"Dost thou know me, fellow?" - King Lear One of the more wonderful mantras of the fashion world exclusive of, Give it to me baby, or Work it!, and lastly, It's genius, is the ongoing and never ending search for Attitude.  Throughout my long involvement with photography, I have often heard art and fashion directors praise or diminish models and photographers for not evoking or embracing The Right Attitude. The Right Attitude changes every year, so photographers, models and art directors are falling over each other to stay current, but then again not too current as to be out of touch. They have to find just the right amount of smirk, aloofness and snobbery to be desirous, but not off-putting. This must become so exhausting. It seems that both photography in the fashion and art worlds over the last quarter century has struggled to find a way for the subject to appear disinterested and totally blank, and yet have people clamor for more. Vacuousness is declared important, and in fashion having the model appear inapproachable and disinterested, with just the right mix of attitude, makes her cool, trendy, appropriate for the minute, rooted in a specific time (our time) and space. I suppose all of this attitude is suppose to be sexy, as lying beneath everything in our popular culture is a subterranean ooze of sex. She is supposedly approachable, yet unapproachable, desirous, yet appearing neutered and sexless. Cool and suave in their demeanor and appearing in and out of love with themselves. The Attitude is all about me and how one appeals and appears cool in this popular world. All of this is why I only partially embrace the photographic world to which I belong. I am a member, yet I often feel like a far distant relative. I love the medium and its history, but mostly I do not embrace its contemporary and ever cool results. So here lies the conundrum. Photography is interested in women being other than themselves. The culture idolizes celebrities that play roles. The fashion world needs models to exude something, that at it's best, is only a distant cousin to their true being. The art world loves to create an environment, like a move set, so everyone can role-play and take on a new identity, and in the end I am left with a completely different impulse. I am not interested in a role people can play, but rather I am interested in looking deep into the soul of the subject. I am interested in the right body language that does not express the right attitude, but rather expresses the uniqueness of that individual, the more original the better. Often models are at first totally confused by me. I tell them to stop modeling and to try to just be themselves, and let me photograph the real person and not the one with attitude. One time while shooting in Paris, I was photographing a beautiful, young model, who after a few hours began to…

I can't believe this is happening. I assumed I had the monopoly on psycho-somatic illness, heavily tinged with hypochondria, and surrounded by a perpetual mist of free floating anxiety. I also thought I was the only one who could turn all these fears and tremblings into a real manifestation, but oh no, I have now been co-opted by my very own wife, Leslie. For years and years I thought I had sole possession of a terrible fearful manifestation of my anxieties. One morning, more than 30 years ago, I woke up with a start and felt this enormous protrusion, this edema that had puffed and swelled throughout the night on my lip, so that by the morning the left side of my face was beginning to look like the Stay-Puff man. My lips were so bulbous; they would make Angelina Jolie jealous. The more I worried about this, the more intense the swelling became. I had gone from a relatively benign looking 35 year old, into a minor version of the Elephant Man. Over the years I made frequent trips to allergists, but to no real avail. They ruled out food and other allergies, leaving me with what was left, ironically the most appropriate diagnosis, fear and anxiety. I never knew for 30 years when the next episode would appear. I'd lie in bed, in dread, on hot sweaty nights (as sweat and heat seemed to exacerbate the condition) that I would wake up in a start with some enormous welt on my face or my body. Finally, after years, this particular torment seemed to run it's course and for the last number of years I seem to have exorcised this particular plague from my system. But now, out of the blue, Leslie has been struck by the same ailment. Her lips and mouth have started to swell out of control. This couldn't be sympathy pain, because she had felt no sympathy for me, only annoyance that I couldn't let the ailment go. I had soaked it for all it's worth. But now, even my peculiar and original psychosomatic illness has been transferred to my wife. I pray that this condition will pass quickly from Leslie, as she seems to handle the situation far more gracefully than I have in the past. As I lay in bed, I obsessed over the thought that I might receive what I most fear. I pray that the curse that has found its way it Leslie's lips will not find its way once again to yours truly simply with a kiss.

As the world dances foolishly along embracing styrofoam, sheetrock, laminates, plastic and more plastic,  I remain firmly and devoutly rooted in the ancient love and lore of wood. I love the smell of fresh cut wood, the peculiarities of each of it's species and mostly the framing and shaping of it's vast variety into a special enclosure called a home. I also love wood furniture. As it slowly ages it only gets more majestic, with a deeper patina, exposing it's organic history with pride and grace. What piece of molded plastic ages so beautifully? Besides loving the deep bowels of a home referred to as it's basement, throughout my photographic career, I have been attracted to garrets. I am not referring to a modern day attic in houses built since the 1950's. I am referring to a majestic home, manor house, cathedral, or ancient structure, where hidden in the upper floors among the thick wooden trusses, that criss-cross to shape and hold the basic structure is on occasion a truly holy and private place. It is here where the oak, chestnut, or fir braces, from a hidden nearby forest were felled to provide support. These braces criss-cross and form elaborate patterns that have always intrigued me. It is the ancient basic, unadorned part of the house that remains pure and undecorated. It contains the history of the house and if I find the right space, I feel equally at home in these garrets as I do in the basements. Throughout the years as I have scouted locations throughout the world, and I am shown the often magnificent decorated spaces below, I will often ask to look at the forbidden place to everyone except the owners, the garret. I am often met with hesitation, but on occasion I sometimes gain the owners or caretakers trust and find myself climbing legions of stairs up, up into the upper recesses and nooks of a creaky old building. I am climbing closer and closer to something hidden, private and if I am lucky, glorious. I have reached the pinacle of the structure and feel comforted by the strength and sturdiness of the building. On rare occasions, I am in a holy, private, powerful place, with a strong presence, unknown to most, interesting to only a few. It is often very hard if not impossible to make picture there, but I love it just the same. These are often very cramped and small spaces and only on rare occasions, despite my many years of looking do I find the right spot. The pictures I make there today never seem to do justice to the place. But then again, this is a private adventure that takes me climbing, searching, and yearning for something old, mysterious, and transcendent. I am climbing into new territory.

I know I have veen delinquent and late these last few weeks. As I previously noted, I just simply needed a small break. My energy is renewed, my eye-sight is nearly restored, my heart is beating with it's normal cadence. In fact, I am ready to roll. See you all next week.

I'm feeling under water, over-whelmed and under-whelmed with ideas. I need to take a break for a week. See you next week.

There has been a "fear and trembling" feeling that has been lingering over our heads this past year. It has permeated our souls, infiltrated a great deal of our thoughts and conversations, and otherwise made life miserable. I am talking about the wait to receive the almighty gift from God, a college acceptance letter. Who would have imagined the anxiety and nervousness that has permeated this household for over a year, as my daughter began to collate, discriminate and otherwise choose what her final choices would be for college admissions. There were meetings with college advisors, parents of other students, parents of close friends, interviews, lectures, books, college visits and tours, SAT tutorials and testing, advanced placement testing, essay writing, editing, rewriting, and ultimately submission decisions. I am exhausted just thinking about it. All of this lay on the delicate shoulders of my 18-year-old daughter, Savannah. No matter how much my wife and I participated, and my wife was there at every twist and turn, most of the burden lay directly with Savannah. In the very early Fall, Savannah made the very bright decision to apply to her favorite and first choice school for early action. This meant that from this school we would hear by the early winter. For the other schools that she was interested in, we would have to wait until April. Some very evil, slightly twisted, masochistic people must have created this process of acceptance and rejection. It must have been their intention to create total havoc and foster nervous breakdowns on many of the aspiring students and their families. For at exactly 4 pm on the day of reckoning, a small ding alerted us to an incoming email. Throughout the world, thousands of acceptances and rejections were being emailed all at once. There were cries of rejection heard throughout the homes across America, mingled with a few bursts of jubilation in the others. Best friends were separated by denial and acceptance, enemies were reunited, people who were over-qualified rejected, and some amazing misfits accepted. All of this drama and one's future played out in a simple email. So on this particular day at precisely 4 pm, Savannah and I opened her email. All it took was the first word to know all we needed to know, Congratulations. She had been accepted. We yelled and screamed with delight. She had made it. All the years and years of hard work and diligence had paid off. She was accepted to the University of Chicago, known throughout serious academic circles as a school where "fun goes to die." She is ready and very happy and we are all so proud. For now schooling truly begins, where the world is laid bare and everything is open to you. Chicago get ready, my daughter is coming. P.S. By the way, two other schools she applied to, both my alma maters, she did not get into, despite the fact that at one of the schools she was a double legacy and…

In 1972, my family's grand house on the south shore of Long Island was sold quickly after my father's death. My mother quickly abandoned and withdrew herself from this part of her life, and moved her permanent residence to Manhattan. In fact, after the late Fall of 1972, I never returned to that part of Long Island until the summer of 1988 when along came Leslie. One early summers weekend morning, when the summer sun was blissful and luxurious, I felt the urge to go to the beach. We ended up at a beach not far from where I had grown up as a boy, and at the end of a rather luxurious day of sun; I suddenly had the notion to show Leslie (my soon to be wife) the place I had grown up. I hadn't been back to the house in years and I wondered what feelings lied in store for me. My life there with my parents, all the help that had nurtured and protected me, our dogs, etc., everything was simply now a memory. As we drove through the gates to the house, Leslie emphatically felt that this was very wrong. It all felt very private and very intimidating. I, on the other hand, felt perfectly comfortable and felt I was going home. Although we had not been invited, nor did we know the present owners, I felt I belonged there. When we approached the front door, I heard voices in the backyard and both Leslie and I walked quickly around and introduced ourselves as someone who had grown up in the house. It happened to be the owners and they were very gracious and asked me my name. When I mentioned it, they told me of an old Army trunk of my father's that they had found deeply buried in the eves of the attic. They told me the trunk was filled with my father's love letters to my mother, some letters from my sister to her boyfriend, and some Army and personal paraphernalia of my father's. They had been unable to discard this and had been holding onto this trunk for years in the hope that someday one of us would return, and here on this summer's day, I had. I don't remember who was more excited. Leslie was overcome with anticipation and the owners were thrilled that we had finally arrived. They quickly showed us the house, which was vastly different from when my family lived there, and not to my taste. Upon seeing the house again, and although it felt so different than it did when I was a little boy, I could still feel the faint remnants of my father's presence in small places throughout the house. We removed the trunk placed it in our car and with enormous thanks to the new residence of my former life, and left quickly for New York. When we returned to New York, we opened the trunk, and as described it was full of…

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…