I thought I would take one week off from writing about The End, to write about the very beginning. I have just returned from the low country of South Carolina where this picture was taken. That was over 30 years ago. It has reminded me of how the end may be just a beginning In my early twenties, photographically and in many other ways, I was looking for wisdom, insight, and strength. I was not interested in physical strength, but rather depth of character. While I danced around with my own feelings of inadequacy, I was drawn to people who had endured and persevered. These people were the focus of my attention. One afternoon while traveling on Wadmalaw Island in South Caronlina, I came upon this old unsettled house where I found an elderly woman whom I thought interesting. This woman, as were many of the people I photographed at the time, was in her 80s, and displayed the qualities for which I had been searching. I was in my twenties, and was sure that wisdom and grace were only to be gained as one grew older. Life’s history had to be played out for some years before one could reveal it. However, just as I was about to photograph this woman, my wife at the time suggested I look at the woman’s grandson. Because I was so focused on his grandmother I hadn’t even seen him. As soon as I really looked into his face, I saw all that I was looking for: a soul that far transcended his years, and graciousness and wisdom that usually comes only with age. Added to this, I saw one of the gifts of youth: his vulnerability. To this day, this simple picture is one of my favorites. It was a gift to me that I thought I would share with you. What is important for me, the day after this Thanksgiving recess, is to try to realize the small gifts that we are given. I must try to find something new, not necessarily in a place that’s unfamiliar, but rather in a person or a place that is right beside me.

I think this picture, although on first viewing does not appear so, feels like a continuation of some of the issues I addressed very early in my career. This picture was originally shot while I was doing a story on hedge funds. I don't think it was ever used, but has remained one of my favorites from that shoot. The question that has intrigued me over the years, is What is it about this picture that resonates with me? Often, I can tell you quite quickly and deliberately what it is about a picture that I like or dislike, but this one alluded me for some time. Therein lies its strength. In the case of this picture, I do not believe my emotional response to the image is the same as many others I have described over the previous weeks. Obviously, I shot it. It has my particular orientation and vernacular, but to me, there is something very mysterious and unresolved about this picture. It is almost like a portrait, yet nothing like it. It's close, but it's no cigar. It is familiar, yet it is completely unknown. I think that the quality of its peculiarity, its slightly unfamiliar composition, is truly the heart of the matter. Like a great portrait (the master of them all being Leonardo's Mona Lisa), there is no resolution. It remains enigmatic, drawing you in continually, but raising more questions than it resolves. The list of unresolved issues for Leonardo's painting has grown over the years rather than diminished. And that is why I like this photograph. The hedge in this outdoor room, the position of the figures, their relationship to the hedge, to the world, to each other, is never resolved or obvious. What is going on with them, and with life, and therefore with me, remains in question. A great photograph must never answer all the questions, otherwise you would never be drawn back to it. It must continually remain unresolved. It must draw you back. You may want to know the circumstances, but the question remains: Will you ever understand it completely? On this Monday prior to Thanksgiving 2009, I wish all of you a happy Thanksgiving. I hope that these comments do not answer all your needs, but raise the desire for more. The book is a means to an end. In fact, the end may just be the beginning. That would be a gift worth giving. I've included a few older pictures, pictures from 30 to 40 years ago, where I feel some of these issues were already brewing.

Today when I look at this pictures I smile to myself. But, it recalls a time when I was all but smiling. They remind me of a small part of a much longer story. The game of golf paralleled my relationship with my father as a high school boy. Today I miss him a great deal, and would love his company, but then... that is another story. My father did not participate much with me or my activities, but he was an avid golfer, and if I ever wanted his attention, I had to learn and attempt to play this peculiar game. There was one small problem. After hundreds of lessons, thousands of hours at the driving range, I could never rid myself of a frustrating and definitely inappropriate slice to the ball. (For those unfamiliar with the game, this means the ball despites one's efforts and determination to hit it straight, and would veer off to the right with such a vengeance, that one could only feel someone else's hand at work.) The more I would try to adjust for the slice, the most voracious and unforgiving the slice would become. The battle between the boy and this little ball was never resolved. In fact, as a means to outmaneuver this veer to the right, I would almost hit the ball directly left in order for it to go right, hoping that in the end, this would allow it to go straight. One glorious Saturday afternoon in the Summer of 1964, my father and I, by some miraculous good fortune, had managed to be tied for first place in the annual father and son tournament. We were on the 17th hole and my father felt it neccessary (with the sniff of victory in the air) to put even more pressure on me, imploring me to hit the ball straight. Of course the more he persisted, the further to the right the ball would travel. I could have shot the ball backwards, and with its ruthless determination, the ball would have veered far far to the right. As might be expected, on the approach to the 17th green, there was a large pond to the right of the green, where I immediately launched my first ball, right into the center of the pond. On the second attempt, I was almost lucky: the ball veered so far right that I almost overshot the pond which would have landed the ball in the far right fairway of the next hole. This crazy little ball had a mind of its own. It would go where it wanted and not where the master had directed. Needless to say, we lost that tournament, along with my clubs, that I thanklessly threw into the deepest part of the 17th hole pond. I have never seriously played this game again, but I must thank it, for helping me accept the course I have chosen. I learned that hitting the ball in the wrong place definitely has its…

I am writing this from my office, in which I have locked myself while pouring over this week's post, which promises to be full of mystery, intrigue, and tell-all revelations. Stay glued to this page. You may even want to hit the 'refresh' button every few seconds to make sure you're not missing anything. Until soon...

One of the ironies of my life is my need to get very close to someone, and yet let very few people get close to me. It's as if I crave and desire intimacy, yet, probably like many men, I am very fearful of it. I think this is a picture where I am playing with this idea. The polaroid of me within the larger picture is as close as most people are going to get to me. I'm letting you see me, but only on my terms. It's me once removed, slightly more isolated. It must be obvious that I do not like to be photographed, am extremely self-conscious, and for these reasons, am more comfortable behind the camera rather than in front of it. This picture was shot outside of Vienna, Austria. It is my son who is holding the picture of me. Really, neither of us are easily approachable, yet both of us are in plain sight to see. We're here with you, and we're not. This is the way I like it; almost like the old magician's aphorism, now you see me, now you don't. PS: I've always liked pictures within pictures. I did this once when I was much younger with a landscape, and more recently in Paris on a fashion shoot.

“O brave new world that has such creatures in it!” In my case, I refer not to men, as was Miranda in The Tempest, but rather to women. Women, for me, are the miraculous gift, given to a rather incomplete male. They are, on occasion, all that we need to complete ourselves. They are graceful, delicate, serene, and beautiful, although most modern art would rather depict women as empowered, strong, and capable, they in fact appear to me as powerless and fraught with insecurity. As a boy, women appeared to me as almost miraculous. They stood on a pedestal to be adored and worshipped. They had inherent power over men, which over the years they have fought so strongly to give up to be more like men. Now we are equal, and in the process women have gained something, but in my mind have lost much more. In the process of opening their own doors, they have lost the attention of men who view a woman as a lady. The model in this picture is Bernadette. I have photographed her for years, never tiring of her beauty. She is not your classic, modern American ideal of beauty: blonde, athletic, vigorous, but rather to me she is delicate, porcelain-skinned, and graceful. She always has been a woman of a certain time. She is my ideal of beauty. I’ve included a few other pictures of her, not from the book, but as a way for you to see her in all her beauty and variety.

“O brave new world that has such creatures in it!” In my case, I refer not to men, as was Miranda in The Tempest, but rather to women. Women, for me, are the miraculous gift, given to a rather incomplete male. They are, on occasion, all that we need to complete ourselves. They are graceful, delicate, serene, and beautiful, although most modern art would rather depict women as empowered, strong, and capable, they in fact appear to me as powerless and fraught with insecurity. As a boy, women appeared to me as almost miraculous. They stood on a pedestal to be adored and worshipped. They had inherent power over men, which over the years they have fought so strongly to give up to be more like men. Now we are equal, and in the process women have gained something, but in my mind have lost much more. In the process of opening their own doors, they have lost the attention of men who view a woman as a lady. The model in this picture is Bernadette. I have photographed her for years, never tiring of her beauty. She is not your classic, modern American ideal of beauty: blonde, athletic, vigorous, but rather to me she is delicate, porcelain-skinned, and graceful. She always has been a woman of a certain time. She is my ideal of beauty. I’ve included a few other pictures of her, not from the book, but as a way for you to see her in all her beauty and variety.