Deep down in the subterranean cavities of my mind, one can find all kinds of metaphors for my favorite room in our house, the basement. It's no wonder that I labored so long and hard in making our basement an exemplar of a fine 19th Century, English manor house basement. The basement is where one can find all the mechanics and secrets of the life above. It is the room (in this case rooms) that provides all the how’s and why's of how to get back in the high life again. In the mechanical rooms, where the boilers provide the energy there are clinks and clanks of fine copper pipes, surging heat through an obscure course into the smallest recesses of the property. It's where if one looks closely, the problems of ones life are located and often solved, the mechanical grist is nurtured and vitality is restored. Most people abhor or avoid their basements, but it is where below the surface that I am most comfortable. When there is a problem it is usually the first place I look for my solutions. This seems always to have been the case, and perhaps it is no wonder that when personal problems arise in my life, I look not above for solutions, but below into my feelings, angers, and fears. When I was a very young boy, if you were looking for me, there was a good chance you could find me in the basement. At first, at a very young age, my father built an elaborate train confabulation, which ran around the whole basement in our small suburban house. But, this was not just any train set. He had two men labor for months, setting up a huge elaborate train system. Where three of four trains could run at once, each having their own mysterious black transformers with levers. There were hundreds of switches to change track courses, switches to open and close gates, trees that seemed real and a long tunnel that went behind the oil burner to reappear some minutes later as if transgressing the Alps. If something happened on the far side of the oil burner, it would take a rescue squad weeks to reach into the out recesses of the tracks. A 747 cockpit had nothing on the control system that ran this mini/major inter-rail system. This was all wonderful, not only wonderful, but spectacular. Typical of my father, even before his great wealth, to not just do something ordinary, but to create something truly extraordinary. There was one problem; he left me alone with his masterpiece. It's not that I didn't love it, I did. It was just that he left me alone with this beautiful combination of Lionel trains. When on occasion some weekend day, he would come down and we would spend time together, this was the perfect day, but mostly it was me alone with my thoughts. Something must have always held me back because I do not remember ever having friends…

In the early 1980's I found myself among the people I most wanted to avoid, when I was younger. Despite my insistence that I wanted nothing to do with the corporate world, here I was right smack in the middle with the master's of the universe, and to my surprise and amusement, I found I loved it. Despite all the problems with my father and the years of escaping to the impoverished world he couldn't understand or control, I found that I was able to stand beside these men (as at that time it was 90% men) and feel not only comfortable, but some part of me felt right at home. I guess I understood them, wasn't intimidated by them, and in fact found myself defending them against a society that both admired and loathed them. I found some loathsome, but many I found were valiant and distinguished. I guess in my fashion I tried to expose their nobility. I had tried the same with people of no means, and now it was time to find the hidden goodness, or at least a part of these men the public face never showed. This is another story without a picture. Not because I didn't take one, I did, but I think it best for me, and for him, not to reveal his identity. In this case, I think it is best to protect the guilty. This is a story about risk, GREAT RISK. I wasn't putting myself in harm’s way (although in a way I was). It's a story of what I find lacking in most people's portraits. Not their ability, but their emotional courage. With this introduction, I must digress for a second and explain my methodology and my tactics with dealing with these men. The scenario goes something like this, their secretary, or marketing director, or creative director of the agency would advise me that I had 3o minutes to photograph a certain CEO. I learned quickly to simply smile and off to the races I would go. I would try to set up a meeting with the CEO a week before the shoot. This sounds easy, but at times was next to impossible. Who was I, this insignificant, unimportant photographer wanting some precious time with the king? They're protected or flanked in every direction by people whose job it is to protect these men from meddling people like myself. After a while, I did get good at this and often found ingenious ways to circumvent these guards and found ways to meet with the man of the hour and convince him to forget the notion of a thirty minute picture and give me a day or two. I must admit almost 90% of the time it worked, and next week I will tell you more, but now I must tell you about a time it did not. As you might expect, one of the times I was unable to plow through the linebackers and get to the CEO,…

At the time, I was living outside of New Haven, Connecticut in a small town, in a small house, near the ocean, financially and emotionally powerless to fight the enormous wave of defeat with my mother's death, and her third husband's refusal to abide by his own words. But, I did have friends, and I did have my small napkin. My best friend was teaching at Yale law school and had been aware for years and years of my struggles with my family. I remember one afternoon asking him if he would introduce me to the professor who taught contracts at the law school. He told me I was in luck (and boy could I use any I could get). This professor was considered one of the world's authorities on contracts and with this meeting my life would take a turn in it's course, either to drop any pretense of proceeding with the case, or to move forward. A meeting was arranged. He was an elderly, gentleman, who sat me down and asked me to tell him my story. I explained the events leading up to the hospital room and finally brought out the little napkin (which was now quite wrinkled and worn) and showed it to him. I will never forget his face. As soon as he saw the napkin, he smiled and almost started laughing. You see I was a young man in the presence of genius. I was ready to bow at the alter of respect for his wisdom, and with his almost laugh, I was sure he was laughing at me. He must have been thinking, "What kind of crazy kid are you?" Here is a man who had taught the Clinton's, etc. and here he was dealing with little old me. Contracts are a serious business, which takes expensive lawyers hundreds of hours of billable time to ruminate about all the fine distinctions that could possibly occur. How could this simple one sentence on an old, worn napkin, have any validity? I felt like a total fool, and was ready to walk unobtrusively, backwards out of his office, bowing in respect for his waste of time. But then, after laughing even more, he quieted down and said, "I have never seen such a thing", but as if the bells were ringing, the angels in songs of jubilation, announced that this little napkin was a legal contract and should hold up in court. He explained to me, that Sidney's claim of duress was invalid, as the courts only recognize physical duress, such having a gun held to you as duress. Emotional duress was not a valid excuse. He kept smiling and said, "If you get the right lawyer, you should win" and told me not to give up. He further asked to be kept informed about the progress of the case. I had raised his curiosity. Well, I now had the word of God on my side. But, I had no money to go forth into…