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…

Even though I would have loved to have said goodnight Irene, I will see you in my dreams. Unfortunately, we are left with a few nightmares. We're working on eradicating all that remains of the nightmare, and returning to sweet dreams shortly. See you next Monday.

I had it all ready. For the last few days, I have been thinking intently about what I'd write about. Profound thoughts and feelings were flowing out of me like a stream overflowing it's bounds and just as morning arrived and I sat down to pour my heart out, and sing my song of life to you, something happened. I had lost my loving feeling. My heart these last days was swelling with the delicate perfume of a bygone era, where a woman's touch, or the shape of the nape of her neck, or the song of a woman's stockings as she was crossing her legs would make me swoon. It was all so nuanced and so beautiful and profound, but here I am at my desk ready to write and coming up empty. But fear not, for there is a lesson to be learned other than that the wheels go round and round, and it goes something like this. In the fall of 1988, I was beginning to feel on top of the world. I had begun to receive a modicum of success as a photographer and was receiving praise from a number of different sources (especially those that were beginning to fill my deeply empty pockets). I was feeling full of myself, which was a nice manic high to the years of unrest and emotional turmoil that preceded it. I had been photographing CEO's and was right in the midst of this corporate work, looking deeply into their moneyed souls and enjoying it, when along came Bennett. Some years before, he had helped start, if not actually began my career as a commercial photographer. At another date I will pay Bennett the homage that he deserves for choosing and trusting me with the assignment of a lifetime, but this is not the story for today. This is a story that transpired some years later, where Bennett and I had become friends of sorts, and we were used to working together on assignments. One afternoon, I received a call from him asking me to come to his office the next morning. When Bennett called, I obliged and promptly at 8 am (Bennett was a fastidious early morning man, which suited me perfectly) I arrived at his office. He was always immaculately dressed: shirt pressed with a bow tie, slacks with a crease you could have skied down, and with polished shoes to a high military shine. One of the things I loved about Bennett was his office. He always had a perfectly laid out mock-up of the brochure or project he was working on, on a sideboard in his office. He would love to show me the design and scale of each page, which quite honestly, I loved to see. Seeing the project in horizontal form with its ebbs and flows, typographic treatments, scale of photographs, always seemed to add an extra perspective to the finished project. This morning however, all I saw on the long settee behind his…

Much as I own, I owe The passers of the past Because their to and fro Has cut this road to last I owe them more today Because they've gone away. -Robert Frost (excerpt from Closed for Good) Well here it is around 3:30 in the morning (an hour I almost never have had the opportunity to participate in, let alone, luxuriate in the very wee small hour of late evening.) I know late evening is a love of many. Writers find their muse and solitude, others find their peace, many find it the time to party, but for me it is the hour to be avoided. Its purpose is to provide a gracious time to sleep through all the trouble the world unfolds. Tonight though, I woke up with a start, feeling an immediate need to describe the call of the food and the power it has to satisfy one with love through comfort food. This is really quite peculiar because I can't even boil water. I love gardening and know a great deal about plants and trees, but I know nada about the culinary art of food preparation. If abandoned by my wife, our maids, gardeners, laundresses, etc., I would be completely lost. I probably wouldn't starve, but I definitely would be lost without numerous boxes of cold cereal. Just like our beautiful oasis of a pool, which I have swam in less than five times in 25 years, I cannot ever recall turning on the stove. So what makes me at 3:30 in the morning, wake up with a sudden start with a clear notion of being famished, and knowing what I love about certain foods? It started at about 11 p.m. last night when I was watching (on television) one of my few favorite shows. It is called “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives,” in which a spiked haired, tattooed man, goes from one road food joint to another throughout America and describes how all this extraordinary, bizarre, American food is prepared. He and I are two people that you would normally see as incompatible. But, oh...how I love this man, how I love this food, and I love his enthusiasm. In fact, I wish I had his job, though instead of driving up in a vintage, ugly, American, muscle car I probably would like to approach my travels in a Bentley driven by Michael and his bow tie. The show runs the gamut from breakfast fare to lunch and dinner, with a dab of this and a ton of that. There are no delicate recipes. It is all home grown and made to taste. It is all mixed in large containers, stirred, whirred, boiled baked, fried, lathered, salted, caressed, kissed, and by the time he finally taste the Piece-de-resistance I am starved. This gentrified, elegant, photographer is in love with fast food cooking, done to perfection. I love the atmosphere and the smell of home cooking. There is barbeque in Memphis and in South Carolina, Po-Boy's and…

Some years ago, I was asked to make photographs that illustrated the idea of being on the edge. This was a perfect assignment for yours truly, since as I described so eloquently last week, my life always seems to be on the edge of some ledge or precipice. I never seem to have trouble pushing conversation and my physical self to the edge of inappropriateness and danger, but I never seem to make that final leap to intimacy or faith, except with the help of my little camera. So I came up with some ideas that I felt best suited what I was being asked to illustrate, both because they visually appealed to me, and they were things that felt new. I know many people are fearful of heights, but this is one fear I do not own. In fact, I feel exhilarated, even joyful at the thrill of standing high up on an edge, looking down below. It's not that I want to jump, it's just that at this spot at that time, I feel all is possible. I can see both up and down, and far into the past and future. I have this choice and I love it. So no wonder I came up with the idea of shooting on a large airplane wing. I could have easily asked to go The Oval Office. It took so much effort (FBI clearance) etc, to finally get permission, both from JFK airport and the airline, to make these pictures. Eventually my request was granted, and we were allowed one hour (escorted by many guards) to make these pictures. Only the model was allowed on the wing. He was watched and supervised like a hawk. I must admit it made you feel that at least there is some sense of security around these planes. I (the photographer) was not allowed to be on the wing with him. They did provide me with a movable ladder, but as I was racing the clock, I used it only on one or two occasions. The picture you see is one of my favorites. The scale of the plane, the figure, and one's imagination all seem to work for me. As we slip the surly bonds and fly, fly, fly, oh, how wonderful it must feel.

As my beautiful green, abundant lawn turns to toast, and the turkey's and peacocks are all running for cover from the heat, I thought it only appropriate that I open myself up for further dissection. It is time once again to take the heat and travel not to Washington, where the frigid air of inhospitable, mean spirited people abide, but rather to the warmth of my desk, where Mr. S meets Mr. Smith once again. Mr.S: Before we begin, I noticed that you are a mixture of formality and informality. Is that correct? Mr. Smith: You're a Genius! How did you know? You're wise beyond your years. I have always loved things in their right place. I also enjoy a certain civility and elegance to life. One of the great treats I provide myself and family is to have my sheets changed 3 times a week. The feel of newly pressed sheets is one of the great luxuries of the world. I would hope my pictures are a mixture of great style, formality, and elegance, with a tinge of whimsy and spontaneity. This is the perfect cocktail. Mr. S: Obviously you believe that your early family travails and antidotes provide an insight into your pictures today, but why? Mr. Smith: Good questions Mr. S. I like your line of inquiry. The simple answer to your question is that I most definitely do. As Socrates, most eloquently put it over two thousand years ago, only to be reaffirmed by Augustine, Hegel, Kant, and host of the greatest minds leading to my all time favorite on the hit parade, Master Freud, "An unexamined life is not worth living." It is my belief that everything has a purpose, from my choosing photography, to working in Black and White, from my compositional sense, to the subject matter, to the perspective, and distance from the subject, and the subject themselves, are ALL a reflection of who I am, which is based on where I have been physically and emotionally in my life. To truly understand one's expression (in my case photographs) there is no better way to know me than to know the life behind the pictures. Mr. S: You seem to be talking to two different audiences; those who are interested in photography, and those simply looking for a good life story. Is that your intention? Mr. Smith: I have heard this distinction before, and it is definitely not my intention. It is my purpose, perhaps I should say, my passion, to speak to everyone who struggles to bring forth something noble or special that resides within them. I know photographers are always attached to the nitty gritty, the how of things. How you made that show, what film, what lens, what process, and I am more than willing (as Ansel Adams and others were very willing with me) to tell them the life of a particular picture. There is no question that this is interesting, but I tell you, Mr S, for the…

Gone fishing. See you next Monday.

I have always loved obscuring the face, the entry to the soul. I have done this with masks, hats, flags, doorways, gestures, pictures, etc., but never have I done it with a lampshade. Years ago for the cover of New York Time's Magazine we made a lampshade hat that looked both like a hat and a lampshade, but I had never found a real lampshade that would work until recently. This is one of those pictures I had often dreamed about previously, but it was not until this past winter that I actually found another picture from my dreams. My aspirations and my dreams from years past seem to be an important insight into what lies before me. Before I get into the minor logistics of this picture, one must ask oneself “why would he ever want to make this picture?” Sure it is funny, but to me it is more than that. I have been doing similar tricks for 45 years, so what obscure corner of my cerebral cortex would need or desire to express such a fanciful image. Although my pictures are often referred to as surreal, and I have been included in many shows where surrealism was the main focus, I am not sure this is how I see my pictures. I perceive my pictures as playing with time and space (and I am sure this is the quality that people perceive as surreal) but mostly I see my pictures as funny, and to use the most vulgar expression from the 21st century art world, beautiful and romantic. Please close your eyes and shut your ears for I have referred to the unmentionables. I seek beauty, sentiment (not sentimentality) and passion in an era where any important of significant art critic would cringe with disdain at these terms. Any piece of art that is beautiful would never be considered important and to add romanticism on top is the total stamp of insignificance, unless it is cloaked in an intellectual cerebral mask, which can be talked about, so that no one except themselves can understand it. Well, I don't know what drives the engine of my little green fuse, but as soon as I walked into this large estate in upstate New York, I knew immediately that I wanted to take a picture under this lampshade that hung low over a massive table in the front foyer, designed by my favorite American architect Stanford White. But why do this? I have done similar things before. It was a full day of shooting, and it was not part of the assignment. But somehow I felt it important to return to that part of my subconscious, which despite my attempts to elevate, continually since my youth, has surfaced over and over again. The simple fact is, as I have mentioned before, a good part of myself does not like me very much. I do not like to be looked at, regarded, studied, as this seems to accentuate this problem. This…

I am inclined to think Carly Simon had it right about many people, including some of my neighbors, as well as many people I have photographed throughout my career. There is nothing wrong with this. In fact it is simply part of the human condition to aspire to importance and power, when the truth is we feel powerless and unimportant. I will spare you my theological discourse on worshipping graven idols, but I will not spare you from a story that happened to me a long time ago in a far distant galaxy called Phoenix. I had been asked by The Wall Street Journal to photograph a number of CEO's for an advertising campaign. The campaign championed the fact that for CEO's one of the first things they read in the morning was The Wall Street Journal. The agency that was producing this campaign had done intensive and extensive research, spared no expense, in finding out that The Wall Street Journal was a must read to all these titans of industry. I could have spared them the expense, for in all my travels to distant shores, photographing senior management; I had always found a well read Journal lying prominently on their desks. Just think if I could have confirmed to the paper about the importance of The Journal, and added the agency research to my fees, I could be now be driving in the Bentley I covet instead of wishful dreaming. Anyway, I am roaming away from my story and I need to hone in on an important paradigm about life and men. One of these men I was asked to photograph happened to own a good chunk of the city of Phoenix. He was a CEO of a major corporation in Phoenix, and as usual his name will be omitted to protect the guilty. As was my fashion, I convinced him to meet with me the evening before the shoot to discuss the photograph. Now, having been born and breed on the east coast (and having been called an eastern elitist by another CEO, who informed me he wanted me to leave Idaho as soon as possible) I have found myself always looking for that patina that history provides. Sometimes it can be in a weathered face, or at least  in the architecture. On the East coast, particularly in New England, there is a semblance of history preserved. Ideally, I am always looking at America for what lies in Rome, Paris, London, etc., I am looking for history. As I make my way westward starting from Europe, I find myself more and more despondent, as history exposed in life and architecture gets less and less prevalent. In fact, as you get far enough west, history and architecture is understood as what happened a year or two ago and is generally not worth preserving. Let's bulldoze it down and build something new. In the new and transient culture of America, that which is appealing to many, is appalling to me.  On…