For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required. -Luke 12:48 I've had enough! You're all cowards and you don't even know it. You've given away your legacy without much of a fight, and I am embarrassed and ashamed to be considered part of the fraternity of photographers. Oh, I know times are tough (they've always been tough for photographers) and you have lost your power to larger powers (that's only because you've let them) and if you didn't give in, they simply would have given the job to someone else. Well, too bad. If we had all stuck together in the first place there wouldn't be someone else, and besides you've lost a lot more than that loving feeling, you have lost the greatest gift you have as a still photographer. Directors do not have it. Graphic Designers do not have it. Art Directors do not have it. Only you have it, and because you are scared and desperate, you are giving it all away. Well don't! Stand tall and upright! Be proud and do not forsake what others have given to you. What am I ranting about? Well, I am going to tell you. In the early 1950's, LIFE Magazine decided that the pictures that were shot for them by many wonderful photographers were their property and therefore, they had the right to re-license them. The photographer's thought otherwise, and insisted that the photographs were their property to resell at their discretion. This went to court and after a long heated battle with TIME-LIFE the photographers won the battle. The courts decided that the copyright remained with the photographer and the magazine had just licensed reproduction rights. The original property, after the contract was concluded, returned to the photographer along with the negatives. So dear photographers, others before you fought hard and long to give you a gift. And although everyone from corporations, to magazines, to art buyers try desperately to take it away from you, I implore you not to give it away. Most of you are young and feel the need to work, and feel powerless against larger forces. You do not realize that when you get older, having the rights to your own work will be the best gift you have as a still photographer. It will help you when you need it most. I have never given it away, despite enormous pressure or at times significant time to educate a client. I have walked away from magazines and clients, unless we could reach a compromise that was acceptable to me. The pressure is on. The economy is awful and people will grab what they can get away with. I implore you to stay strong and fight hard for what many other photographers, over the last 50 years, have fought hard to give you; the right to own and control your own work. We are at the precipice. Either you retain your rights, or the next generation will have none to protect.…

I'm in a shopping mood, desperately trying to do my part for American commerce.  This feeling comes upon me seasonally, like the primordial smell of early fall.  The summer drought is over and a hallelujah revival is at hand.  I'm feeling very productive, which translates on occasion in true capitalist fashion for desiring a very few beautiful objects. Which gets me to the "heart of the matter", a matter I have ruminated over for the abundance of the many years I've been on this earth.  I am primarily a black and white photographer, who tends to like to see things in black and white, right or wrong, rich or poor, correct or incorrect, and even appropriate or inappropriate.  The dilemma I'm about to describe to you although, may be ambiguous or have extenuating circumstances to you, reader, to me, there is no deviation or fluctuation.  There is only one true way. To truly understand the magnitude of this problem, I am forced to relate two stories that best illustrate the problem, both in life and most especially in pictures.  Both occurred within months of each other. The first goes back to a lunch with an advertising friend of mine.  I do not remember what preceded the conversation, but what I do remember is this particular discussion. On occasion some people have commented on my watch.  It is a beautiful, classic, gold time piece.  I purchased it well over twenty-five years ago but like most things I own or do, one could not tell by it's look or condition whether I purchased it yesterday or many years ago.  It is made of 21 carat gold with a delicate tiny sapphire on the knob.  It has been on my hand so many years, it almost feels molded to my body.  It's time keeping is immaculate and it has kept me at the right place, at the right time for many years. I'm drifting, so now back to the story.  My friend glanced at my watch and asked me quite inappropriately but very typical of all of us, how much my watch cost.  I told him and he pointed to his $29.95 special on his wrist and said his watch probably kept better time than mine (which was probably true), looked really nice (also true), and saved him an enormous amount of money. This conversation quickly led us down the road of aesthetics and ended at some outpost I'm about to describe. He said (before the years of exact copies of everything a woman wears) that if I could buy the exact same watch that looked exactly the same, made out of slightly different materials (12 carat gold, for example) and upon close examination it would look and feel identical but was half the price, would I buy it? Without hesitation and without equivocation I said "Absolutely not.  I want the original and even if no one can tell the difference, I want the best." Now you may think this is a product…

On a beautiful late summer, weekend day, in 1961, my good friend tried to kill me. It wasn't just a game; it had all the intention and purpose of a repressed rage gone wild. For a few minutes time stood still, there was no tomorrow, only a desperate energy to survive for today. It was the last weekend of the summer at the beach, the fond farewell to another year, and to the thoughts of the labor that was in front of me to survive my family and school. It would normally be a rather reflective peaceful time for me, as the summer was over with a few more glorious moments of nothingness in front of me. Life was unwinding, Cousin Brucie was on the radio, America was preeminent, Cadillac's had more fins and lights than a submarine, and all the girls were off shopping for Fall wardrobes. Young women still wore white gloves to go to the city, and the weekly rituals of ballroom dancing was about to commence; pretending to care about the foxtrot when all I could think about was holding Elizabeth Meyer in my arms. The beach, like American society was a social strata in and of itself. There were private clubs adjacent to each other, each outdoing the other in membership and prestige. They all fronted the ocean, and although private, could easily be entered from the ocean side. Each club had its own peculiarities. In some you could almost feel the late summer heat of money with all these men and long cigars, sitting around card tables, trying to make up for the losses of the summer. By now all these men were so bronzed that only their wives or girlfriends would ever see any part of their body that showed their true color. Florida was now calling and they were prepared. So on this glorious, leisurely afternoon my friend suggested that we go to the club a few paces down the beach to swim in their salt-water pool. I easily agreed and off we went. Johnny and I were friends, although we did not go to the same school. We did live near each other and often would flip baseball cards together, and would on occasion hang out at each other’s houses. His mother was one of my mother's closest and best friends. As we started to swim in the pool and I dove deeper in the water, I felt this weight on top of me. It was Johnny's hands holding me down, not letting me come up for air. Often boys will play rough games, and I was not immune to this behavior, having been picked on my whole life, but immediately I knew this was different. There was intensity, an unforgiving determination to hold me down to prevent me from arising. With all my might and effort, we fought until finally I broke through and barely escaped, gasping for air. I ran out of the pool back to our club. Something…

In the late fall circa 1975, a great gift was bestowed upon me.  What I chose to do with it was another matter.  A meeting was set up with the infamous Alexander Liberman, the editorial director of Conde Nast.  Alex Liberman ran Conde Nast (Vogue in particular at the time). I remember walking into his large office, and beginning to show him my work.  Now here’s the catch, my work in 1975 was all very personal.  It was landscapes and portraits of laborers, and I’m not sure that I knew why I was there in his office.  The one thing I did know was that I was very scared. I had a beautiful, carefully presented portfolio with silver gelatin prints mounted carefully on museum board with slip-sheets between each picture.  It was a world I knew and wanted to be a part of.  I don’t know if I was ready for the commercial world of success, assignments, power and money. He looked very carefully at the work and afterwards exclaimed, “You should be shooting fashion.  You have the eye.”  Now with this comment, my first private thought was “You’re damn right I have the eye.”  But at the same moment, I wondered how did he know? You see I showed him landscapes and portraits, and he could extrapolate this eye to fashion.  This made perfect sense to me, as I often feel I can do the same thing. He said, “Get up, young man.”  And took me joyfully to see Roger Schoening, the creative director of Vogue and said, “Hire this man.”  Mr. Schoening took all my pertinent information and I never heard from him again.  I never called him but then again he never called me. About a year later, I went back to see Mr. Liberman and he seemed annoyed that Mr. Schoening had never hired me, but he said we are reviving Vanity Fair and Bea Feitler is the design director and someone you should meet.  He took me downstairs and introduced me to her, showed her my work and she seemed very enthusiastic.  I kept in touch with her as the magazine was still months from launching but some short time later before the first issue, she died at a very young age. With her death and my insecurities, I never returned to Conde Nast until many years later. What I did not know at the time was that what I had encountered in Alex Liberman and Bea Fietler, which I assumed was quite normal, was in effect quite extra-ordinary. No one since then (except for one time with Bennett) has been able to see a dress through the trees.  People have needed or wanted to see what they were looking for, and generally do not have the vision or perhaps power to take a risk. Sure once your name has been established, and you have a history and long working relationships, people assign you tasks you have not done before, but no one before or…