In the late spring of 1996, while driving around the French countryside in Provence searching for elusive photographs, I would often drive up to some manner house and introduce myself and ask for permission to photograph on the grounds. If I was lucky, I would be invited into the home or chateau by the owners and be offered a wonderful lunch of cheese, ham, bread, olives, and wine. Often I would return with bottles of wine given to me by the chateau owner from his vineyards. One afternoon, while traveling to the outer perimeters of my adventures, I saw a little unmarked gravel road. In my usual fashion there was something about it that intrigued me and off I went down this long private road until at the very end I reached these enormous gates, which fortuitously were opened, and I drove through to the entrance to a large and forbidding manor house. Immediately I was struck by the eccentricity of the surroundings. There were many large pure white peacocks prancing through the courtyard, and on occasion I would see in the distance a servant in a long white robe delicately wafting from one building to the next. Their robes would flow with the breeze, and they too like the peacocks seemed ready for flight. It was perfectly choreographed. I could see many formal walled-in gardens manicured and clipped to perfection. It was exotic and unknown with one outdoor room leading to another. I knocked on the front door, was met by a Moroccan servant in his white attire and ushered into a room where I was told to wait. Finally a man enters the room and in my halting and embarrassingly bad French try to describe that I was an American photographer who would love to photograph the gardens. Before I could get passed the first sentence the man immediately halted me and declared "I'm Kenyon Kramer and I'm from Texas. You can speak English." What a relief. So I tried again, introduced myself, showed him some of my work, and in English told him I would love to photograph the grounds of the estate. Again, I was quickly interrupted and told that his partner owned the property, and under no circumstances would he allow anyone to photograph it. I pleaded, offered photographs, and tried almost everything, but despite all my endeavors I failed to make any headway and was abruptly bid goodbye. I left and just as I was finally approaching the main road I heard a horn honking behind me. I stopped and pulled over and Kenyon, the man I had just met came over to me and smiled. His first question was "Do I have sister named Marianne?" To which I immediately replied that I do. He said I know all about you through your sister whom I know through a mutual friends. I've been wanting to meet you for some time and I just realized who you were. I couldn't believe it. Of all…