Sorry, I have been out of town, out of sorts, out of bounds and totally outside this week. Stay tuned, next week I will be back ready to roll with a little rock.

With my beautiful letter and crest from the mayor of Jerusalem in hand, I went off to El Al Airlines to see if I could barter for three tickets to Israel. I had no money, and even though I figured living for free in Jerusalem was probably the equivalent of living for three months in Connecticut, I still didn't have the money for the airfare. So I finally made my way up the corporate ladder, letter in hand, to the head of the airline in the United States. He looked very carefully at my work and the letter, and said, "You are a true artist, but you don't understand what an artist is in the Middle East. An artist is someone who can twist and turn his or her way through the system. The artist is one who can manipulate his or her way through the maze, and you dear boy are not that person." With that rejection, which I could not figure out if it was a compliment or dismissal, I left the corporate world behind. Ultimately, I borrowed two hundred dollars from every friend and enemy I could find and on a fateful day a few weeks later, at the very back of the plane, stuck between four Rabbi's with long beards praying, swaying, and chanting that the plane wouldn't crash, we left the surly bonds of New York. When we landed in Tel Aviv (to the roars of the passengers on the plane) I was met by a street full of soldiers with machine guns, and my friend Jon standing there smiling, with his little VW bug with Florida plates. He had been able to avoid arrest, catastrophe and mayhem by pretending not to speak Hebrew and showing only a Florida license. No one knew what to do with him, and just shook their head while walking away dumbfounded. He took us up the windy drive from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, from a mixture of Miami and pure glitz to one of the most special, beautiful, and perplexing cities in the world. Miskenot was extraordinary. It was set into the foothills of Yemin Moshe, a district of Jerusalem overlooking the old city. There were twelve beautiful apartments. At this time it was almost brand new and they were extremely rigorous about its occupants. I understand that as time went on, and as the city received less funding, things changed. But at that time, what an honor it was to be there. There was Arthur Rubinstein, Isaac Stern, and Alexander Schneider who were teaching master classes at the Jerusalem Music Center. Alexander Calder, E.L. Doctorow, the editor of The Economist magazine, the dean of The Yale Law School, and Nicholas Nabokov (and a few others I cannot remember) and little old me. We all would get together on occasion for dinner or tea, and I became the local moneychanger for the group. As they were all so well known, they would never venture into the deep heartlands of…

Many people have asked me how and why I became a photographer in the first place, but as far as I can remember, no one has inquired what was the most life-changing day in my photographic life. It all began on a beautiful day in Virginia, in the spring of 1970. On the long green verdant lawn, a thousand students serpentined their way in true Jeffersonian style to receive their diplomas. Standing in front of me, purely by chance, was my friend Jon Broder. It was the end of the sixties, and everyone was on a quest to find their true callings. Some were off to Hollywood, far too many to Wall Street or Law School. I was on my way to Graduate School to study theological discourse, and understand this creature called man. At this time I also knew I was vaguely interested in photography as well. Standing right in front of me was Jon, and as the line was serpentining very slowly, we began to talk about our futures. Why we hadn't done this before, I do not know, but no time like the present. I informed Jon about my future and he began to inform me about his. He told me he wanted to be a journalist, and saw no reason not to jump right into the eye of the volcano. The next day he was off to the Middle East to take intensive Arabic and Hebrew classes. I was a little taken back by his courage (or maybe his lack of it) to run to a place that was so dangerous and on the verge of war. We made our way to the table, received our diplomas, shook hands, and went our separate ways. For the next six years I never heard from Jon. We each pursued our careers and our lives. I had married once, Jon two or three times. It seemed like every girl he kissed, he felt the need to marry, only to learn a few months later what a mistake it was. In the meantime, he learned Hebrew and Arabic, had an interim assignment to cover Richard Nixon at Key Biscayne, Florida, and then ran back to the middle east with a VW bug and Florida license plates. I received a call six years later; Jon had become the bureau chief of the Middle East for the Chicago Tribune. He had already covered two wars and was a real correspondent. On this fateful morning call, at 4 a.m. EST, Jon informed me that I had won a very special fellowship. As we hadn't spoken in years I was in shock that he knew where to find me in Connecticut, but he did. He told me that he had been following my career from afar. He told me that I was awarded a special gift from the mayor of Jerusalem to come and live in Jerusalem for up to three months in a special place called Mishkenot Sha'ananim. It was a special artist colony…