pronounced. But no pronunciation is valued without exclamation points.

A photographer nurtures the light as if in a Petri dish. The lens bends to bring the image to life. In the Petri dish we see through the evolution of light and chemistry something like a miracle. Then we manner the image. That is the way of photography that is the view of architecture.

Sometimes the architecture of museums look as if they are mausoleums, crypts, and tombs.The museums are homes to magical séances, whisperings between the dead. Their stories are life experiences. Imagine the Prado at midnight: Imagine a bromance between Goya, Velasquez and Picasso. The canvases are interlocutors for their stories and their egos. Only the grand spaces can be home to history’s conversations.

#TheTateModern #London #Herzog&deMeuron #Architects #Architecture

The whisper starts. The camera sets up before the museum. The museums beg for a kiss but the film may only caress its veneer. It is a romance that begins with perceptions. How does the camera, lens and film perceive personal narrative that derives from the architect and the spatial footprint. What speaks to the camera. When do Louis Kahn, Frank Lloyd Wright and Herzog & de Meuron whisper to me “shoot Richard shoot!” “Never”. I have seen Frank Gehry react to photography. I know at some point that at the very least the architects will allow me to whisper among them.

#KimbellArtMuseum #Dallas #FortWorth #Texas #Architect #LouisKahn

Bruce Goff #HardyHolzmanPfeiffer #LosAngeles #LACOUNTYMUSEUM

The Designs: Plus Bearded Monkeys and More…

July 07, 2022

#Cesar Pelli’s #PacificDesignCenter Detail #Los Angeles

The truth lies in the experience. Once your eyes vanish into history’s mirror, you will never see the world as you once knew it.

For many years I felt like I was dancing off a Brownstone stoop like the photographer Helen Levitt’s masked children. I was alive and anonymous with camera in hand. The “Whole Earth Catalog” and the universe it revealed between covers was my world. Everything that was here, there and everywhere was a magnet to my lens. But then, like a symptom of “Sleep Apnea” my world froze. In one of life’s infinitesimal hellos, I realized what about photography mattered. I was seized, and motionless by objects to behold. The deepest imaginable inhale placed me seconds from faint. My camera goes “snippety snap snap snap”. The “snap” can change your life forever.
Thousands of designed objects that measure our world history have held my gaze for almost one half century. My camera affixed to my hand, I stand eyes awaiting, adjacent to Frank Gehry’s Disney Hall in the rain. I stood elbow to elbow with many Oscar Niemeyer’s and Zaha Hadid’s. I drugged every living electrolyte in my body as I married my mind to Louis Kahn’s Bangladesh National Parliament. I ran naked around an industrial warehouse in Shenzhen, China. My heart paused in London one day while inexplicably witnessing the best designs by Ross Lovegrove, Ron Arad and Marc Newson. The camera lingers near the Architect Cesar Pelli eyes. He wondered what I might do with his Pacific Design Center. Every architect is cautiously curious to see what my lens might see.
Every single moment alone with my objective camera is my experience that marries my eyes to my past, present and future visual endeavors. The lessons learned from my deep water dive into my archives are that my photographs unbeknownst to me are immersive in design. Thousands of eyes pose for me. Thousands of places await the “snap”. From portraits, to architecture and anything realized with my camera is about design.
It is truly scary to know that your brain has independent functions: one oblivious to others. That moment when you realize that you were not merely photographing China, Turkey, Bangladesh, India, France, Italy or America. I was photographing every standing object in optical arms length.
Somehow I think my visual agenda was initiated by some sort of dance with psilocybin and the written word. The literary quadrants that inhabit my mind have clearly influenced my brains intersections; Tolstoy intersected with Hemingway; Flannery O’Connor intersected with Edna O’ Brien; Gore Vidal intersected with Christopher Hitchens; Geoff Dyer intersected with Walter Benjamin, and Joan Didion intersected with everyone. Every image I have made is inevitably connected to the existing quadrants, to my past and what the future holds.
The moment I realized Neil Degrasse Tyson and Richard Schulman were on the same wavelength: (Neil wrote about “Thinking about objects through time”). He mentioned the Brazilian capuchin monkeys making tools. My mind flipped to “2001 Space Odyssey”: One troop of monkeys attacked another with weapons that were bones. I couldn’t help think about the simplicity and history of tools as objects of design. I must have thought about Neil Degrasse Tyson’s essay while being airlifted into the clouds above Brazil?
We all wonder where we came from, where it all started. I always suggest Walter Benjamin’s “Arcades”. My images reflect his stroll, his memory as flaneur visiting galleries that have disappeared but once held a reflection via mirrors of windows into a history; a history that only exists in books, art and design.
My heart breaks when I feel constrained, when I realize I can’t expose all of my eighty-thousand images in one grand narrative. My heroes, Fenton, Marville, Brassai, Brandt, Koudelka and and and Also designed their imagery. So I follow in the line of two hundred and fifty years.
The bearded Capuchin paved the way for design, and image makers like myself just let the camera go snippety snap snap snap.

#MARCJACOBS #Jaklitsch #Gardner #Architects #Tokyo

The Red Balloon and Hair beget David Bowie

June 29, 2022

Sometimes when I recall my past, my mind shifts to an underused overdrive gear. It makes

my brain feel like a giant balloon thrusting, squealing, whistling helium like a spirited banshee. My eyes then partner with ten thousand bunny rabbits dancing the watusi.

I search deep into my hippocampus. I espy amber like prehistoric DNA detected naked under a Madagascar lava rock or possibly a millennium of Antarctic ice tundra. Everything I wish to see is archived in my brain and coated virtually in my lens. I merely need a jolt or a tickle to awaken the vault. So I begin.

When I was a little boy I dreamed of dreams that would follow me.

Some of my most inspired film negatives come from my sessions with artists. My memories of Alex Katz and Jim Dine reveal my sudden awakenings and link to Nadar’s potent history in photography. My Alex Katz portrait begged for a single element of color in his studio. I placed a forsaken red balloon in the window. Katz paused and asked if I was a fan of the movie “The Red Balloon”. I certainly wasn’t thinking in that way. I was merely recalling the dozens of frames of artists in which I included an article of red in the frame. I was simply thinking about imitating Yves Klein’s artist leaping from the balcony. I only wanted a question mark to rise into the viewers’ mind.

Looking around Alex Katz’s New York Soho studio, one would undoubtedly feel the space needed a pulse. Alex’s art was/is about the amplification from within. The red balloon always felt like a gentle nudge, a mild absurdity that still screams Yves Klein.

I love Hans Bellmer’s La poupèe series. The series reminds me of the friendship between the artist Jim Dine and RB Kitaj. I traveled to conquer London’s art world so many years ago. I made about one hundred portraits. Two American artists captured this young naive photographer’s heart. The predictable artists’ garrets were merging my present with the ideal of lives of the artists.

Like Bellmer and his niece (the raison d’être for his poupèe series) the two famous artists were a wall apart. The two were anxious and fabulous. They would listen for each other’s footsteps. Ears attached to the wall, jealousy and paranoia prevailed like school children tattletales. Bellmer’s issues were more of a sexual nature. Dine and Kitaj’s were infantile and speculating. The two artists were brilliant and interesting. I was merely the photographer.

one of four Jim Dines I made over a decade
#JimDine #NewYork #Artist

Jim Dine’s art piece titled “Hair” became the titular musical famously alive for the Aquarius generation. Most second half century musicals were measured by that generational success.

My red balloon is a surreal cadence spoken in the church of Katz.

The 1956 short film and the lofting color red remind me of a time when I was young and I could playfully morph into that child.

Artists in my time reached for something J.M Barrie wished for all creative stylists: a bit of pixie dust that allowed everyone to fly.

Shall we sing:?

“lets dance

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

Let’s dance…”

David Bowie