We're out of the office today, wishing our Nation a happy birthday, with hamburgers and hot dogs and fireworks galore.  We wish a wonderful Independence Day weekend to all, and will promptly return this Wednesday July 6th, with a fresh blogpost.

By the late sixties Gunther and my father, these two Masters of the Universe, had amassed quite an empire. They were partnered in fourteen fashion companies with Anne Klein (Donna Karan was Anne Klein's assistant) being by far the most profitable. Anne Klein had started the concept of sports wear, and they had just started to license products of these designers. This was a very new concept. One that was begun by Pierre Cardin, another designer who was part of the empire. Now they were taking his ideas to new heights. So this is where the story begins to get really interesting, where the rubber met the road, where one lays back one's ego, and insecurity and greed triumphs over benevolence and love. My father was twelve years younger than his partner Gunther and he must have felt and then decided that he would survive Gunther and wanted to make sure that he would be fine in case of Gunther's death. So as was my families fashion, (and this dear reader is the turning point of this game) my father initiated and Gunther agreed to have their lawyers draw up plans that proclaimed in clear and undeniable terms that all the assets of the companies at the time of death of either partner were to be passed on to the other partner, and that all the life insurance would go to the surviving partner to help offset any taxes that were due. The only asset that passed on to the family, was the amount of inventory (clothes) that were in the warehouse at the date of death. In this case it was about $200,000. My father was sure, and my mother was sure at a later date that they could win it all. But in fact, when it came to money, with all their acumen, forethought, talent, and cunning they lost it all. Here's how the final chapter played out. On that fitful day in the summer of 1972, as my father was approaching his 58th birthday, he collapsed and died in his favorite lunch restaurant, smack in the middle of the garment district, surrounded by many friends. The only executor of my father's estate was Gunther, who was so traumatized by the event, and probably of the thought of dealing with my mother after having heard the repercussions of the will, he declined his position, and my innocuous uncle, who was always jealous of my father, became the ineffectual executor. He was of no help to the family. As I was only twenty-three years old and still in Graduate school, my advice was not only not heeded, but roundly ignored. I was an academic and a day dreamer. What did I know of the realities of business? My mother would have nothing to do with me. Well let me tell you now, I knew a lot more than any of the lawyers and my uncle did at the time, and I was the only one who had any relationship…

Some months after Gunther's wedding to Christine, in the winter of 1971, I heard through my father that Jack, Gunther's son, had announced to his father in particular, and to the world at large, that he was gay. I remember shrugging and thinking to myself, “what's the big news?” All of us who knew and liked Jack always knew he was gay. He behaved like it and we simply all took this as fact. Obviously what was apparent to me was not so apparent to his father and this is where Gunther should have been handed a super-large volume of King Lear to read and re-read, because at this point in this story and in life Gunther, like Lear himself, was alone in his castle, blind yet with the ability to see. He had choices but he never chose wisely in the affairs of men. With money he was an A+ student but with love and relationship he failed miserably. Jack had lost his mother, whom he adored. Now not only was his family disintegrating, but his father married a woman less than half his age, who found Jack the competition. Jack must have felt completely alone, isolated and in a state of desperation finally told his father that he was gay with the hope of love and understanding. With Jack's announcement, I was told that Gunther went berserk. He told Jack that he never wanted to see him again and that he was disowned from his will. Gunther had banished his only child. With his father's banishment, Jack moved to Paris, and literally neither I nor anyone in my family has ever heard from or seen him again. I hope he has had a happy life. Well now, Gunther had really done it. He had killed or forsaken the two people who truly loved him, and he was left with a beauty that only went skin deep. But this is just the beginning, the prologue of my story. It now twists its way into the Smith family. What started with Gunther could not be contained and once this mighty caravan had started on its journey, it did not stop until all the wreckage was complete. Until next week...      

On a late spring evening in 1968, I can remember my Father telling me we were going to Gunther's apartment. I had been away at college (both physically and mentally) and was home for a holiday, and I was very unaware of all the intriguing machinations that were occurring in my absence. It was the first time I had been to Gunther's new, luxurious, modern apartment, but I remember the needlepoint rug that ran throughout the apartment. It was the only thing that seemed to provide warmth and comfort to an otherwise austere and cold environment. When we walked into the apartment, I immediately noticed Gunther in total despair. He had obviously been crying and I remember wondering where Jack his son was. Gunther was all alone, and had reached out to my Father as a source of comfort. Where were his personal friends and family? It was at this moment (without my realizing it) that the house of cards began to slowly unravel. These two Master's of the Universe, who had intermingled each other’s lives and needs, had taken a wrong turn, and no one at this time knew where it would come out. You see while I was away enjoying the pursuit of life and college, Gunther had decided to fall in love with a twenty-five year old Austrian beauty, who was a model, named Christine. Gunther's son Jack had dated Christine at one point, and had introduced his father to her. What could be better than a father stealing his own son's girlfriend? Now, as I understand it, through the years both of these paradigms of virtuosity had had numerous liaisons, affairs, trysts, etc., lasting no more than some weeks or months. These two could have kept up with any Frenchmen in the area. But for Gunther, in his late fifties (a man older and wiser than my father), late mid-age was a time for rebirth and renewal. It was a time for fast cars, new apartments and a new love. Why he had to fall in love, I never knew. Why couldn't he have just taken Christine out in his newest Ferrari and gotten a ticket going a hundred and fifty -four miles an hour. That surely would have proven his vigor and strength. Why couldn't he, like my father, simply buy her an apartment, keep her on a round the clock cycle for evening, midweek affairs, and have some nice dinners? No, Gunther this time decided he was in it for love, and he wanted the world to know it. Boy, it's amazing how much can happen when you are having fun away at college. On that fanciful night, Gunther had really done it. He had, the week before, announced to his wife of forty years that he was leaving her for Christine. She had, within a few days, sunken into a total despair and by the end of the week had killed herself. Her life was a social landscape filled with parties, philanthropy and…

It all begins with Gunther, the older, tall, Austrian, elegant, distinct, and distant partner of my father. My father and his business partner of over 25 years were polar opposites in temperament, looks, tastes, etc. They seemed to align themselves perfectly though, in one thing, the art of making money. They could have written a great treatise on their expertise on many matters including the art of infidelity and most importantly how, despite your many differences, you'll both end up with nothing. There must be a moral to this story. There has to be. Why else would the powers that be continually roll this story over and over like a huge boulder destroying everything in its path as it makes its way down the road of life. It must be so that, like the sins of Adam and Eve, this life's history lessons not fall on deaf ears, or go unseen to those left behind after the destruction. So here I am, the moral historian, trying to learn all I can from this story of the Smith clan. Although no one seemed too fond of Gunther, nor he too fond of our family, there were times when both families traveled together. One Christmas vacation, when I was thirteen, we all ended up in St. Moritz, Switzerland, and Gunther, my father and I, went on an afternoon walk through the town. My birthday falls on the eve of Christmas, and my father was considering getting me a new watch. We entered a beautiful, glistening watch store, with all the watches displayed like precious jewels, gleaming like evening candles. I remember Gunther telling me he was going to buy a watch for his son and asked which watch I liked best. He said his son and I had similar tastes, which of course was a great lie, which I did not pick up on. I remember picking out a beautiful gold, thin, classic timepiece. I don't remember much else, except that on my birthday a few days later, Gunther gave me that watch as a present. I always have remembered that moment. Through the years, Gunther and I would see each other on occasion. One summer's day when I was seventeen, my father and I drove out to the Hampton's to Gunther's summerhouse, for my father to show him his new Rolls Royce. Gunther greeted us in the driveway, and we walked slowly to his garage where he opened the door to show me his brand new Ferrari. He asked me if I would like a ride, what seventeen-year-old boy wouldn't? We took off down Dune Road, a road that was long and flat that paralleled the beach and started our slow ascent from zero to one hundred fifty-five in less than a minute. The engine was roaring loudly and we were whizzing past everything so fast that Gunther didn't see or hear the police cars way behind him trying desperately to catch him, but to no avail. Finally, Gunther turned around…

For some people it's the call of the wild that draws them to find themselves or to seek refuge, for me in the summer of 1968 it was being a toll collector at the Atlantic Beach Bridge. You see my family's house was not far from the beach, and my idea of a wonderful lazy summer, would be to lie peacefully on the beach in the early morning before the sun got too strong, and blissfully feel the cool salt air and watch some cute girl wearing almost nothing meandering slowly down the beach promenade. The beach was my first runway. Women and girls strutted past me in an endless line of sunburned, beautiful bodies. Oh the joys of summer. But, my father would have none of this, and reluctantly I must admit, I agreed with him. Sloth is the mother of destruction, and it was time to get to work. Slightly after Memorial Day weekend, I began my new summer job as a toll collector on the bridge. There were about twenty other college age boys, intermingled with the regulars. The bridge was the entryway to the beach and a few small communities. The summer was its high season, hence the temporary increase in collectors. We were called the lucky twenty. One might think that this was a job from Hell, but in fact it was the most prized summer job available. It was a state job that paid far better than any other job, and for us boys (interestingly enough it was all boys at that time) it was a great fun job. What could be better than to watch the girls in their convertibles, with their long suntanned legs driving slowly by to pay their quarter. I would sometimes pray that they needed change, cause then my eyes could linger longer on what was in the drivers seat. I, always full of nothing, would try to come up with something original to say to them, like "What's your phone number?" or, "Are you available for dinner tonight?" You see I only had twenty seconds to get a lifetime of conversation out, so I had to distill my words down right to the heart of the matter. Even then they looked at me as if I were crazy, laughed and drove lazily away to the beach. Hope springs eternal that summer and you would be surprised at what one saw, simply being a few feet above the driver, and oh...those convertibles. But that is not the purpose of my ramblings. I have some other things to tell you about during that fateful summer of 1968. The bridge operated on three shifts. There was an 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., 4 p.m. to 12 a.m. or the 12 p.m. to 8 a.m. shift, and we would rotate weekly from one shift to the next. If you preferred one shift, you could usually find someone to swap with. Ironically on occasion, I sort of enjoyed the late night shift. It was…

I have been teaching and I am all taught out. Everyone have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend. I will be back in style on Tuesday May 31st. Keep sunning.

As I am teaching a workshop this week in New York, I thought it only fitting to return to Paris. It is a city that feels old but is constantly new. While having grown up in Manhattan, I find it difficult to find old places that look new. Despite all my years of visual study, and looking at suburban malls, gas stations, vacuous exteriors, forlorn and abandoned wrecks of towns and buildings, violated landscapes, I have never gravitated to the modern depiction of important photography. Since the seventies, when serious photography began to record the malaise, and ugly vernacular that surrounds us, curators began to support these photographs as great art. The more distraught, isolated, vulgar, disenchanted, disembodied the subject, the more the photograph is applauded as original and the makings of great art. To my mind I am not sure what kool-aid everyone is drinking, but it is definitely spiked with a misanthropic spirit. No matter how many times I go to the mall and drive down strips of concrete America, I don’t ever feel anything much more than wanting to throw up. I don't need a photograph to tell me how empty part of our culture is. I need a photograph to lift my spirit to lead me to the world I want to inhabit. Now that brings me back to Paris, the city of love and glamour. France is a country that knows how to create and nurture women, and it knows how to shape it's trees into a shrub. Nothing is too sacred. Top off a trees head, confine it to a small space, sheer it to within an inch of it's life, and you have the wonderful French Pollarded landscape. It is order from chaos, confining and containing a tree’s natural inclination to spread its branches. I, for one, love what the English and the French have done to their gardens. It reminds me of a woman in a public space dressed elegantly, proportionately, timelessly, and with style. It is a world I love to go to. This workshop took place at some of the French Royal Gardens that surround Paris. Over the years of teaching, I have often been asked by students to shoot a picture while they have the opportunity to observe. Somehow me talking is not enough, they want to see it. I don't blame them. I could easily be a charlatan, compositing and retouching all my pictures. In fact, perhaps I would never leave my living room and create and illustrate all these pictures from a mysterious box with wires. To overcome everyone's concerns I have learned it best to spend one afternoon of the workshop, where I, master Yoda, make a picture and everyone watches. Unfortunately this produces a problem, as I am only able to do one thing at a time, either I shoot or I talk, but the two do not coincide. So as I shoot I focus, I become unaware of all around me, and need to…

As legend has it, deep in The Hudson, just off the shore near Snedens Landing, a sunken Pirate ship holds a massive treasure. More gold and jewels than can be imagined. Mr. S has gathered an entire crew, outfitted them with the best scuba gear, and sent them deep into the depths in search of the fortune, while he sits on the shore drinking fresh coconut milk. Wish us luck on the quest, and we will report tomorrow on our findings.

For as long as I can remember, I have a penchant to drift slowly into a distant reverie. If I happen by chance to be by some paper, whether it be a napkin, a tissue or a legitimate piece of fine writing paper, I find myself (as I dream of the world around me) doodling. This doodle has remained basically constant and steadfast since I was a little a boy. It seems quite pathetic that one doesn't mature in one's doodle, but mine has remained the same for many years. I am not sure if this is an infirmity on my part or something I should cherish. This doodle is always an arrow pointing directly to the right, unrestrained, straight, and powerful. Sometimes there are smaller arrows veering in perpendicular directions and on occasion (but rarely) if my reverie lasts for some time, they can get quite complicated but always a version of the powerful arrow. Now in my musings on other musings, I have stopped, woken up from my trance and pondered, “what hath thou created?” It seems quite simple. It is obviously a strong phallic symbol, fighting off the familiar and other restraints that act to inhibit it. It is a testament to my need to plow the road straight and true. But, and here is the real question, I think in some ways it means more. It is always pointing right, as if the right side of my brain, my creative juices, needs continual support. It is a metaphor for unflinching devotion for proceeding not on any circuitous or wandering path, but straight on in the Right direction. It's as if as a young boy I knew exactly where I wanted to go, even if my conscious mind had no idea, and it continually told me, as a map guiding the observer, to stay on the right road, to be in the right place, never veering from my original course. As I approach my sixty fourth year, I think how correct this little arrow has been. To others (my family included), I always seemed so strange. For a secular person, I studied Theology. For a family with little academic or literary intentions, I learned to love language, studying, reading, psychotherapy and introspection. In retrospect, I see the arrow as never flinching, always directing me forward. All these pursuits were leading me down a path at an early age to be a photographer. They looked like diversions but they were my unique way of giving form to my feelings. Even though while in the midst of all these endeavors, I seemed to always trust myself that there was some method to my madness. Although questioned by everyone around me, I always felt that I was on the right road. My doodles seemed to confirm this. All these divergent activities helped me learn the process of translating feelings onto a small two-dimensional piece of paper, called a picture. This process is full of intensity and strong desires. No wonder at…