The Architecture of Cities: Mexico City

August 10, 2023

What if you were going

I maintain a holding pattern inside the tailwind behind my Kestrel.

Hovering with anticipation my hawk is set to ambush its prey. She retracts her flaps. We tethered our plumes together. The ambush was successful. We descended to Mexico’s earth as an arrow intended for its bulls eye.

Landing in Mexico City can be a nightmare for me. I find being alone is both a catalog of horrors and unimaginable discoveries of beauty. I have learned to find my way. My mind’s place is a beautifully horrific place to be. I must have a few demons. But it is my world.

When I entered the city, I saw Roberto Bolano’s words and essays dressed in blackened calligraphy imprinted across Mexico’s sidewalks and streets as far as one eye can see. I then hopscotched between the pages of stories I knew: So many Bolano stories real and fictional. I knew new adventures were near to my mind or my imagination.

Bolano’s ghost accompanied me to architect Ricardo Legorreta’s Camino Real Hotel. I photographed the hotel for my Volume 1 “Portraits of the New Architecture” book. Ricardo had been a prince when we met. What better way to start a journey: the mythic literary Latin of language resting in one side of my brain and the power of an architect’s kindness inhabiting the other side of my brain. I began my march.

Finding a photograph is about deploying my fundamental approach to every moment: zoom in to decide what to utilize and what to eliminate: Zoom out to determine what needs to be included. That is the part of the ammunition I will use to locate and shoot the architecture of Fernando Romero, David Chipperfield and more.

Every time I land in Mexico I always try and honor my stay with the memory of the opening credits to the Malcolm Lowry/John Huston movie; Under the Volcano. The “Day of the Dead” skeletal dancing shadows filmed for the movie is mesmerizing beautiful. This particular story begins on “The Day of the Dead”.

I will walk day and night to find the purpose and the angle to celebrate my visuals.

My first stop is to come face to face with Fernando Romero’s designed Soumaya Museum. Supposedly it is a bit controversial. But upon laying my eyes on it, my camera salivated. It was the perfect combination of material and shape to address.

I am not a critic. I am not a critic to identify where and what category defines the piece. I am only here to make something that will find a home in my “Portraits of the New Architecture” Volume 2.

Sometimes I feel not like Cartier-Bresson capturing the moment, but instead I feel like Ansel Adams.

There is a moment in so many of Adams’ pictures where if he didn’t press the shutter release he would have failed. Failing is never in a photographer’s vocabulary. But the realization that there was a better moment to fire your camera is always there. It is just not what a psychologists can rip from the photographer’s mind.

The shapes, shadows, materials, footprint, geographical location and colors always matter. But the personality of the light is king. The light doesn’t speak to everyone: But maybe a photographer can hear when the light matters?

Standing in front of Soumaya I stretched the limits of my body. I raced left and right. I pondered. I stood and let my mind fly. I looked in every direction until: I accidentally? Inadvertently? looked across the plaza down this particular road. It was so very colorfully quiet: so many loud shadows and shapes. I searched for an explanation; In time, Emily Dickinson would eventually come to mind:

“This quiet Dust, was Gentlemen and

Ladies,

And Lads and Girls;

Was laughter and ability and sighing,

And frocks and curls.”

I think that is what I saw.

How a moment is trumpeted for your ears and eyes will always be a mystery: Without a warning or another indication I turned and found my picture. I think that is what I know.

Today the the one clear thought comes to mind: I have looked at this image for years. The moment became more than a snap. I have rummaged thought my brains intricacies for a bit. I realized this/my Soumaya is a twenty-first century homage to Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World”. I think this is what I see; so I share.

My day needed some reward not for the image, but to celebrate an exhausting journey among so many historical and cultural thoughts, I settled on a place for lunch. I remember the second floor.

To this day I cannot remember the name of the place. I just remember the cold beer. I put the bottle to my forehead and spotted a window looking out to where I just came from shooting.

I remember the next moment: It was a sighting I had not anticipated. Almost as if a brick and mortar structure could wink; There stood Museo Jumex. This was my second agenda, to find David Chipperfield’s design. Yes, there it stood waiting. I kept asking myself if this was the best shot? But it didn’t matter. This was my second Ansel Adams in one hour. As Ansel would, as my mentor Julius Shulman would, I made a snippety-snap-snap.

Later that day and the next, I came back to both buildings to see if what I saw was all I needed. Yes, I made some more pics of both: It is sort of the obligation if possible to shoot more than you need. I realized I was finished two days prior.

Now I could dance with the skeletal shadows that welcomed me days before. Then I could sit with my Bolano ghost in tow and talk about anything he wished me to listen to.

I did have more to accomplish:

I needed to have a serendipitous moment running into Sir Norman Foster. I needed to revisit buildings I had previously photographed: Destinations for food and enjoyment.

I needed to crisscross the city for the premier Sangrita. I needed to revisit Kahlo, Rivera, Bravo and and happen upon somethings new.

Mexico is a city that welcomes the eyes. Yes every adventure is about acclimating the eyes to new light, new culture and more.

It is impossible to share youth defined: But it is what I come back to for every camera adventure: I make photographs and travel to remember the first “aha” moment: To recall my youth and live tomorrow.

The Architecture of Cities: Washington, D.C.

August 03, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Washington, D.C.

I have walked through the corridors of modern American history. The moments are like the silent cinema. The mouths move quite quickly. The voices are quite quiet. There are animated pauses. The chronology of our time matters less as time goes by. The silent power of Washington, D.C. whispers: “Listen”.

Photographers from history like Mathew Brady, Edward Curtis pleaded for the powers of D.C. to support their endeavors. They merely wanted to do in their time what I have spent decades doing: Recording components of our lives before it all vanishes: Some things have to be remembered.

I, at one time focused my camera on the Lincoln Memorial: Lincoln’s gaze in any light emboldens us. The contralto Marian Anderson once stood with arms widening. She gave us “My Country, ‘tis of Thee”.

Imagine tearing up to the anthem: One song, one statue and I realized I was meant to see history in one frame: Some say that a great voice aspires to ascend to the skies above: I think a great voice cascades down from the gods to us mere mortals. When the gods have spoken, a photographer should leave well enough alone. I nodded to Lincoln and celebrated Marian.

I put words in photos and photos in words.

This Washington, D.C. always makes me feel like I am parading naked through America’s most intimate secrets: I have never felt alone in this city because I am accompanied by voices; History’s voices.

When I have walked the six or so miles along Pennsylvania Ave, I always dream about all of my dreams: The stripping Congressman with the real life stripper: The famous Ted Kennedy signing my presidential campaign poster. The other Senator who ran for president escorting me to the museum hosting Paul Gauguin’s retrospective: My afternoon photographing a soon to be president: The snipers that held the city captive and protected the secrets after 9/11: The Museum Directors’ and curators who hosted me during other photography moments: Sitting with my mother at the W Hotel as an ex president elevated in a helicopter :destination unknown: The Blues vocalist who made Blues Alley my private sanctuary.

So many intimate historical moments for my eyes. It reminded me of a blind man telling me that the only way to really see is to be blind. I am always blinded by the events in my life, until I am here with you: Then there is this great moment of clarity that seems to whisper: “look”.

My good fortune in my photography life is that I am always on an imaginary transport: I am taken to a thousand fragments of the planet through the notion that there is something new to see: For me it is the science, math and art of architecture.

My mind travels faster than the speed of light. But the heart of the matter pauses with every single frame: My moment living with our built environment:architecture

The Architecture of Cities: Miami

July 27, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Miami

If you don’t listen to the music you can’t see

When you march into Miami everything begins with the “O’s”, castanets, brass and percussions.

Boris Pasternak would not have written Dr. Zhivago if he was living in Miami.

The first time I saw Miami was at the Pantages Movie Theater in Hollywood California. I imagined I was James Bond in the movie Goldfinger. The 007 dove into Hotel Fontainebleau pool. I was for those seconds, James Bond and Sean Connery. Years later I entered the Miami I now know as the city of “O’s” and more.

When you enter Miami from the sea, the air, or across the plain landscape, you must hear the music:

The “O’s” are Tito, Paquito, Barretto, Chucho, Arturo, Gato and more. The sounds blaring the brass, castanets and percussions are the soul of the city. They are not merely the “Mambo Kings”, “Fania All-Stars” or passages from Oscar Hijuelos: They are the sounds of nations who migrated to a place some call heaven.

A greater diversity of communities reign in Los Angeles and New York. But sounds from the atlas’s Africa, South America and the Caribbean Islands reign in Miami.

In Miami I have felt God’s wrath in Celsius and Fahrenheit. Some may use the expression “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” to explain the scary truth: Miami as Buster Poindexter may sing is Hot Hot Hot.

I try and hide in the unbearably hot shadows. The spectral of heat induced colors reminds of the bright Alabama Gee’s Bend quilt colors.

There is no escape and no refuge until I allow my imagination to travel down the rabbit hole. If I can hear the music, I can dance with my “O’s”. My toes will wear castanets. My soul will hear the music’s passion. If you don’t listen to the music, you can’t see.

Now that I am emotionally thoroughly invested in the Latin sounds, I can make my way to the “A’s”.

Architects and Architecture have transformed Miami from a town that whispers among the shadows of Art Deco and other less modern designs to a hotbed of visual ideas. Miami is shocked with blinding white and glistening glass. A hunter might see splashes of red or yellow among the new developments. I just feel the trumpets brass filling the air with bright whites.

Zaha Hadid unfinished at the time but still striking

The famous: Gehry, Hadid, Calatrava, Herzog and De Meuron, Grimshaw, Koolhaas, Foster and Bjarke have gifted the city a ton of new designs: Sort of a point and counterpoint with the likes of Morris Lapidus and more.

While on a commission I am compelled to have my camera engage the past, present and future. I grab the eyes of the new age architects. I grab the eyes of the of architects from another age. The camera wants to remember the city as you might remember your paternal/maternal past: The way you envision your offspring to spring forward.

The heat sears my skin. I must be one of those “Mad Dogs”. I need to record my own history as I record the history of cities: I shoot until I drop.

There are only so many calendar years in a persons’ life span. If I can make believe that I can see Miami while I can hear the “O’s” and the soft sounds of Sade, I might make a bit of magic in this city.

The Architecture of Cities: London

July 20, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: London

My camera enters every new city accompanied by an apocalyptic scream. I have this idea that there are a thousand ways to make a single photograph. But only one idea can successfully embrace ever-growing exponential components of what should live in a single frame.

I have referenced all twenty volumes of the the original OED’s (Oxford English Dictionary) to hopefully discover an explanation on how to encompass an entire city in a single film frame. Failing miserably makes me take a bigger bite of my Rice Krispies.

I am well aware that my ideas may sound delusional. I engage my dreamscapes almost like a metaphorical cane, “a lean on”. This honesty stuff is for the birds: but I imagine it is better to share the odd truths than not. I see the world in three-dimensional perspectives accompanied by an optical freeze-frame. How else could I measure what I need to photograph. How else could I interpret space and light without help from forces that I embrace daily.

I imagine every photograph I consider is linked to Isaac Newton’s “Nature of White Light”. How else can I see what to do if I am not feeling the spectral of the “White Light’s” seven colors while my camera swings deliriously around my imaginary maypole.

Where am I to stand if I cannot imagine the first brick brought to rebuild Dresden from the WW11 allied firestorm. I repeat this mantra often: one must start from the nakedness of ruins.

Where am I going to allow my mind to drift if I am not sometimes

accompanied by the literary visuals from the sci-fi likes of Ray Bradbury and others.

What would I understand about cities if the writers Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne had not mentored my mind: They drove to the far corners of Los Angeles almost weekly, just to see and know what they needed to know.

Where would I be: My Grandfather stood alongside gangster Bugsy Siegel. The two men stared out over the “Vegas” landscape. The two saw moon craters as far as the eye would allow: They were dreaming about what might be: Bugsy made my Grandfather an offer to build the Las Vegas Flamingo Hotel. My Grandfather could have been killed for turning the gangster down: My grandfather could have been killed if the slightest error in construction occurred. My Grandfather’s favorite word thereafter was “Phew”.

LONDON

I entered London on an assignment to photograph the new architecture. There were certainly pretenders and what ifs: The Wild West with no zoning sheriff’s would be the best way to look at the new London in the rear view mirror.

I knew about Shakespeare‘s wisdom and Thomas De Quincey’s madness. I was in good hands as they hovered and guided me throughout the intricacies that are London.

The same way that every person who might adore Paris, might find Marcel Proust to guide and fill their celluloid dreams.

I decided that if Sir Isaac Newton had met Joan Didion I might have finally discovered how my cities should be photographed: Isaac, Joan and I discovered a way to look that for the first time supported my personal theory: A photographer’s needs are to see a singular object as part of the camera’s capabilities to zoom in and zoom out: All of the spectral that can be seen in London, and all of the architectural landscape that is London, waited for me.

London became my playground for discovery: All the information that a a person can consume lives inside a camera housing. (I certainly am not smoking the hard stuff with the likes of Einstein and Oppenheimer).

Then you add Newton’s “White Light. Then you speak to all of Bradbury’s contemporaries past and present. You begin to feel the horrors and fallout of Dresden. You begin to realize that all photographs have a starting point: You start the way my grandfather may have: “I have a desert, what shall I make of it”. London was my desert, and then I had to see it.

I photographed more than one-hundred buildings: Koolhaas, Hadid, Grimshaw, Moussavi, Levete, Toomey, Alsop, Foster, Rogers, 6a, Wilkenson Eyre, Adjaye,Heatherwick, Chipperfield, Caruso St John, McAslan, Van Berkel, Nouvel and Libeskind to name a few.

I brought all of my cameras and tools of the trade I crisscrossed the city.

I must have introduced myself to 50 security guards as they questioned my intentions: you know cameras are scary.

I processed bags of Fuji film. But most importantly I saw an entire city by foot,train, bus and subway.

One of my great professional rewards.

The Architecture of Cities: Seville

July 13, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Seville

If I were to dream: I would imagine I sat atop a Spanish Imperial Eagle espying from the prevailing Sirocco. Aloft the hot rising currents I felt tethered to the romantic vision of Carmen: Georges Bizet’s Carmen.

If I were to dream: I would imagine that more than two thousand years ago I marched alongside the bespoken Seville founder and powerful mythic Hercules.

If I were to dream: I would imagine my myth: A younger version of me trying to kiss an ethereal beauty who has not yet lived in any time but in our dreams.

My mind enters the point of no return: My eyes dream within my heart.

I entered Seville like I was leading an army of like minded souls searching for the beauty that was my Carmen. I would trace her footsteps. All the while I would be making a discovery about myself.

Every time I lift my camera I dream within my reality. My camera lives within my two stories.

I use all of my mental faculties as a navigation system to pass through Sevilles’ urban and rural landscapes. I discover paths that I can follow. My agenda becomes something larger than a mere photograph. I create reasons to get through a known and unknown set of discoveries.

Bizet’s Carmen is a precious love story. As I followed every shard of light, curious street and building my camera began to understand Seville’s history.

A frenzy and an adrenaline rush snaked through my mind and body. Led Zeppelin - Going To California (Official Audio)YouTube · Led Zeppelin3 minutes, 33 secondsNov 27, 2021 The song began to flood my acoustical tunnels. I was in a panic to see what I needed to see. I was shielding my body from the most surreal temperatures and spectral presence: If one could possibly imagine the Hiroshima atomic bomb victims radiant shadows bleached atop the city’s cement and stone remains: Yes this heat was my enemy. I sheltered from the sun for hours every day. To this very moment the memory of the heat leaves me weak.

After awhile I found clarity in the heat. I felt the rhythm that might be a better acoustical companion.

Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain”, Miles Davis - Sketches of Spain (1960) (Full Album)YouTube · Jazz Time with Jarvis X41 minutes, 39 secondsFeb 18, 2018

Miles, a wee bit of Flamenco and architecture: Following all of my reverie I found my gait. I started with what I understood was to be inside the Cathedral de Sevilla: The Casa Carnal. If I could find the legacy of Carmen there, I could find some peace of mind.

But then I moved with Miles! I Crossed the shadows of the Cathedral. I scanned left and right for my Carmen. Only the traces, of shadows that may be hers were slightly seen. So I moved some more to the (Bull Ring) “Plaza de toros de la Real Maestranza de Caballeria de Sevilla”. I imagined sitting with Hemingway (not knowing if he had been there or not). I still wanted to dream a bit; I walked through Santa Cruz (the Old Jewish Quarter). I found myself lost at night: One cannot always feel lost with the company of food and a wee drink or two.

I found the next engagement: The uplifting contemporary designs from the 1992 Design Expo: The new Police Station: The Court House and many more alluring beauties.

My spirits were brighter; My pictures were brighter.

I finally sat down one afternoon in the shade with Carmen novelist, Prosper Mérimée, and Carmen composer, Georges Bizet. We talked about the myth and the frenzy that one woman may cause when you chase her through this beautiful city.

I dream everytime I place my eyes up to the view finder

I dream while reality stands before me

It is the only way I know how to see

I never found my Carmen, but I saw traces of so much more.

Baseball: For the Love of the Game: The 300 hitter and Sweeping Veronica

July 06, 2023

Baseball: For the Love of the Game: The 300 hitter and Sweeping Veronica

I dream about my dreams

When I arrived at Dodger Stadium, there were 50,000 fans cheering my entrance. I imagined I was Spartacus entering the Capua amphitheater. My dreams enabled me to conquer my anxieties. The 1963 World Series was about to begin. I love Baseball. I was/am a mighty fan. I needed to breathe.

I dreamed while I watched the game. I dreamed could see the rotation of the baseball as it left Sandy Koufax’s hand until it landed into Johnny Roseboro’s catcher’s mitt. I saw the batter swing and the fielders shift in three dimensional Stop-Action. My mind was playing one game as I watched the real game with the Dodgers: I was in my own bit of heaven.

I hated to be disturbed during the game. I merely wanted to eat my peanuts and drink a bit of root beer. Sometimes there was this old lady sitting nearby. She was dressed in a wool suit with a hat. She wore a ton of lipstick but always wore this huge smile. She was always making noises for her favorite Dodger. I was angry that someone was disturbing my concentration.

It didn’t matter what inning it was, or who was at bat, but this same old woman would stand up when nobody else was standing and screamed out her favorite player’s name; “Frank”.

Why the big galoot Frank Howard was her favorite was something I will never know: I never asked.

The only reason I can imagine was that when he hit a home run he hit towering shots over the stadium. (Frank Howard mostly struck out. When the Dodgers traded him to the Washington Senators he learned to hit a wee bit better under the tutelage of Baseball great,Ted Williams.)

The atmosphere at the stadium was festive and loud. But then there was still the old lady.

I would glance towards the woman from time to time. I always realized how important she was to me. But I think her “stuff” was the “right stuff” for the game as well. When I saw Robert Redford’s “The Natural”.

I suddenly realized that if you removed about 30 years from the old woman, she could become the Glenn Close character. When the old woman stood and screamed for Frank Howard, my eyes would imagine the stadium going dark. A ray of backlight illuminated my grandmother like nobody could. She was in her element; She was having the time of her life. I love remembering my Dodger moments.

Sweeping Veronica

Baseball pitchers and batters are like matadors and bulls. The bull charges towards a matador. The clever matador sweeps the cape aside: He executes the Sweeping Veronica. Every time the bull passes the missed cape the frustrated bull returns faster and faster filled with more frustration and less concentration.

The clueless swinging batter gets more frustrated with every missed swing at the pitched ball. Each swing for each pitch becomes more frantic. The clever pitcher(Matador) throws a trick pitch, the batter swings and is merely out. When the bull makes an exhausted final pass a sword knifes between the flustered bulls shoulder blades; We all know what happens next.

Less than 2% of all major leaguers bat a .300 average. The famous and infamous Pete Rose will tell you how sad those statistics are:”You only need to get three hits per ten at bats to average .300.

Baseball is a contact sport: You merely need to meet the ball with your bat. Pitchers are flaming more than 90 miles per hour. That speed from less than 60 feet seems daunting. But why pay a twenty something to be star 300 million$$ if he only hits the ball sometimes: Are the ownerships and fans waiting for modern day Frank Howard to hit the spectacular? No, most baseball players are swinging at butterflies. You need to have a sense of humor to appreciate the successes and pitfalls of the game.

My grandmother had heart palpitations waiting for the big one from Frank Howard. Can you imagine 50,000 fans waiting for one of nine batters to make the big hit?

The baseball needs to be slapped. Slap it to left, or right. Maybe a batter sees thirty or forty eye catching balls to belt out of the park a year when a velocity of ninety miles per hour meets a bat powered by astrutting twenty-two year old. Connecting for a home run is special. When your strength and skills fade why not be able to slap the ball around and play the game for the love of it.

If the league is ready, I would be happy to give 800 players a lesson.

The Architecture of Cities: Paris

June 29, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Paris

I have been coming of age as recently as today, and as far back as my memory allows.

I remember my first Croque Monsieur at a busy touristy restaurant on Avenue Champs-Élysées. The top slice of bread had two branded corners: the left corner of the crust was an emblazoned postage stamp of the Arc de Triomphe. The right corner of the crust was an emblazoned postage stamp of the Eiffel Tower.

My eyes know no lies. Like a gator’s eyes widening above the swamp’s crest, John Lennon whispered “I Am the Walrus”. For a nano second, I was the Walrus. There doesn’t have to be an explanation when your eyes experience a thunderous wonderment. Just allow your body to rock a bit more until it settles. I was in Paris.

Lonely is a life experience that few allow themselves to say. It is a moment of unfounded desperation. We think we are lonely because we are alone. Both words (lonely, alone) trigger dreams and nightmares. As I write this moment, I feel as if I am dancing a jig. I am levitating above places I have never been: above places that have been profoundly influential.

The only time I was ever lonely in Paris was during this short time in 1986 when I needed to hear spoken English: I was lonely for the words I didn’t need to translate.

I saw a movie marquee advertising Out of Africa. I needed Meryl Streep’s listless romantic English. Oddly I needed an escape from one of the most beautiful cities in the world to Sydney Pollack and David Watkin’s Africa. I knew from the very first frame, that I didn’t need Africa. My eyes merely needed to be somewhere fresh and new for my imagination.

Throughout the movie I imagined hearing an overlay of Miles Davis’s soundtrack:”Elevator to the Gallows”. Miles was made for my Paris. The melding of Meryl’s Africa, and the jazz of Miles’ Paris gave rise to fresh eyes. I walked, danced and raced out of the theater eyes aglow. I knew the night and thereafter it was just me and Paris: the city.

Certainly the thoughts were overtly and emphatically romantic. But what is the point of being creative if you can’t express yourself!

I have visited Paris over many decades. I have heard the passions of the French: La Marseillaise, Serge,Jane, Hallyday, Piaf and Montand. But for a reason that might take volumes to explain, Miles Davis’ “Gallows…” and Roxy Music’s “Avalon” seemed to have accompanied me to every Parisian arrondissement. I don’t ever remember taking a photograph without the two wildly different sounds in my ears. In Paris, their music somehow makes me feel as if each picture I make is a Chagall superimposed atop of a Dali melting clock.

I remember staying one time across from a ballet studio. Every time ballerinas walked out of rehearsals or exercise classes I imagined that the dancers were floating above the rooftops. Paris has that affect on my photography.

Louis Vuitton Store front rue de Bonaparte

I have spent extensive time in Paris photographing architects’ architecture and artists in their studios. The artists: Cesar, Arman, Topor and more awakened my visual sensibilities. The architecture by French Architects; Christian Portzamparc, Odile Decq, Jean Nouvel, Dominique Perrault and more lured me across the entire Parisian metropolis. Along the way I traveled to enviable trysts to see architecture by aliens to France like Oscar Niemeyer, Renzo Piano, Richard Rogers, Frank Gehry and more. It was a privilege to travel and peruse the city with and without agendas.

Oscar Niemeyer Communist Party Headquarters

I have felt an enrichment in Paris that seems to have gone on for a millennium; or merely my

life was interlaced among events that had been a simple “two step” tethered to a million other dance moves.

I know that in Paris, I felt I had been empowered to make photographs: Paris in a way was a beginning. Possibly Paris was my Bethlehem.

If I know one thing, I have been coming of age as recently as today, and as far back as my memory allows.

The Architecture of Cities: Chicago

June 22, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Chicago

The heart of my architecture of cities series is akin to the tree of life: my eyes trace architecture’s family tree. Ultimately I want to be like Darwin, but an urban botanist seems right. I visit a city, and many times revisit cities with a mission at times to photograph a revitalization of a neighborhood that has been nurtured and stimulated. I am equally a witness to the demise of urban life that dies alone.

Botany is the scientific study of plants, including their physiology, structure, genetics, ecology, distribution, classification, and economic importance. It is the examination of plant life of a particular region, habitat or geological region. Substitute geographical for geological then you will know what my camera sees. Most people assume I am merely glorifying what already exists. But my camera comes with a DNA. It incorporates the knowledge of the past and the present with a peek into a future. Plant life, and urban life celebrate those identities.

I discovered there was a city named Chicago a few years after I was born.

Try to imagine eyes listlessly staring to the ceiling and above to the stars. Imagine the stars dancing within your galaxy of dreams. Imagine your Baseball heroes positioned on nine stars against their adversaries also positioned on opposing nine stars. Then just possibly you might be able to envision this nearly five year old listening with his transistor radio under the sheets to the Los Angeles Dodgers versus the Chicago White Sox World Series.

Six years later the Chicago Cubs, were playing the Los Angeles Dodgers. I watched from the third base side field level, row “r” as the phenomenal Sandy Koufax pitched a “Perfect Game”.

Baseball was my introductory class to geography.

About the same time, I learned that my mother’s side of our family migrated from Chicago to Los Angeles in the 1930’s. Before that the family name had immigrated from an area they called “Beyond the Pale”: Today “The Pale” is part of the embattled Ukrainian region.

Three years later this coming of age teen watched on television as Mayor Richard Daly’s brutal police force pummeled the Democratic convention protestors. From baseball to my mother’s origin and then to a political maelstrom, Chicago became a real life place.

One day a massive avalanche of destruction hit my present hometown of New York.

For about 10 days I suffered the ambulance’s sirens and the notion of death before my eyes. My wife and I fled the tormenting sounds of death and found respite. Yes, Chicago. I remember landing in O’Hare airport. It was almost empty. We felt protected.

There was something about how we felt welcomed by everyone we met. We were from New York and the city was going to protect us. From the first day to the final day of refuge, when we left the restaurant Spiaggia (supposedly President Obama’s favorite) Chicago has remained among my favorite friends.

I have since made a few visits to photograph architecture. My subjects included a building for David Childs from the firm SOM. I also danced for a few days with Jeanne Gang’s Aqua building.

I say danced, because I found numerous two-steps with the light that actually made me laugh and dance. Anytime light is your partner, there can be no down side.

Stanley Tigerman’s Holocaust Memorial in Skokie

I met up with Stanley Tigerman. What a prince among architects he was. I must say that after finding the architect such a joy, his Illinois Holocaust Museum was sadly a beautiful display of what carnage means to any living soul. The heart stands apart from your body and you quietly grieve and think, an architect can in the best way draw the shades on your soul.

Finding my last and lasting days among Chicago’s architecture is a reason to believe in a future, any future.

The Architecture of Cities: Dhaka, Bangladesh

June 15, 2023

Architecture of Cities: Dhaka

I arrived in Dhaka, Bangladesh after nearly six-teen hours in the air. The entire flight from New York, my mind was consumed with “what will I see, what can I see, how will I see”.

I always feel a bit dazed and confused when I deplane. I knew I had only a few hours to collect my thoughts before my lecture. The lecture was about my architectural photography and the world of architects I had photographed.

I wanted to be calm and informative for my lecture. But I was coming out of my skin to see what I could see in Bangladesh. I was planning a camera assault on Dhaka. I had lots to prepare for, lots to do.

When I finally hit the Dhaka streets I felt like Disney’s Steamboat Willie. I felt like I was leading a parade of 49,000 naked centipedes with 9,800,000 legs in tow. Dhaka’s population may be 23 million, but I felt at least half of the city’s eyes were on me.

I needed to fly. There was not a street that I could ignore. I just had to see everything. I am a discretionary photographer. Just because something is there, it does not necessarily qualify for a snap. It is the way I have engaged architecture in cities from my very first point and shoot to my Minox spy camera and everything that followed.

Interior of of National Assembly Building by Louis Kahn Dhaka

I became obsessed with checking off my wish list. No, no, no I am not psychoanalyzing myself. Photography is a heart and soul game; but it is also a numbers game. When I first used my Minox, I became obsessed with numbers: if you cannot grasp the understanding of numbers, you cannot become a photographer: Aperture marries shutter speed and engages f-stop: then a picture is made. Without the complete comprehension of the aforementioned formula there is no history of photography. Photography is an art, but it is also science and math. Sometimes I feel like I am nearing the end of the line, but that does not stop me from organizing my imagery with a touch Merlin’s potion of heart, soul and numbers.

Dhaka, Bangladesh, was a chance for me to witness a city amidst an incredible economic growth, and come to terms with A sad but soulful poverty ladened land. I wondered if my lens could trace the area’s history back a thousand years. What could I see that was modern; what could I see that was a stand alone historical artifact or an example of mankind’s origins. I might have been hoping and dreaming, but what fun that is for me.

detail National Assembly building Louis Kahn

I was hoping to see history as it had never been seen before. I might boldly exaggerate: but that is what partly motivates my mind and stimulates my eyes: Dhaka has/had secrets. Why not try to capture all that stands before you. Maybe I would find the first Noah’s Ark, not the one from the Bible!

How ridiculous the above may sound. But then, Louis Kahn’s National Assembly Building stood before me. Then the National Martyr’s Memorial stood before me. Then I was on the streets at dawn and dusk. Then I felt myself shake a bit. Then I was alone with my thoughts. Then I realized something spectacular had happened to me: every frame the camera saw stopped my heart and concurrently set my electrolytes afire.

There could have been so much more to see. But my camera cannot capture a nation in a nano second.

I was introduced to so many things; sadly I was not aware of the proper way to eat with your hands; If you had seen the expression on the 49,000 centipedes you might have laughed at my 50,000 shades of red.

The Architecture of Cities: LA Art World And The Giacometti Face

June 08, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: LA Art World And The Giacometti Face

When I landed in Los Angeles I felt the tectonic shift. It felt like the first one from four billion years ago, so they say.

Los Angeles Mulholland Drive is one of those curious roads: It begins here and ends there. If you are not familiar: think of a road atop a ridge of a mountain heading west emptying into the Pacific Ocean. Then imagine that same road heading east. In the opposite direction it will connect people in the low valley of San Fernando to parts known and unknown in Hollywood. You don’t have to understand Los Angeles to understand this scenario: You merely have to suspend your disbelief.

Valley kids from straightaway drags to curvy doomed turns versus West Side kids in poppas’ bought cars challenged each other. Engines revved with no intention of racing: Teenagers and a few twenty something thought the whole city was following their tracks. It is said that some girls bought into it. Throngs were waiting for the mythic Hollywood star Steve McQueen to arrive and contest the drag youngsters around Mullholland curves.

The kids down in the flats waited for a sign: some put their ear to the ground: others looked to the sky watching for a head to fly.

The Mulholland habitués Nicholson, Brando, Beatty and more sat around their terraced hillside home spreads listening for the racing action to begin. There might have been some smoke, a drink or something to pop down their throats to enhance the excitement.

Everyone’s mind was in sync: what was McQueen thinking? Did he really need to impress the locals? Was the need for adoration and fanfare what the superstar actor needed.

The LA mentioned above was one tenth of one infinitesimal part of Los Angeles. It sort of reminds me of secrets people tell about their past: it wasn’t my past, but one of those things you hear or see. The past is something that you have subconsciously forgotten or you are reminded of episodes as one might be reminded of the movie stars: They die and you recall the movies they were in and where you were in the year you watched on television or at the Pantages. Like a cartoon caption a little forgotten story pops up. The memory floodgates open up.

#ThomMayne #CaltransDistrict7 #Morphosis

I realize I have jumped from that little visual about LA on Mulholland to a greater canvas: I had been photographing hundreds of people in a stretch of time: The art world and the architecture world of an entire city. Everyone who was famous for being famous and other great personalities posed for my Pentax. From Pasadena to Malibu with Beverly Hills, Venice and Hollywood in between. It seems like a bit of folk lore now.

I met the art dealer everyone hated and 29 more. I met the museum directors: They were kings of a funny cliquish circle. I met the collectors who weren’t sure of the name of certain artists they collected.Yes, I photographed hundreds: Artists, Architects, Hollywood agents, Movie Directors, Real Estate tycoons and. But most importantly I saw the city that I left behind.There was not a single day of my visual life that I don’t stare into the abyss with my eyes praying for traces of history: I saw traces of my history and the history of an expanding metropolis.

The entire story above was intended to be an exhibition that celebrated the culture of a city. The exhibition never happened. It is too complicated to explain the power play among the monied. But I became a better photographer: practice makes perfect.

I tried to understand my efforts. I tried to understand the power play. I tried to understand the hundreds of miles I traveled to make a bit of history.

#HowardHughes #SpruceGoose Where he brought the goose to

I guess I could sum up my experiences this way: I photographed a very important art collector:

I made in my mind a beautiful portrait. As I do, I returned to the collector’s home to present my work. The collector said this was the most beautiful portrait. Then the collector asked me to follow into another room. The collector pointed to this drawing. The collector said there is one problem with this magnificent portrait you made: I look like this magnificent drawing made by Giacometti. The Giacometti art is great as is your photograph: But I wouldn’t want anyone to see me look like a Giacometti.

In a small way it didn’t matter. I loved my portrait moments. I loved rediscovering my Los Angeles and this new Los Angeles that saw itself as the new cultural frontier. That is not a commentary. It is what Hollywood agents and new and old money invented for themselves.

I loved every photography moment in Los Angeles. Everyone gossiped and styled for my shoots: Even the artists.

I went to lunches, I had drinks, I went to dinners:I was social.

Everyone was from a different planet.

The Architecture of Cities: Rotterdam, The Passion for the Whale

June 01, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Rotterdam, The Passion for the Whale

For decades as I look through the rear view mirror I realize that whales have been swimming around in my brain for quite sometime.

The first time I saw a whale, I was six years old. I was at the beach positioned next to P.O.P (Pacific Ocean Park) in Santa Monica. A Blue Whale was beached: Cetacean Stranding: the phenomenon is commonly referred to. I was with my mother and an assorted mass of relatives.

It is a bit disconcerting that one of the greatest of great mammals was beached next to my skin and yet this tiny tot was the only one who remembered such an episode. Then again maybe it is true what some say: fiction is the greatest truth.

Historically, whales represent mythical experiences: Melville’s Ahab chasing the “Great White: The masterful German artist Albrecht Durer crossing a veritable Europe to draw a stranded Cetacean: and me, a photographer living life like Charlton Heston’s Ben-Hur with chariot harnessed horses raging against envious enemies as I stood naked atop two blue whales. My lore resides atop the seven seas instead of a meager Colosseum.

Both Ahab and Durer would have stripped naked as well if it meant mastering their conquests as I have tried. Ahab’s death was equally victorious and decidedly torturous: Durer almost dies questing a glimpse of the whale ashore from sea: I merely dream (with a ton of camera weight in tow) that one day my photography conquests matches my hallucinatory aspirations at sea.

My pre-dawn train pulled into Rotterdam train station. My mind was accompanied by Ryuichi Sakamoto’s stirring soundtrack to Ryuichi Sakamoto - Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence - YouTube “Merry Christmas Mr.Lawrence”. It was my anthem to see by as my mission began. Aspirations begin to mingle about: they can be larger than life itself.

I felt something in the moment: There was a lilt in my voice, some flight in my gait, and some delicious visual observations in my gaze.

Central Station By Architect by Team Sand MVSA and WEST 8

My reason to be in Rotterdam was to photograph the firm MVRDV led by Winy Maas. Then I would photograph their BOOK MOUNTAIN, a fabulously designed library just outside Rotterdam in Spijkenisse. Once that mission was accomplished I could take on the city of Rotterdam.

Rotterdam in someways is a smaller version of New York City. I say that as a compliment: It is a bit of a carnival. There is so much to see and do. There is a congestion of sorts, but if you know how to get around you feel like you can walk the entire city. Rotterdam has the feeling that around any corner an architectural delight will appear: The Central Station is easily the boldest exterior I have seen. The Market Hall feels like a whale has come ashore right in the middle of the city. The famous architect REM Koolhaas looms everywhere you look but so does the firm MVRDV.

Then you have the delights of the Cube Houses by Piet Blom: the Old Harbor which has been more infiltrated than gentrified by the new skyscrapers.

By night or day there may be evil lurking. But like any great city, you feel as if the city is yours to own, to explore: eat, drink, and…

The city’s history dates back more than eight-hundred years. The history is worth volumes of considerations and volumes of historical biographies. I am in and out of cities faster than a hummingbird can draw nectar. I come away with a mere treat, an impression. The ghosts of Rotterdam toiled along my side for miles. The stories they have shared, the admirable visual directions they have shared, are embedded in my archives and in my mind for a lifetime.

The Architecture of Cities: Berlin in 30 Seconds

May 25, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Berlin in 30 Seconds

“Merrily merrily merrily merrily life is but a dream”.

The time was about 10:pm. I was sitting in the Berlin overnight train. I cannot possibly remember where I was headed: I do remember the ride was going to be long. I thought this was a good idea. I thought to see the morning sun rise the next day would be exciting. The idea was not my best: But somehow it still felt genius; Since I never sleep on trains or planes, I could rewind the extraordinary time in Berlin.

I was dropped at the station by a Mercedes Benz corporate honcho. We had just spent the past 2-3 hours talking about how he was responsible for choosing Architect Ben Van Berkel for the Mercedes Benz Museum in Stuttgart. It was an uneasy chat: I was shooting his portrait for my book; But the conversation was heartily monitored by a communication assistant.

I made the corporate honcho look very handsome. He offered to drive me to the train station so I would not miss my train. I thanked him for sitting for my camera: He said, “I will see you again in New York. He became my best friend. I never saw him again.

Before I arrived at the corporate offices, I had spent an extraordinary day. Before the portrait session, I remember standing in the middle of the Potsdamer Platz. The legendary light pipes glowed with the setting sun. My moments were waning. I knew I could not own Berlin that day.

But standing in the Potsdamer Platz and looking as they say in Westerns “look yonder”; I saw a huge gathering outside the Berlin Film Festival. So many beautiful people posing for pictures. I almost pulled out my camera. But I am dedicated to my photography: I had needed to make like Secretariat trotting, to make my Mercedes portrait session.

But before the Potsdamer Platz. And the cinema festival and the Mercedes honcho,

I had rendezvoused with the German Chancellery designed by Charlotte Frank. In fact every walking moment was a rendezvous with architectural destiny. How was I going to make it to Hans Scharoun’s Berlin Philarmonic? Was I going to make it on time to Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum memory of the dead. Should I go there first? Or commune with Peter Eisenman’s funeral procession among the dead at his Holocaust Memorial?

I had decisions to make. I was attempting to absorb eight hundred years of existence in “30 seconds”.

I love to run and I was running. No time to “trot”. “Run” said the gods. It is a race against time: I run as the intellectual amphetamines kick in. Not a single second was wasted or disappointing.

Before any captures of the above, my camera framed Mies Van der Rohe’s Neue National Galerie. But I had more running before that.

I stood completely alone with the Brandenburg Gate. Before that my Nietzschean eyes espied the DZ Bank Building. Who would miss Frank Gehry’s (lets call it a skylight hovering over a giant fish) beautiful interior design elements.

I had a single meal in Berlin: Breakfast with Norman Foster’s beautiful glass domed Reichstag.

If I were to calculate the walking distance with camera bags in tow, I would make myself faint. But it would not make a difference? To amass maybe 50 Km’s in a day is about the most aesthetic cultural attention I am qualified for.

My story really begins when I land in Berlin from Porto and Lisbon Portugal.

It is the mind that matters. Or are the eyes more important?

I do know that the entire time on the plane I was rubbing my hands together with excited anticipation. I had a thousand questions to ask: To ask Germany, to ask Berliners. I wasn’t seeking answers, I was seeking an experience.

If I could tap into the cultural young ghosts of Billy Wilder, Leni Riefenstahl, Fritz Lang, Werner Herzog, Fassbinder and more, I might end up with more questions and fewer answers. But that is what experiences are all about. I merely wanted my camera to zoom in and zoom out: I wanted my lens to absorb a history.

The world will fade away before my eyes one day. I want it all before that day comes: My camera needs to see it.

The Architecture of Cities: Barcelona

May 18, 2023

The Architecture of Cities: Barcelona

The great artist Joan Miro bade me farewell. I was very young. I wasn’t quite sure how to think or act. I was saddened and exhilarated. I met and photographed one of the great artists of the 20th Century. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the experience turned out to be vital for my life and my career.

The moment spoke to my heart: I imagined I saw my electrolytes virtually projected dancing along the skyline. The surreal glow could only mean one thing: I was alive: Life changed on a dime. My dreams were becoming my reality. I was on my way to witness the history of nations. I was living in the history of our times.

I was desperately sad when I left the island of Mallorca that day, but I would discover new adventures ahead: and many days in Spain.

I recently lectured at the IAAC/Barcelona: A humbling and fascinating architecture institute.

I began my lecture by revisiting the significance of my session with Miro and earliest days in Spain. For a nano second while talking about my previous visits, I felt like the Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca upon his visit to New York: He was delightfully and frightfully overwhelmed by the moment and experience. He came away with a disdain for New York. I was delightfully and frightfully overwhelmed by my Barcelona moment. But I realized something wonderful was happening to me: every new experience equals living the dream.

There is something hallucinogenic in the Barcelona air. I remember standing at the end of the Blvd Saló de Saint Joan, where the Arc de Triomf resides. My feet felt like dancing. At first I was conjuring up my Fred Astaire style. But hey, I am in Spain. Instead the ghost of the great Barcelona Flamenco dancer Carmen Amaya arms extended, fingers alluringly motioning me into the streets. The sounds of the Flamenco quivered through the sky and clouds. Let’s dream a bit more. Why not? Why else does one travel but to realize dreams.

The city streets were mine. I collected a throng of companions to dance and prance in and around Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia and throughout El Born. For a fast second I was Cervante’s Quixote emboldened, enriched, and unleashed.

detail from #ELBORN neighborhood from Julie Wark’s window

When I travel. I try to conquer cities. I am blessed and cursed with the need to capture the streets and architecture of a city in a feverish pitch. My pupils dilate. I cross thousands of intersections. My mission is on steroids.

In this moment I needed to discover the visual treasures of Barcelona. I reach out and try to grab the aura of buildings: Of course there was the scene stealing bravado of Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia outside my bedroom window. My eyes were entertained. And so it begins.

I realized I had work to do. The pleasures of architectural design waits for no person. But for me on this particular Barcelona visit, design achievement stood at attention seemingly with every blink of my eyes: The architectural accomplishments of Jean Nouvel, Richard Meier, Frank Gehry, Santiago Calatrava, Sir Norman Foster and of course the Catalans’ Bofill and Guallart were waiting.

detail from along the waterfront Barcelona

Every city holds secrets that are not meant to be seen, but discovered as if one was an explorer. So much stimuli overload, is life threatening, but the greatest sensation I know of. The eyes might need a rest, but time is not on my side.

I cannot possibly describe what happens to me when cities hold visual secrets that I know have to be captured by my lens. While in Barcelona my mind remembered similar experiences about Dubai, Miami, Tokyo, and more.

Sometimes when I target a city’s architecture I become so feverishly out of breath I feel like I am a patient in “…Cuckoo’s Nest”. I try to make sense of a world that takes a lifetime to understand; Yet I march on.

I spent my last Barcelona hours at the home of the fabulous romantic architect Ricardo Bofill. The experience walking in and about La Fábricia and Walden 7 evoked a cascading reminiscing of every morsel of food, every posturing along the streets and every smile of satisfaction that I experienced not only on this particular engagement, but every memory that I have claimed over forty years.

The pleasurable calm that I met in Barcelona has been the revelatory moment that I have sought for a life time in photography.

Detail of #RicardoBofill #LaFabricia home

Before There Were Women

May 04, 2023

Before There Were Women

To take a primer course in women in culture, one merely needs to start with the Greek (three Fates) Moirai: Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos. In a way we are who we are because of the Moirai. In a way the Moirai in effect granted our existence. Though I always liked Odysseus’ wife Penelope: She put up with quite a bit until she succumbed. We did need Odysseus to have a reason to return home.

So much of where we come from whether it be myth or historical fact starts with women.

It sounds like something obviously worth celebrating.

When I was young I certainly considered living like a thousand Greek Gods. There are probably a thousand Greek Goddesses as well that I have knowingly or inadvertently taken direction from.

But my most impressionable years whether it was about worshipping gallant men or formidable women began with Warner Brothers, MGM and RKO. There might even be a couple million pages from known literature that rounded out and informed my life.

The women I have known

I discovered women on television: Movies and serial television. Admittedly books came later. Not much later, but since cinema has influenced just about every emotion and thought I have ever tangled with, where better to begin: Lillian Gish in Night of the Hunter.

Is it possible that there are just merely two scenes in Night of the Hunter that have influenced the way I make photographs more than any other film. Is it possible that every time I measure what might be necessary to execute a successful photograph I conjure the best Black and White cinematography I have ever seen. Though I am a color photographer, and I gasp when I see a particular frame from the original Blade Runner: there is little or none that compares to my Lillian Gish, Robert Mitchum film.

Lillian Gish’s role as protectorate of the children from Robert Mitchum’s “Love and Hate” hands, still makes my hair stand straight up. The feisty Gish with a rifle speaks volumes about a woman who defends and is defiant in the moment. Maybe Barbara Stanwyck, equals Gish’s tenacity in tv’s The Big Valley. Yet still there are probably hundreds if not millions of roles that pointed to empowerment.

I was raised on Charles Laughton’s Gish. The visual influence is my reward.

I remember myself as a coming of age professional photographer when I discovered among some remarkable women: grit, empowerment and vulnerability. These words were not in my visual vocabulary early on. Some very famous artists; Lee Krasner, Louise Nevelson, Louise Bourgeoise, Alice Neel, Isabel Bishop, Helen Frankenthaler and countless others awakened photography sensibilities that I had not met yet.

Portrait Photography can be a bit like therapy and intimidate certain subjects. The only way to deal with it is through nervous chatter. Nervous chatter calms with time. The more time with the subjects the more at ease it may be to expose yourself. By expose, I certainly do not mean lifting up your nightgown like Alice Neel did for me one afternoon. I mean to let the camera in. To speak to the lens with a naked mind: clear and comfortable in one’s own skin and ready to share.

Each of the above mentioned artists greeted me with suspicious minds. They were aware that I had photographed some very famous male artists. To a person, they asked me if I came to them because I needed some female filler in my archives, or was I truly interested in their work.

It became like a star studded sparring match. Dukes were up, questions flew at me left and right.

I was ill prepared for the onslaught. I must have fought back with deserving answers. Though it took about thirty minutes each, the coffee and cakes or even shots of whiskey became part of the shooting environment.

The end of the sessions would bring one across the bow warning: Don’t mess up, and be sure that a successful picture lands in their hands.

That was then, and now hundreds of women as seen through my lens, live in my archives.

Half Century of American Art

April 27, 2023

New York City

I was part of the tapestry of the art world fantasia

One year among decades felt like the surf expression I am very fond of: “Step into Liquid”. More than three hundred days of a particular year I was immersed in photographing artists. Not just any artists: The second half of an American century. My life was a master class in Art History.

My mind felt like I was floating in a grittier version of Julie Taymor’s “Across the Universe”. I was not only photographing internationally famous artists and emerging artists: I was seeing performance art: naked people with erections slithering with naked chickens. If you were wired in there was just wild stuff. I felt like Play-Doh kneaded in unrelenting directions.

My body ran across avenues. I stormed into subway cars. I lunged head first into taxis. I was a modern Alfred Kazin (A Walker in the City) or E.B White (Here is New York). The main difference from the two writers, was that I had specified appointments with discovery. I was on my way to photographing hundreds of art world personalities. Everyday sometimes three times a day I would make a photograph in Soho, the Lower East Side, Upper East Side, Fulton’s Fish Market. North, South, East, West my foot long dogs (feet)were abused. Wherever art lived, I was there.

The days and nights were filled with the unexpected: I could never expect Larry Rivers to excuse himself so he could have quick sex with a heated groupie. I didn’t know what to say to James Rosenquist when he asked me not to publish my portrait of him with a whiskey bottle: Until he passed. I couldn’t imagine why Robert Rauschenberg poured me more than five shots of Jack Daniel’s at 10:00 in the morning: Have you ever hit the summertime sun straight on at Noon.

Can you imagine what it was like to be exposed to the underneath of Alice Neels’ nightgown.

Then there was the music: Artists’ studios were filled with the sounds of Opera, Symphonies, Jazz and every once in awhile the Sex Pistols or Talking Heads. Everyday felt like I was inside one of those snow globes: Everything was shaking and I was sitting in the center of the world.

Can you imagine the era when film was a photographer’s best companion. A time when a single frame wrestled with your patience. A time when a successful shoot with Isamu Noguchi, Raphael Soyer, Willem Dekooning, Roy Lichtenstein, David Salle, Peter Blume or a more famous or lesser famous artist was paused until the photo lab processed your film into transparencies or negatives?

What were you supposed to do while you waited and anxiously suffered until the lab technician said, “Schulman, your film is ready”.

Man, I had these lists about lists.

About these lists: Now I am writing about New York: but in that year almost one hundred dealers from London, Paris, New York and Los Angeles opened their private contact vaults for me!! Why, I will never know. Just about every important or up and coming gallery shared with me contacts of their rosters. The lists were my adrenalin elixirs: once in hand I was on the move.

I might walk out of a meeting with a gallery and immediately head for the “pay phones” on the streets. Sometimes when a voice picked up, I was sure I was in church or temple. Those moments might even feel like god fearing shaking Baptist gospel.

In hindsight, It may not be that the images mattered most. If an artist did not answer the phone call I would wait patiently(mostly anxiety ridden) for days or weeks for a return call. It might have been midnight or early morning that I would receive a return call. I would be awakened to mellifluous and sometimes barking acerbic responses conversations with Jacob Lawrence, Dorothea Tanning, Marisol, Saul Steinberg and many more.

I heard aged voices that melted my heart, stirred my imagination. The voices were old, yet I knew they were the voices I passionately wanted to meet. Everyday I was turning to a new page, I was in heaven.

New York City at the time was like a world history class for me. I felt like a New York version of David Bowies’ “The Man who Fell to Earth” landing in character in Mel Brooks “History of the World Part 1”. Everything was new and foreign to me. Everyone was from somewhere. I was traveling through cultures and time. I was home, I just didn’t know it yet.

For years I wondered what my past had meant to me. Then one day I was shooting the portrait of the artist Alberto Burri. The room suddenly became whispering quiet. I turned around and there stood Isamu Noguchi. I did not know that Isamu and Alberto were great friends. Alberto walked quickly to grab hold of his old friend Isamu. Just before they hugged, Noguchi looked over at me and said, “you’re that photographer”.

The Life of Architecture: Georgia O’Keefe, Renzo Piano, Rem Koolhaas and Kengo Kuma

April 19, 2023

The Life of Architecture: Georgia O’Keefe, Renzo Piano, Rem Koolhaas and Kengo Kuma

Georgia O’Keefe’s whispering fragility could shake the red clay off the New Mexican Jemez mountains. Her indomitable spirit, strength and courage was from another galaxy. So when I heard her say: “I tried to paint what I saw. I thought someone could tell me how to paint landscape. But I never found that person. I had to just settle down and try. I thought someone could tell me how, but, I found nobody could. They could tell you how they paint their landscape, but they couldn’t tell me to paint mine. The cliffs over there, you look at it and it is almost painted for you, you think, until you try.” https://www.instagram.com/reel/CqjkONxDsqT/?igshid=MDJmNzVkMjY=

I found a truth for my own life’s work.

I am a self taught photographer. I have never understood what I do. I have merely understood why I do it. My mind and body have traveled across continents to photograph architecture. It seems like a simple gesture, a simple act to make the photograph at hand, “…until you try”.

When I make photographs I try not to be swayed by outside influences. I try. I would prefer to be thrown into the fire, and surprise myself with what may be. How thoroughly exhilarating that sounds.

It was like that afternoon I photographed Alfred Stieglitz’s Lake George home: The summer air ruled. The rural vacancy of a breathing life prevailed. I stood alone with a single frame. (If you allow for a suspension of disbelief) I imagined hearing the lovers Ms. Georgia O’Keefe and Mr. Alfred Stieglitz whisper, “you have to tangle with two hundred and fifty years of photography”. I had to make it mine!

Episodes

Renzo Piano’s Hermes in Tokyo: The building is an untamed elegant multi faceted colossus. The crafted gem that became Hermes, is also a gift from the maestro Renzo Piano.

Every day and night for one week I returned to the Hermes building. I had to be like a gemologist to recognize all of the crafted facets. My mind imagined so many ways to compose the photograph. I needed to pretend the building is like a giant Rubik’s cube. I twisted and turned my camera until it realized the appropriate pose that needed to be shot. I still was not satisfied with my Piano’s Hermes.

I would leave the building to focus on other things.

I had the luxury and the good fortune to photograph the portraits and architecture of SANAA, Ito, Isozaki, Ban and Ando. Around the city I would travel daily for these and other visual experiences. Certainly I cannot downplay the rewards of conversing with such unique and towering architectural giants. It was the most informal graduate course on architecture I had experienced: One week of formidable exchanges.

Everyday I was switching train lines or hopping into taxis. Everyday I was trying to solve the Piano’ Hermes riddle. On my last day in Tokyo I saw an incredible impressionable photography exhibition of Samurai in the courts of England and France. It led me to come to terms on a number of photography issues. Later that morning I stopped thinking about photography’s history and my obligation to the centuries of the form/art. I raced over to the Ginza.

I realized my photography was not meant to be anything less than a share of a total experience.

I made my morning picture. I made my evening picture. “Gotcha”

I have heard that Rem Koolhaas is a great teacher. In architecture I think that may be one of the great compliments.

I arrived in Rotterdam to shoot Rem’s portrait and one of his buildings for my book; “Portraits of the New Architecture”. It was an odd day to say the least. A dozen misunderstandings regarding the portrait session. Putting aside the misunderstanding, Rem was a prince. He gave me all of the time I needed: I shot the image in about thirty minutes. He was gracious to the end: thanking me for flying all the way from New York. Everyone was happy. He also found the humor in the fact that I was staying in the Hotel New York, in Rotterdam.

I was a bit “under the gun”. Shooting a portrait and a building in one day taxed my brain quite a bit.

But under the gun, in the line of fire or any phrase that lives up to, do what you gotta do, is a winner for me.

It is always the moment that you see your appointed building for the first time that makes your hair on your arms stand at attention. I was alone on the local trolley. My trolley was slowing for a stop across the road. It allowed me to scope out my prey as I crossed the street. It wasn’t quite like the Pequod’s Captain Ahab calling out, “…Moby Dick is mine!” There the was the Kunsthal building! This is years before his De Rotterdam (that I have also photographed.)

I am not a critic. I cannot allow my camera to make a critique. I just had to make the image mine.

I had asked Rem Koolhaas for any thoughts about what was necessary to look for. He simply gave me the answer I was looking for; You are the photographer, it is your photograph.

With the April sun allowing me for just a few more hours to make something happen. I swiftly danced from north to south, west to east side of the building. I ran inside stepping on every square foot of a Koolhaas. It was a playground for my photography that reaped rewards every step of the way

Kengo Kuma gave me a great assignment.

In a past blog I have mentioned shooting for Kengo Kuma in Yusuhara, Japan.

My initial commission was for a few buildings in Tokyo. He added an additional trip to Yusuhara.

Yusuhara Is almost like a forgotten world. Yet it is a place that one can entertain their Zen and just come away with a complete reorientation of priorities and purpose.

The commission was to photograph maybe six structures: Hotel, Spa, Library, House of Prayer, a bridge and…

I attempted discover new ways of shooting Kuma’s. The bridge disrupted my photographic agenda the most. It is such an easy thing to photograph. But I mostly felt hypnotized by its beauty every time I lifted my camera to snap.There was that romantic zen that had me dreaming of narratives. The narratives were adventurous novellas taking place in worlds I had never known. Yet every time I looked up at the bridge fantastic visions would enliven my mind.

I remember riding the bus through the lush countryside from Yusuhara to Osaka. The embracing verdant forests allowed me to travel again and again across the fantasy bridge of stories.

Memories and Memoirs

April 12, 2023

Memories and Memoirs

Peter Eisenman’s Wexner Arts Center Columbus, Ohio

{Eisenman, Gehry, Tsien, Williams and Marks}

“The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.”

(Nabokov)

I didn’t know who I wanted to be, but I knew I had to get there to know what that was.

RLS

The great Russian writer Vladimir Nabokov wrote “Speak,Memory”. Nabokov was like a Sorcerer the way he could lay down words from memory. I wish my memory was as acute as is, or like the magician Harry Lorayne (a man who remembered everything).

Vladimir Nabokov would think collectively. He sometimes seemed to float like from a Chagall painting above a single word. The word would later find itself splayed out on a white typing sheet. The word would later graduate into the world and the Nabokov canon.

Occasionally he would step down from his lofty perspective and joins us. We were not aware of his presence until we read his stories or memoirs and realize he has always been among us: He knows us.

I wanted to be like Nabokov. He was not fierce or Rabelaisan. He was in the wind with butterflies. Where flitting butterflies landed, Nabokov discovered nature’s bounty; or so his memoirs suggest in great detail.

When he wrote about Chess as in “The Defense”, he wrote about man’s fragile vulnerability: The character may crash and burn: He was still writing about us.

I of course have led quite a different life. I think a scatter gun best suits my approach to life and career. Cervantes might have thought I was too Quixote. Rabelais might have thought I was too Gargantuan. I think I was intended to embrace collectively one million Birds of Paradise and ask myself what have I accomplished: Have I done enough.

I have had incidental wanderings upon one million Monarchs. Nabokov’s wanderings were with specific calculations. He would spread his eyes across the planet as a distilled yet calculated life observer. His eyes smiled as they danced among his prized genera of butterflies.

I know we are completely different beasts; Yin and Yang. Nabokov lived a fully articulated life among letters. I love the order in his life. I am still chasing my endgame: Instead of amassing a library of letters, I am looking at an archive of photographic images. Do I have an endgame? What will it matter.

Chasing Shadows: Breathless

Chasing shadows is part of a holistic approach that just might allow me to realize my endgame. If I follow my visual instincts, maybe all of my concerns will come into focus: I think when I consider the decades, the most consistent factor in all of my images is the presence of shadows.

I have composed images with a bit of an excited yelp! The yelp arises when I see a shadow. No ordinary shadow, but one that says, “Stop now and shoot”.

The architect Peter Eisenman’s magnum opus may just be “The Wexner Center for the Arts”.

Columbus, Ohio is home to some fabulous architecture. But I was racing almost breathlessly to see if I could capture the Eisenman genius.

Ohio and Columbus are such a profound example of Middle America. Outstanding visuals across the state. I felt I had slipped into another time another part of history. A Columbus General Store had me feeling that Rod Serling was directing a live episode of Richard Schulman in shock. I had missed the photograph of the century: Adjoining the General Store was an ice cream shop. Two very round and robust Ohioans in pastel Easter colors were licking equally pastel Easter colored ice cream cones. Needless to say it is not fair to go on with the description of an image that I missed snapping: Alas, only in Ohio.

There is no past in Ohio. Every century, and every decade seem not to have been phased by time. But then there is Eisenman.

Driving like a maniac to catch the light I have not seen. Driving like a maniac to see what may be the greatness of a single man. Doing my due diligence to see what I needed to see in this magnum opus.

As my car swung through the campus of Ohio State I espied what my whole career had been shaped by; The shadow. There it was. Before I could encircle my objective. I stepped into my mark for Wexner’s closeup. It was just this one soft shadow that made what might be seen as a deconstructive image into a bucolic “aha” setting.

I knew instantly that my quest had been realized. Even after walking in and around the building for the next few hours, I continued to remind myself of the “shadow”.

Hey, maybe there is a better picture, but for what I dream about, I was in love.

Frank Gehry’s Disney Hall was designed before Bilbao. Somehow, today Disney is sort of the “Mini Me” to Bilbao. Disney is a treasure. Many years before the movie “Ford Vs.Ferrari movie I felt like I was breaking Craig Breedlove’s land record everyday. I raced from the west side to the east side everyday for one week through the streets of Los Angeles. I needed to capture at least one or two Disney/Gehry photographs. My father raced against Dan Gurney and Ken Miles and…I kind of know what racing with assurance is about. I always raced the engine like I was “Breathless” Belmondo style..

I think I maybe recorded 2-3 successful images. I worked like a dog. I always work like a dog while taking pictures. So when I saw Frank’s Disney the way he just might like it: I saw a certain curtain dressing of shadows that made me quietly yelp, “aha”. There ain’t nothing like it.

Billie Tsien and Tod Williams are remarkable architects. If I was Vladimir Nabokov today, I would confess that on the day I made their portrait, they were my Nabokov butterflies. I chased them around the American Folk Art Museum on the day of the opening.

Their minds had to be racing breathlessly with a check list stamped on their foreheads. It just had to be that way. I merely waited until like a butterfly netted they had no more room to run.. They stopped. I shot.

My light and my camera allotted me five more images. But it was this single image that became my moment; Joy in my heart; hard won perspiration springing from my eyes. If one could yell “That’s it” but one doesn’t.

Almost twenty years later, I still feel a little bit of heaven from that moment. For me there is nothing like chasing a shadow that before that day had not existed. For days and weeks following I laid in the middle of the street waiting for the museum to be captured in a similar light. I was unleashed with ambition and heart. My reward was Tsien/Williams portrait of two architects and a portrait of their work. The total experience was like my “My Trip to Bountiful”.

The Art Dealer Matthew Marks was quite insistent that he did not want to be photographed. But a few phone calls and a bit of “please” I captured a whirlybird that had no interest in a whirl.

Matthew is a wonderfully imposing figure. My camera seemed to see things I had not seen yet. There were colors and shadows wafting slowly in the gallery space. It almost reminded me of the beautiful staggering struggles that Jane Fonda and Michael Sarrazin endured in the final scenes from “They Shoot Horses Don’t They”.

Matthew Marks clearly was not engaged. I needed to motivate him. The real and mirage like colors and shadows suddenly compelled me to act like a fashion photographer: “Beautiful baby, just beautiful”.

If I had not encased Matthew in the two trademarks that are Richard Schulman: Colors and shadows, I am not sure what I would have done. Matthew might have killed me. But walking out of the upper East Side gallery I knew that for me, no matter how much I confound myself with Nabokov’s life versus mine, a single tip of my shutter, makes me sing. Maybe (“The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.”) is more about my photography Than I realized.

Keanu Reeves and Isabella Rossellini Eating FOOD GLORIOUS FOOD

April 06, 2023

Keanu Reeves and Isabella Rossellini Eating FOOD GLORIOUS FOOD

In the memoirs by General Douglas MacArthur and General (Colonel at the time) George Patton, both men recounted their meeting during the France St Mihiel offensive in 1918.

What they remembered diverged significantly.

Time significantly alters the facts unbeknownst to the raconteur. I try to remember a significant detail that alludes to the idiom: ”The Devil is in the details”; Which comes from”God is in the details”.

I remember sitting in the bar area of the Beverly Hills Hotel Polo Lounge. I was waiting to be called up to Gore Vidal’s room. I was anxious. I was plotting. I was levitating. The Gore portrait was a dream come true.

But I was distracted as I sat at the bar. The person next to me was eating a salad. It is not fair to judge other people. It is not appropriate to judge other people. So I will only say that in my life I have never seen anyone eat quite like Keanu Reeves.

I was standing by a bar in a very popular upper east side Manhattan Italian restaurant. I was meeting a couple of friends. I glanced over towards a woman eating some pasta. To this day, I have never seen anyone eat pasta quite like Isabella Rossellini.

Food is a glorious companion. Food connects people. Food is a bridge between adversaries. Food offers a common denominator among strangers.

One only needs to think: “Babette’s Feast” and “The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover”.

Story lines can best be remembered if one can remember what was served for a meal.

Frank Gehry has always reminded me of a cute Marmot. He is lovable to look at. He is extremely smart and talented. He is opinionated.

I was having a quick bite with Frank, Stanley Tigerman and Greg Lynn. The hotel cafe in New Haven was not so special. The three were eating sandwiches. It had a Last Supper atmosphere. I rolled out a photographic print I was very proud of: Eero Saarinen’s Ingalls Rink. Before I could explain the image, and the story that included Greg Lynn, Frank shook his head negatively. Stanley looked away. The Marmot had spoken. This endearing cuddly and famous architect gave it a thumbs down.

I sat down to join them for a bite.

Later that early evening, I sat with Frank on the train from New Haven to Manhattan. I showed him pictures that I had made for a book. His eyes were glued to the two images of Disney Hall. “These are great, how come I have not seen them before? He turned right into my eyes and the cuddly Marmot whispered, “I loved the Saarinen”. More on that story for another time.

I arrived in São Paulo:

Paulo Mendes da Rocha was impatiently waiting for me. When I arrived for our shoot with my assistant, he was beside himself. “I only have a few minutes” he waved angrily. I thought he was nuts and unruly.

We talked about his recent award: The Pritzker Prize. He began to loosen up and apologized for his blunt introduction.

After an hour he asked us if we were hungry. He took us to a local favorite spot and we had an early dinner. Three hours or so later he said; “Tomorrow I will show you my city”.

The dinner had softened his heart. The conversation about him had helped a bit. But the next day we were best pals and the tour took us to unique sites of the city which also include five or six of his buildings.

It just might have been the dinner the night before that have reduced him from Rabelais’s Gargantua to Dickens’ Tiny Tim.

The endearing Brazilian was in the end everything I had hoped for. I guess I am sometimes right: it starts with food.

Richard Meier is a unique personality. I have photographed Richard more than any one person.

From 1988 until 2009 maybe seven times.

It was the last time that he revealed his most natural self. It is a portrait that I promised him not to show until, well you know, until after the very end.

We sat at a table on the grounds of his East Hampton Estate. He was dressed in… His face wore a …His tee-shirt was…

He kicked back against a tree. We talked about… Nothing was off limits… I merely had to share this story when he was no longer here…

The end of the afternoon came. He walked me to his driveway. He paused before we got to his Porsche. He asked me to wait a minute. He trotted back with an armful of fruits and vegetables from his garden. “This is special”. I know he meant that he picked it fresh from his garden. From a tough New York architect, a successful man of the city, he wanted me to know how big his heart can be.

Tough as nails, I have not seen him since.

Have I ever told you about Reuben Nakian’s Meatloaf Sandwich? Have I ever told you about lunching with Henry Moore while gazing at sheep and sculpture. Have I ever told you about lunch with the French artist Cesar at Le Dome? Have I ever told you about lunch with Calatrava at his Park Avenue home. Do you remember me sharing my afternoon with the television producer Douglas Cramer? Can an afternoon lunch in Southampton with Roy Lichtenstein be any more “Pop”. Is there anything more delectable than sharing an American cheese and mayo sandwich with Larry Rivers?

Was there any afternoon more frozen in time than eating at a French Cafe in Montreal with Phyllis Lambert?

Over the decades of photography what I remember most is sitting across from a person of interest who believed as I do as did the films of “Babette’s Feast and “The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover”, everything good happens around food.

Thinking Out Loud. Roxy Music and More

March 30, 2023

I remember sitting alone in a Parisian cafe. I played on the “Jukebox” the song “Avalon” a thousand times.

I was sitting by the window. I was looking on to busy Montmartre streets. I was both a tourist and a photographer. It depended on the day. The day that nobody rang me up, I was a tourist. The day the phone rang I flew to one arrondissement and then another. It is pretty much what happens to me in most cities.

I like to eat. I like to be somewhere where I can grab something delicious quickly. I am not going to list all of the cities; New York, Paris, Barcelona and Istanbul are at the forefront.

When I recently listened to Roxy’s “Manifesto” song, my life with a camera made some sense;

“I am for a life around the corner

That takes you by surprise

That comes leaves all you need

And more besides.”

My life with my camera needs not only meaning, but it has to be about an experience that instructs me, builds me and it is something I can share visually or through conversation. A life without experiences is not a life.

The experience I used to have when I made portraits was that some pretty unique characters shared some pretty intimate feeling and experiences.

I mostly felt like I was a psychiatrist with patients asking for guidance. Though there were times that some subjects couldn’t wait to bubble over with stories about their inner sanctum.

It was a privilege that I have cherished for decades.

The experience photographing architecture and design makes me feel like I am an astronaut

floating in space staring at the planet earth and thinking about the way it looks to my eyes.

There are only the sounds of space(whatever that may be) whispering galaxy stuff.

When I stand in front of a building or an object, there is only me and the whispers that my space may or may not have.

I have photographed an astronaut. He was the one who told me what it feels like to see earth from above and hear nothing. He joked that martians may have said hello

But he did whisper that to me. He figured NASA might be listening and he did want to come across as “bonkers”. When I am alone with a building I could never reveal what is exactly going on in my head: I have to maintain some sense of sanity, as joyfully difficult that might be.

I am sharing today some pieces from my travels to cities. Of course I wont share what I was thinking

ButI hope you enjoy the experience.

Reflection through Rafael Vinoly Building 277 fifth Avenue

Old Friends

March 23, 2023

I remember seeing seven red naked whales swimming atop the waves of the yellow ocean.

I stood on the shore like a squinting eel. I just wanted to know where has all of the the time gone.

Raymond Pettibon; Decades ago: Los Angeles

“Old friends” are something my camera has seen. When friends pass, I meet them again as memories.

My first collection of artists, I seemed to catch just before they died. By comparison my second collection of artists seemed to be captured just after they were born: I get them coming and going.

When I photographed Raymond Pettibon for the second time his trust in my process was undeniable. Raymond lived in a ranch house styled home and at first painted small canvases.

By the time this session occurred he had graduated to large wall paintings.

He threw, I threw paint in every direction on a plexiglass canvas. Raymond is a big guy. I am a big guy, but Raymond has an indomitable spirit. He would be Sisyphus, except he has the conquering drive. No boulder would stop his energy to get the work done.

When He completed the painting he was depleted. I don’t think he returned to his home immediately. I think he stepped outside the studio and raised his arms to bring in the new oxygen. Then maybe home, or another canvas. He is a big guy

Richard Tuttle is part of my middle age artist collection. Maybe at the time he was mid career.

There are hundreds or thousands of artists who are certainly seen by radar, but their level of growth hasn’t been measured yet. He sat on the teeter-totter for awhile. Obviously I am writing this looking through the rear view mirror. Shortly after I photographed him he was suddenly in museums around the planet.

Our session was in a scratchy looking studio. There was no place to sit without a bit of inspection necessary.

Richard likes the quiet whispers. I had recently returned from photographing Man Ray’s wife Juliett.

He whispered with passion that he wanted to know about everything I saw. Maybe he was a quiet Man Ray enthusiast, maybe he just liked whispering.

I loved our session because I loved making my portrait of him. I loved our session because he had this calming affect on me. I was so relaxed that time passed so quickly that the portrait that I enjoyed taking so much happened in minutes. But I think it worked because there wasn’t an expression that he was afraid to share.

When I left, I wasn’t sure what had just happened. But as I walked from his avenue back to my avenue, I think we might have settled on world peace. Whispers are not always so clear.

Jim Dine is one of a fascinating collection of portraits. I think there might be one dozen artists who I photographed 2-3 times.

Jim is 87 now. When I first photographed him he was 47. I thought he was old then. But objectively, he just had an old soul. I was told just before the first session that he was one of the meanest artists around. But certainly that was misguided information. Jim might have been the nicest and most understanding patient artist out of the hundreds who have sat for me.

The first session was in London, but the next two sessions were in NYC.

By the time this session that you see (I think it was for a French art magazine) we had seen each other about town. He was prepared for the pain that he swore up and down about: “Those lights Richard are burning a whole through me”. Of course I confirmed to him that the lights are a bit hot.

I told him to think of it as a doctor’s appointment. A blood test or a vaccination and the doctor says, “look the other way, it will only hurt for a minute”. I reminded him of the time my lights set my own hair on fire. I let him know that I will suffer with him for every second the session takes.

When I was finished, he recounted the three sessions. He said, “we are done!”.

Of course I knew what he meant: Three portraits over 15 years was good for me too.

All of the above artists are equally a happy and sad reminder of time passing. The sad part is that there will be a final breath and they will be gone. The happy part is a selfish one: I just loved shooting these amazing talents as part what in hindsight was my Triassic Age.