For some people it's the call of the wild that draws them to find themselves or to seek refuge, for me in the summer of 1968 it was being a toll collector at the Atlantic Beach Bridge. You see my family's house was not far from the beach, and my idea of a wonderful lazy summer, would be to lie peacefully on the beach in the early morning before the sun got too strong, and blissfully feel the cool salt air and watch some cute girl wearing almost nothing meandering slowly down the beach promenade. The beach was my first runway. Women and girls strutted past me in an endless line of sunburned, beautiful bodies. Oh the joys of summer. But, my father would have none of this, and reluctantly I must admit, I agreed with him. Sloth is the mother of destruction, and it was time to get to work. Slightly after Memorial Day weekend, I began my new summer job as a toll collector on the bridge. There were about twenty other college age boys, intermingled with the regulars. The bridge was the entryway to the beach and a few small communities. The summer was its high season, hence the temporary increase in collectors. We were called the lucky twenty. One might think that this was a job from Hell, but in fact it was the most prized summer job available. It was a state job that paid far better than any other job, and for us boys (interestingly enough it was all boys at that time) it was a great fun job. What could be better than to watch the girls in their convertibles, with their long suntanned legs driving slowly by to pay their quarter. I would sometimes pray that they needed change, cause then my eyes could linger longer on what was in the drivers seat. I, always full of nothing, would try to come up with something original to say to them, like "What's your phone number?" or, "Are you available for dinner tonight?" You see I only had twenty seconds to get a lifetime of conversation out, so I had to distill my words down right to the heart of the matter. Even then they looked at me as if I were crazy, laughed and drove lazily away to the beach. Hope springs eternal that summer and you would be surprised at what one saw, simply being a few feet above the driver, and oh...those convertibles. But that is not the purpose of my ramblings. I have some other things to tell you about during that fateful summer of 1968. The bridge operated on three shifts. There was an 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., 4 p.m. to 12 a.m. or the 12 p.m. to 8 a.m. shift, and we would rotate weekly from one shift to the next. If you preferred one shift, you could usually find someone to swap with. Ironically on occasion, I sort of enjoyed the late night shift. It was…

I have been teaching and I am all taught out. Everyone have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend. I will be back in style on Tuesday May 31st. Keep sunning.

As I am teaching a workshop this week in New York, I thought it only fitting to return to Paris. It is a city that feels old but is constantly new. While having grown up in Manhattan, I find it difficult to find old places that look new. Despite all my years of visual study, and looking at suburban malls, gas stations, vacuous exteriors, forlorn and abandoned wrecks of towns and buildings, violated landscapes, I have never gravitated to the modern depiction of important photography. Since the seventies, when serious photography began to record the malaise, and ugly vernacular that surrounds us, curators began to support these photographs as great art. The more distraught, isolated, vulgar, disenchanted, disembodied the subject, the more the photograph is applauded as original and the makings of great art. To my mind I am not sure what kool-aid everyone is drinking, but it is definitely spiked with a misanthropic spirit. No matter how many times I go to the mall and drive down strips of concrete America, I don’t ever feel anything much more than wanting to throw up. I don't need a photograph to tell me how empty part of our culture is. I need a photograph to lift my spirit to lead me to the world I want to inhabit. Now that brings me back to Paris, the city of love and glamour. France is a country that knows how to create and nurture women, and it knows how to shape it's trees into a shrub. Nothing is too sacred. Top off a trees head, confine it to a small space, sheer it to within an inch of it's life, and you have the wonderful French Pollarded landscape. It is order from chaos, confining and containing a tree’s natural inclination to spread its branches. I, for one, love what the English and the French have done to their gardens. It reminds me of a woman in a public space dressed elegantly, proportionately, timelessly, and with style. It is a world I love to go to. This workshop took place at some of the French Royal Gardens that surround Paris. Over the years of teaching, I have often been asked by students to shoot a picture while they have the opportunity to observe. Somehow me talking is not enough, they want to see it. I don't blame them. I could easily be a charlatan, compositing and retouching all my pictures. In fact, perhaps I would never leave my living room and create and illustrate all these pictures from a mysterious box with wires. To overcome everyone's concerns I have learned it best to spend one afternoon of the workshop, where I, master Yoda, make a picture and everyone watches. Unfortunately this produces a problem, as I am only able to do one thing at a time, either I shoot or I talk, but the two do not coincide. So as I shoot I focus, I become unaware of all around me, and need to…

As legend has it, deep in The Hudson, just off the shore near Snedens Landing, a sunken Pirate ship holds a massive treasure. More gold and jewels than can be imagined. Mr. S has gathered an entire crew, outfitted them with the best scuba gear, and sent them deep into the depths in search of the fortune, while he sits on the shore drinking fresh coconut milk. Wish us luck on the quest, and we will report tomorrow on our findings.

For as long as I can remember, I have a penchant to drift slowly into a distant reverie. If I happen by chance to be by some paper, whether it be a napkin, a tissue or a legitimate piece of fine writing paper, I find myself (as I dream of the world around me) doodling. This doodle has remained basically constant and steadfast since I was a little a boy. It seems quite pathetic that one doesn't mature in one's doodle, but mine has remained the same for many years. I am not sure if this is an infirmity on my part or something I should cherish. This doodle is always an arrow pointing directly to the right, unrestrained, straight, and powerful. Sometimes there are smaller arrows veering in perpendicular directions and on occasion (but rarely) if my reverie lasts for some time, they can get quite complicated but always a version of the powerful arrow. Now in my musings on other musings, I have stopped, woken up from my trance and pondered, “what hath thou created?” It seems quite simple. It is obviously a strong phallic symbol, fighting off the familiar and other restraints that act to inhibit it. It is a testament to my need to plow the road straight and true. But, and here is the real question, I think in some ways it means more. It is always pointing right, as if the right side of my brain, my creative juices, needs continual support. It is a metaphor for unflinching devotion for proceeding not on any circuitous or wandering path, but straight on in the Right direction. It's as if as a young boy I knew exactly where I wanted to go, even if my conscious mind had no idea, and it continually told me, as a map guiding the observer, to stay on the right road, to be in the right place, never veering from my original course. As I approach my sixty fourth year, I think how correct this little arrow has been. To others (my family included), I always seemed so strange. For a secular person, I studied Theology. For a family with little academic or literary intentions, I learned to love language, studying, reading, psychotherapy and introspection. In retrospect, I see the arrow as never flinching, always directing me forward. All these pursuits were leading me down a path at an early age to be a photographer. They looked like diversions but they were my unique way of giving form to my feelings. Even though while in the midst of all these endeavors, I seemed to always trust myself that there was some method to my madness. Although questioned by everyone around me, I always felt that I was on the right road. My doodles seemed to confirm this. All these divergent activities helped me learn the process of translating feelings onto a small two-dimensional piece of paper, called a picture. This process is full of intensity and strong desires. No wonder at…

I am stuck. The mud is up to my knees and I am wading through the muck to get to back to my office in order to write a blog post. As I pour the murky, muddy, mess out of my Wellies, I am pondering, preparing, and postulating a post for tomorrow. Cheers!