I must be in my tropical mood. I'm sitting here in my Summer wardrobe, which consists of basically the exact same as my Winter attire, except that for the Summer months, I indulge myself by wearing a lighter blue gingham shirt rather than my normal, slightly darker blue, that I feel more appropriate to the darker and more conservative months of winter. It is well into the 90's in New York, and the humidity has us all dripping profusely, so I thought it only proper that since I am appropriately dressed for the tropics, I should write this week about a week I spent many years ago in Round Hill, Jamaica. It is time to loosen my libido and start doing the limbo. My wife and I were on one of our first vacations since our marriage in 1990, and we were visiting the famous resort of Round Hill, where the villas and oceans are filled with the memories of Hollywood at its finest, from the Forties and Fifties. All proper English and would-be-English actors had liaisons and repartees at Round Hill, and me, sitting under a tree on the beach, covered head to foot in my Summer wardrobe, without a drop of sun hitting anything that looks like my skin, was napping and fantasizing about life in the Forties, when my wife slapped me on the arm to wake me from my reverie, to see a waiter passing us by with a tray on his head. She exclaimed, as all determined, over-controlling, obsessive Art Directors would, that it was time to stop indulging my fantasies and get with the action, and take the waiter's picture. So like all good husbands, who have wives as Art Directors, I ran and obediently got my camera and asked the waiter to follow me. I took him out on the dock, put my deepest red filter on my camera to exacerbate the depths of my remorse of having been woken from my fine nap, and took this picture. It turned out I liked this picture, and in fact, it was put in my second book, The Hat Book, which was conveniently designed by my wife and her firm. She being the wisest of the two of us, must have had this vision in her head in Jamaica while I was dreaming on the beach of a life gone by. As summer slowly goes by and July 4 approaches, I hope you all find someone to bring you back to the real world, so you can, in picture, find a way out.

It is the first day of Summer, the longest day of the year. While I would love to share an insight or two with my faithful devotees, nothing could be more enlightening than the New York sunshine. So enjoy the bright inauguration of Summer, and look for new words of wisdom this time next week.

Some years ago I was asked by Visa to do a picture on shopping, America's favorite pastime. I should know. I grew up with a mother whose idea of consumption was to buy one of everything she liked in every color. Her closet looked like the original Henri Bendel store, with so many shoes, Melda Marcos would have been jealous. Sweaters, suits, blouses, skirts, all color-coordinated into a glorious pastel arrangement. If shopping gave rewards, my mother would easily have made the shopping hall of fame. So when approached about doing a picture about shopping in California, no high-minded, envious, gluttonous consumer could find a more perfect spot than Beverly Hills, with Rodeo Drive at its pinnacle. It took all of the vested power of Visa to get permission to close Rodeo Drive for a few hours. We watered down the streets to make it feel even more rich than the merchandise inside. It was my idea to find boxes from the stores, and exemplify a normal day of shopping for a Beverly Hills woman. When I shot this picture, I thought it was funny, but over the years there have been many women who've identified with this picture. It seems that this compulsion was not unique to my mother, but has infiltrated the upper crust of American society. I guess men have their cars, and women have their shoes. Immediately after completing this shot, the store doors opened, and all the women who were patiently waiting rushed past me to spend their way into eternity. So what's my take on all this consumption? The truth is, I guess I'm right in there with the best of them. I produce an artifact, a photograph. I care a great deal, not necessarily about its reproduction, but rather about the artifact itself, the print. I guess this makes me a materialist. I find an original print beautiful, and I hope people will purchase them and think so too. I also love and produce other artifacts: books, houses, interiors, furniture, etc. I care about the patina and craftsmanship of things, and well-made objects give me great pleasure. So put me down as my mother's son, equal to her in my own way. Despite my attempt at disdain, I must admit I am one among many. I am with you all, but in my fashion.

I'm involved in a titanic struggle with myself. I have been for over 50 years. There have been times like Par Lagervist's Dwarf, it is laying dormant or asleep, only occasionally making its Machiavellian self prominent and overbearing. But for the last year in particular, it has surfaced with a vengeance, and has made my life at times unbearable. The problem, though, is not with the enemy outside. The problem is with me, thou, myself. There is me, and then there is me, fighting out a battle, that if it could be configured on a visual plane, would equal the battle of Gettysburg. I can make those closest to me, my family and friends miserable, but as the book connotes, this is The End! Some side is going to finally triumph. Either its off to the New England shore, resting in peace, keeping all things under control, or for the life of me, which it may very well be, its off to taking pictures, sticking my head where it shouldn't be, looking deeply into the very soul of life, causing angst, disrupting the quietude, fighting the "never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way." It all started with my father (and of course my mother), but you already know this. I have learned a lot, and knowledge is power, but I still can't let me be me. I have hidden myself from myself, and as I approach The End, I am truly finding that if I can somehow or somewhere find the strength, it will just be the beginning.