It was truly a wonder that I learned anything academic at Boarding School, let alone have any time to peruse any interests that I might have had, because the conspiracy of the elders was to keep these 200 mischievous, innately troublesome youths, so busy changing clothes, that at the end of the day who could have any time for anything but sleep. The theory must have been, keep them so busy, so active, who could have time to fall out of Grace. This whole theory melded perfectly with the fashion of the times. We were the young masters of the universe, and we had to dress the part. There was a uniform, or perhaps better expressed, there were at least three uniforms to be worn each day. It started like this. We were required to wear a grey suit with brown shoes and tie to classes. So each morning if I was not a waiter (which I will discuss at a later date), I would dress in a beautiful grey suit with a Paul Stuart tie and brown highly polished Brooks Brothers shoes. My parent’s fashion preoccupation must have worn off on me, because I began to love clothes. The worsteds, glen plaids, charcoal flannel stripes all of a well made suit, made me feel as worthy and proud as the clothes would allow. I would vary my tie to fit the occasion. I was a true preppy. The odd thing, and perhaps the most embarrassing thing to admit today, being totally isolated in this 10,000 acre prison, I imagined that the whole world would want to be like this. It was not until I graduated and out in the real world that I realized how lost in translation I was. So off to classes I went in my attire, carefully examining the twill and the tweeds of my contemporaries, noticing the ties, socks, learning my craft to perfection. Who cares about world history when right there before my eyes was the American dream, the American elite. I could tell if the suit was hand made by it's buttonholes and stitching and how adventurous and audacious one might be by the lining color of his suit. I grew to love color, not on the outside where it was forbidden but on the inside linings of suits. Anyway, enough about my sartorial perception, this story is really about change. So as I said before I interrupted myself that off to classes we went dressed in our grey suits which we wore until after lunch. After lunch there was an hour and a half study hall in your rooms, where we would all take off our suits and ties and dress in jeans, khakis ect. for study hall. After study hall, there was always sports football, soccer, cross-country, hockey, and lacrosse, etc. each having it's own uniform, which we would have to dress appropriately for. In the spring I would play tennis and the white of my shirt had to match the white…

Just as I was approaching my full adolescence, and girls began to occupy at least 90% of my thoughts, and cars the other 10%, my parents thought it the perfect time to send me to an all boys’ boarding school. That way, they could leave the driving to them, and they would be free to travel the world with no guilt about who is left behind. I couldn't decide at the time if this was the best thing that ever happened to me as I would be free of the confines of my home, or was it the worst thing that could happen to a boy to be sent to a confined school without girls and without family. So for a week in my 8th grade year my mother and I trekked off in search of the perfect school for her son. We looked at this and that school all over New England, and as far as I could tell, never was there and utterance about the academic provenance of the school, but rather constant chatter about uniforms, proper attire, the maintenance and care of buildings, and particularly the overall aesthetic of the place. Oh, one other thing. As I was raised nominally Jewish, it was very important that I attend a strongly Protestant, preferably Episcopalian school where a moral code was preached, quickly forgotten, but the attainment of wealth and status was never forgotten. Finally, near the end of our quest, she found it. As soon as she walked onto the campus, met the head master, purveyed the glorious drama of the buildings and grounds, viewed all the blonde attractive boys, she exclaimed with a great deal of glee, "This is the place for my son!" Never-mind its lack of academic excellence, it had all you needed. It was beautiful, everyone looked great, it was perfect. In deference to my mother it truly was a masterful place. Unfortunately the tree that produced this apple had this critical eye that proved correct to often for her own good. It was built in the early twenty's by a woman equally as fanatic and eccentric as my mother. Set in over 10,000 acres of the Connecticut countryside, she had built a small English school modeled after Eton. She brought craftsmen from England and had gone broke painstakingly building stone by stone a masterpiece, which originally had a mote, designed to surround the school. I guess was to either keep the rabble out (although it was miles and miles to the nearest town) or probably to keep these 200 spoiled rotten kids in. She ran out of money using her entire fortune to build a preparatory school to build character in boys. This was a hard thing to do in the 1960's. Whether it worked or not is yet to be determined. Never the less, the school was truly a masterpiece of architectural distinction. It was like going to school in 19th Century England. Harry Potter could not have had dinner in a…

It happened in New Haven, Connecticut in the Fall of 1972. Twenty years after my mother's illness and withdrawl. I had just made my first 8x10 prints from my first contact sheet, from my first photography class. I remember walking up the stairs to my cockroach infested, but cute apartment in New Haven and looking at these photographs of people in New Haven, and thinking to myself, I like these pictures, but who...really took them? These pictures could not have been taken by me. They are too strong too direct and definitely too clear. Who is this person who could take such pictures? It is not the fearful, sickly, confused person I knew myself to be. These pictures turned out to be the beginning of my way out. They were the doorway to my interior. It is quite perplexing but photography saved my life from total failure. I know it didnt look this from the outside. I had gone to good schools, had family wealth, was married, and all things probably looked fine from the outside. Appearance is deceptive. On the inside a machiavellian dwarf had resided in me. It was determined to battle with me every step of the way. It could rise on any occasion and confront me with fear, loathing and sickness. It kept me subdued and fragile while a stronger voice in me was kept totally under control. So in the Fall of 1972, I began the journey of understanding of who I really am , what I stand for, and to begin the process of slowly ridding myself of the sins of the dwarf. Painfully and very slowly the person I saw in those first pictures has emerged. Often slipping back but re-emerging into a stronger, more direct person. Photography was always safe from my inner dwarf. It strongly took my hand and soul and has continually shown me the way to reunite me with myself.

So where was I? It seems quite ironic that what I most remember, what I can literally mark as one of the major turning points in my life, began and ended in the summer of 1952. Peculiarly because, as I mentioned last week, camp for the next eleven years was nothing but a blur, a time to forget. In 1952 when I was five, we still lived in a modest middle class house on a great street with sidewalks, and other children up and down the street. I can remember being extremely happy, and playing capture the flag with neighbors, and enjoying the community life. For whatever reasons, my mother decided that there was a camp, a farm actually in Cape Cod called Lake Farm. Which would be a great place for me to spend the summer. It turned out she was correct. It was a small co-ed camp with beautiful college girl counselors, and a gentle place where we all tended to animals and each other. I don't remember many particulars (I was only 5 remember), but I do remember a few things. For some reason I seemed to excel at everything. I could run faster, act maturely be responsible, so much so, that I remember being continually placed with the older campers. I got to go canoeing with them and my destiny seemed suited to a life of fulfillment. I was happy, people seemed to like me and to place the cherry on top of the sundae, I remember on the trainride home having my favorite girl kiss me. Heaven was found somewhere in Connecticut. Somewhere, sometime, somehow shortly after returning home from camp that first summer, it happened. My mother got sick. I can remember going to the hospital to pick her up and bring her home. I did not know what happened (at age 31 she woke up with breast cancer) and came home a failed woman. You see, my family was in the fashion business. Appearance was all. My mother not only lost her breast, she lost her looks, her allure, her appeal and came home deeply depressed, and went to bed for a year. She tried, but couldn't dote and adore her little boy who loved her. He was left and felt abandoned. It is at this point, that not only did my mother's life change, but mine did as well. Later in that year, I was playing the driveway and by mistake (maybe) cut my whole arm open on a piece of chrome attached to a car I was running by. It severed an artery and my mother, luckily was home and rushed me to the hospital. Finally I got her attention and she was there when I needed her. This was The Beginning and The End, all wrapped up into one year. The next summer, back in camp I was not the same little boy. I no longer won races. I was demoted and placed back with children of my own age,…