I started to write about life in the past and I realized that life in the present has more that needs to be said. I am revisiting my recent visit to England and I will post tomorrow.

Blue is my favorite color. It's not that I don't love other colors, the lush greens of a vital earth or a deep Chanel red lipstick I put on almost every female model (not because I am against change, it is just to me the sensuous luscious red of a women's lips lights my fire.) I also love a deep, deep rich black or the calm of a gray. But there is something about blue, the endless serene delicacy of blue. It is not any blue; it has to be just the right blue, a delicate and primordial shade of robins egg blue. I guess I am not alone with this fixation on blue. Mystical African, Southern, and Arab cultures as well as others, line their porticos with this powerful blue to fight off the evil eye and surround themselves with safety. It is a testament to the power of blue. Upon graduation from college, my young new wife and I decided to see America. We acquired a VW camper with a pop-up top and off we went for eight weeks to see what lies between. Even then this child of privilege had no love of the great frontier. Daniel Boone was for books, mountains were best viewed in post cards, and mosquitoes were to be avoided at all costs. So this little camper had a comfortable bed, kitchen, and two good door locks, but most of all it had a generous father who would send us to a hotel every few weeks to take a shower when needed. I suggest if you have to camp you do it no farther than a day’s trip to the nearest Four Seasons. Anyway, after four weeks we reached Los Angeles at the home of my wife's aunt, who lived on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. As soon as she came out to welcome us to her home, even before the words of welcome or hello could be uttered, she took one look at the camper parked in front of her home, and with her high pitched patrician voice, informed us of the urgency to get "that thing" behind the house to the service road. No one in Beverly Hills should be forced to gaze out their window and see anything but money. Nothing so plebeian should ever block their view. I couldn't figure out if this was an L.A. version of the high life, low life, or some life in between. While in L.A. we did make a trip that helped cement my life and career as a photographer. One afternoon, we went to visit a childhood friend of my wife's (Topo Swope) at her parent's home (John Swope and Dorothy McGuire.) We drove off Sunset Boulevard down this long driveway to a courtyard and there right in front of me in all its glory stood their front door, their entryway. It was painted the exact shade of blue I loved and I knew immediately that what lay within had to be…

In the spring of 1964 on a day just like today in New York, our family chauffer picked me up at boarding school in Connecticut and took me immediately to the airport to fly to Hawaii. It was spring break, and I had been anxiously awaiting this day since the morning I had returned back to school from Christmas break. This had become the family routine for a few years. No matter where my parent’s were over spring break, they would fly me out to meet them. This year Hawaii, next year sailing a private yacht in the Caribbean. Oh the hardships I had to endure. Leaving freezing New England for some warm, luxurious, sunny place. Interestingly enough, I even had a great deal of fun. So with a runway that must have been too short, or a plane that was too large, I landed in Honolulu and the plane immediately overran the runway. I should have known then that something was out of order. Luckily no one was hurt and I was greeted by my parent’s with a lei they put around my neck. I think they were actually pleased to see me. Off we went to the beautiful, pink, Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu for two weeks of sun and fun. The first thing my father did for his rather pathetic son was to arrange private surfing lessons. In Switzerland it was private skiing lessons, in the Caribbean it was private swimming lessons at home it was private golf and tennis lessons. It was as if he was trying to teach me the game of life. No matter how much I tried or how often I surfed, I never really got the hang of it. It was O.K. but it was not for me. Just sitting out in the water waiting for the right wave seemed so beside the point, when as I searched the beach horizon from afar, there seemed to be so many girls of my age on vacation, lounging, talking, and looking quite cute and available. Enough with the athletics, and lets get down to the basics of a boy looking for a cute girl. So I quickly abandoned my surfboard and took up beach combing. One afternoon by some miracle, I found myself next to the most beautiful creature on the beach, Ricky Randall. How’s that I still remember her name after all these years? We started talking and I remember going back to the place on the beach where her family was sunbathing. You see sunbathing in the 60’s had gone way past an activity and had become an art. People would discuss at length how best to get tan. What was the best lotion? Everyone wanted to look bronzed and beautiful. To Hell with the 19th Century, where women would hide their faces with umbrellas from the sun, where pale, delicate skin was a sign of refinement. In the 60’s youth and handsomeness were all tied into the suntan. My father’s favorite…

My father despite his enormous wealth, extravagance and generosity to his only son, always wanted me to be aware of the value of money. It was always about money, how much or how little, what it bought, what you needed, but perhaps most importantly, it’s value. I do not mean to disparage him for this in any way, for to this day; I feel he taught me how to handle money, success, and even failure. These are the lessons he taught me well. He was always joking about money, and like some deep invisible pocket, always had great sums of cash on his person, neatly clasped by a silver money clip. I can remember the sound of crisp bills he’d pull out of the clip to pay for this and that. These were the days before the much heralded use of credit cards and debt, and my father loved to pay for everything in cash. He loved to stay current and wads of cash were extracted to pay painters, carpenters, deliverymen, etc. There was always the smell of money, wafting around the house, and I must admit it smelled really good. As in most stories, there is more than meets the eye, and on another day I will recount where the endless supply of cash materialized from, but that is another story, not the one I wish to tell today. Even as very young boy, he was always spending money, yet, watching very closely the accounts of his family. I can remember once going to our neighborhood general store and charging to my father’s account some small item that I had not asked permission to have. I was sure I could slip this insignificant charge by him, but at months end he called me to the library and severely reprimanded me for charging anything without his permission. Nothing slipped by his moneyed eye. I have never forgotten that day; his voice is still with me, which is why many years later to my surprise, in my senior year at boarding school, I received a curt short letter from my father’s attorney with a key to a safe deposit box. This letter simply said that my father wanted me to have this, and provided me with the name and address of the bank and the number of the safe deposit box. It seems quite funny today that I never mentioned this to my father, for the six years he was alive after I received this letter. I am not sure why, but as might be expected, my communication skills with him were not the best. I was always looking for a way in or out, but never seemed to have the time to linger in any comfortable place with him. Oh, there were many times we were alone together on walks, in the garden, on the golf course, etc., but I never could get past being beside him. I was never, never simply with him. Anyway, years went by and on…

  People say I'm the life of the party Because I tell a joke or two Although I might be laughing loud and hearty Deep inside I'm blue So take a good look at my face You'll see my smile looks out of place If you look closer, it's easy to trace The tracks of my tears. - Smokey Robinson   So take a good look at my face if you can because for many years I could not do the same to you. Oh I saw you alright, right down to the nitty gritty of your being, but always from a-glance, from afar. I never would look directly into your eyes. For years and years I tried to hide this, yet even today, there are small remnants of this behavior. I would look slightly past you, or below your eyes, but never as we spoke would I commit to eye contact. I would try, but I just couldn't. When I pick up this little machine called a camera, and I place it in front of my eyes, I can look straight into yours. I can look past the facade into your being. I could fall in love with you; see your graciousness, and your potential. With the camera, I can believe in you. Take away this camera and I become critical, fearful, and deflect through a joke or two, the tracks of my tears. I am good at keeping the attention off me, of staying alone, aloof from the crowd. But then as on a magical mystery tour, I pick up my camera, and I change, super-me emerges. This has been a forty-year struggle to understand, and like most things, I must go back to the source, my mother. For like me, my mother was an enigma. During my early formative years, I vaguely remember a loving, doting, caring mother, who was ambitious for herself, her husband, and her family. But then as noted earlier, she got sick, went to bed, and as of all good things that must come to an end, slowly emerged as wealthier, more powerful, and more critical. Today I understand much more than a boy of seven or eight, so I will not bore you with the whys of her life, rather since this is my story, I will tell you about me in a way I never could face to face. And then, along comes my mother, a woman of enormous determination to right all things wrong with her son. She became an expert at criticism, finding fault with every behavior, disappointment with my every attempt, and worse for a young man; a singular focus on my looks. She would comment on how unattractive I was; my hair, my acne, and generally my whole face. I can remember being brought to the family doctor with my mother’s desire to have my ears pushed back so they would not stick out as much. I remember with glee, how the doctor reprimanded my mother and told her…

Every Monday as I sit down at my desk to write these thoughts, as small terror overwhelms me. Sometimes the question is, is there anything else to write about? Other times, I am overflowing with thoughts and feelings, and I can't figure out where to begin. Today, I feel like the latter. So many feelings, so many thoughts, so many dreams. Where do I begin? How do I make any sense of all this? How do I put it in order, and most importantly, how do I put words to these feelings? In Stravinsky's,  Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons he talks about the same issues, but not with words or pictures, but with music. He describes how when he sits down at the piano to compose, he has total fear and is overwhelmed with an uneasiness of where to begin. Everything and nothing is possible. It is only after he has picked the key and various other musical constraints, does he begin to feel liberated, and the notes begin to flow more graciously. Freedom comes only from constraint, and from the choices one makes. It is at this point the slow process of exposing the peculiar and real you begins to emerge. As you delve deeper into making decisions, from deciding  for and against choices, you find this thing called your voice. I have a shoot this week, and as always the same overwhelming fear hits me square in the face the moment I hear about the assignment. It is not about the pictures, I am generally confident about those, it's about the location. Where, oh where, can I shoot these pictures? What key can I find that will open the door to allow me the freedom to show myself. I am in dread of not finding a place that not only  feels right for the pictures (the assignment) but also feels right for me. Everything starts with the location. I am always looking under every rock, peering into small crevices, looking to find new places to shoot. Where I feel comfortable. Where I feel it is appropriate, and I can make my pictures. This process is never easy and always filled with dread and generally requires a great deal of thought and work. If I finally walk into a space that feels right, the first feeling I have is a sense of relief. Basically that is all I want to know. I never probe too deeply. I don't want to know at the time what picture's I will take, or how they will look. I begin to feel free and more at ease and this is enough. I quickly leave at this point before everything is revealed to me. I want the experience of making the pictures to be spontaneous and vibrant. I trust my instincts. I now have my key. During the shoot I never shoot polaroids or want to know what the pictures look like. I love the experience of making the pictures…