Although I promised last week to further explain my small momentous epiphany in the Museum of Modern Art, which only transformed my life as I now know it, I realized I'm not quite ready to put this all together. I need a break of sorts, so... Beside a vacation, which I've been on for a week, I thought I would take a small break from life's little questions and get down to the basics: A man's strong attraction to a woman. Here she is: Annika on her bicycle. The German, exquisite, 5'11" beauty, with long blonde hair. Look at her. Don't you agree, if God had created a 10, Annika was at least a 10-and-a-half, maybe even an 11. She was perfect in every way: very beautiful, long legs, voluptuous, exquisite face, etc. Ok, so what's the problem? Well here's the inside scoop. It starts in the Fall of 1993. I was doing a shoot at an estate in Long Island, and we had cast two girls for it. The first was the miraculous Annika, whom you see above, and the second was a girl named Claudia, who was from Brazil. The shoot was for three days, and after the first day of shooting, I approached the Art Director and asked her if we could not use Annika for the next two days. You see, Annika, this miracle of life, this hedonistic creature, whom I originally lusted over, turned out to be quite a bitch. She was uncooperative, mean-spirited, and to say the least, not very nice. On the other hand, the more normal (down to earth, reality check) Claudia, was funny, vivacious, attractive, and extremely happy to please. I thought why not just use Claudia for the remainder of the shoot? I was informed by the Art Director that this might have been fine, but we had contracted both girls, and were obliged to use them both. So for the entire shoot, I shot both girls, convinced that Claudia would triumph. Her vivaciousness, her laughter, would in the end persevere. I was convinced that Annika's inner self would be revealed and reviled by all. I was sure that I could show through her beauty, and reveal her true essence. All through the shoot, Annika and I barely talked, (although the fact that she barely spoke English could not have been the problem). Throughout all these months of writing about my tales and insights into the human psyche, I have told you how the camera never lies, that one's true essence can be revealed. Well, on these three days in the Fall of '93, truth took a holiday. When the film was developed, and contacts made, it was almost impossible to find a bad picture of Annika. This woman, who did not deserve the grace of God, looked more beautiful in every frame. Claudia, whom I adored, looked attractive and nice, but never spectacular. In this case, I was wrong. Beauty triumphed over truth. How is it possible that no…

People have often asked me how I knew I wanted to be a photographer, and the answer is at once quite simple, yet has perplexed me psychologically for over 40 years. When I was young, I would often go to the Museum of Modern Art, not as something I wanted to do, but rather it was something I thought I should do. I would look at the art, and the photography, and feel (except for the color palate of some of the paintings), very little connection to them. Their abstraction, their take on the world at the time, felt very estranged from me. I was anxious, confused, and dumbfounded by life, and most of this art did nothing to resolve my conflicts. In fact, their disoriented nature only confounded me more. And then... there was this miraculous day, out of the blue, or should I say grayness of a New York winter's day, in my sophomore year of college. On Christmas break, I dragged myself once again to the MoMA. I remember walking in the old building, and something on the 3rd floor, outside of the permanent collection of photography, caught my eye, and I decided to look again at the photographs. I began, as always, with early 19th Century photographs, and slowly made my way to the more contemporary, which at that time, was about 1930-1965. I have to digress, and pontificate for a moment. As I saw it, in my fashion, painting had already made the leap to abstraction and conceit. It slowly had begun the evolutionary process of abstracting itself from the world and becoming more cerebral. I don't care how much, or how often one states that abstraction is the process of quantifying and qualifying life to its essence, a way of realizing an emotional core, an awareness. To me, this modern painterly process, although somewhat successful with Cezanne and others, had begun the process of becoming distant from a life I wanted to lead. Art for art's sake had won, at least for a while. And then, there was Edward Steichen, (the remaining curator of photography at the MoMa, who was also quickly replaced after this visit). His affirmation of life and love, not only in his own work, but in exhibitions he mounted, such as The Family of Man, etc., was replaced with a meanspirited, dispassionate, and very angry view of the world. This became the norm, and was more in keeping with painting and sculpture. But on this very special day, which I think happened to be very close to my 20th birthday, I made the turn in the gallery, and began that day to discover Margaret Bourke-White, Dorothea Lange, W. Eugene Smith, Reni Burri, Andre Kertesz, Henri Cartier-Bresson, etc. My life was never the same again. I looked at these pictures over and over again, getting more and more excited, and saying and feeling to myself I can do this. This is for me. This is my life. So for the last…

Some years ago, I was shooting at an estate in Long Island, New York, for two clients at once. I know this sounds peculiar, but it was initiated by the clients themselves. Two clients had agreed to hire my services for the price of one. The main client would use most of the pictures, and the second client would piggyback on the production of the first, and get its own picture from the shoot. I'm not sure this makes any sense to you, as it surely did not make any sense to me, but what I do remember is that one picture from the shoot would be used and paid for by the second client. The only stipulation was that when the picture was made for the second client, the model's face could not be recognizable. Those of you who are faithful followers of this blog will remember something similar happened on a much earlier occasion. To find out the resolution of that problem, you must go back and read all of the blogs, until you find the answer, by which time your eyes will have been glued shut. Over the years, I have been asked continually why I shoot people with hats. The answer is that I'm not sure exactly, but what I do know is that I like the appearance of the hat, particularly on men. If you were to stand beside me, as many Art Directors have, and I ask you which looks better, the figure with the hat, or without it, you most likely, as many before when confronted with this situation, would probably say it looks better with the hat. It's not just any hat. It has to be the right hat, the right size, for the right man. If it is working correctly, it completes the figure, it answers the question, and by its very existence, seems to help raise more. It adds distinction, while at the same time makes a singular man everyman. Getting back to my story. So on that fateful day, when I was trying to do two-for-one, Don, the enigmatic model, was sitting in this $4,000 suit, with $2,500 shoes, a $450 tie, and out comes my $50 hat. I said to him, How do we show these clothes, while cutting off your face, not to spite you, but to save a client? He immediately put the hat over his face, and I took a few frames, and off to the races we went. Throughout the years, a hat has saved me on more than a few occasions. Some people have used it, hat in hand, to solicit money. I, on the other hand, have used it to further complicate some rather ordinary events. It has become like my favorite semicolon at the end of some sentences. There is more to follow. In this case, instead of the eyes being the window to one's soul, the hat has either hidden Don from me and the client, or allowed him, on…

My desk is currently being lit by an assortment of candles due to a colossal storm that passed through New York over the weekend, knocking out all the power in the studio on its way. Stay tuned for illumination that will hopefully be brighter than these candlesticks. I will officially return to the blogisphere when the power comes back on. Until then...

And you have made the world. And it is large and like a word that yet in silence ripens. And as your will takes in the sense of it, tenderly your eyes let it go... -Rainer Maria Rilke It seems like such a simple thing, it feels so natural and appropriate, but in fact, it has been my lifelong goal. It is all through my photographs. It is in every corner, every nuance of my work, right to the very edge, it is "the force that drives the green fuse" through my very being. It is a sense of serenity or well-being. It can be expressed as humor, grace, delicacy, order, etc. It is a sense of equilibrium, or buoyancy, where chaos meets order, and on some level, is resolved. It has almost been like I've been following a yellow brick road for most of my life, seeking this peace, but only rarely, on a singular hilltop along the way have I even gotten a glimpse of it. I know what it feels like, and I know how to express it. The problem is, I don't know how to enjoy it. Peculiarly, I can remember on two occasions in my 62 years when I was able to sight, or perhaps feel is a better term, what I've been seeking feels like. On both occasions, I was on a beach, the tranition area where land meets sea. Where one unknown confronts the next. It is on this unknown, small strip of land, where people feel the least inhibited, able to shed their clothes and burdens, and feel somewhat liberated. It is here, on these small strips, that my life, on a few occasions, has felt the most at-ease. The first was when I was a boy, about 17 years old, where I and my family had gone to Barbados for holiday. It was during that transition period I described last week, where instead of anxiety at the diminishing of the day, I felt peace. I could feel it slowly enter my body, and resolve itself to stay for a few moments. All at once, the struggles, the queries, and anxieties relaxed, and I felt a sense of unity. Of course the night continued its journey, and the normal lack of stasis reemerged. The second occasion, I was also on a beach, on a glorious early spring day, as today, in a small village in North Wales. It was called Aberdaron, and we had crossed a small bridge to get to the beach. I was with my five-year-old son, and out of the blue, the air, the sea, the smells engulfed me with renewal. I felt once again complete. I was able to stop, and simply enjoy the moment. I can't figure out why there, but those small glimpses have led me on. I realized I could enjoy it, and experience the thrill of contentment. I have continued this quest, both in my personal life, and in my pictures. I see what…

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray Do not go gentle into that good night Rage, rage against the dying of the light. - Dylan Thomas  I am fearful of elevators, loneliness, and the evening. It's not the deep dark weightlessness of late night that perturbs and frightens me, it's the transition from light (to be able to see) to darkness that troubles and unsettles me. It is within these hours where I become anxious and filled with despair. This must be one of the reasons I am a photographer. I go out into the world, to breathe its notoriety and humor, to be able to see clearer, to look for understanding and purpose, to open up, and reach exuberantly and unforgivingly for the light. But as the sun sets, and darkness begins to overwhelm the struggle, my life becomes unsettled. This is in my pictures. It is my desperate attempt to stamp the world with good humor and grace. It is my attempt to fight fiercely, with "ruthless determination" against banality. To feel the world, to find its purpose, to understand its laws, to expose its beauty and grace, for me, lies within the hours of the day. As I work within the conflicts of the rebellious and uncontrollable light of day, I wait for the repercussions of the night, like a naughty child who waits for his father to return home in the evening. Additionally, please check http://www.npr.org/blogs/pictureshow for Npr's review of The End, as well as this blog.