People have often asked me how I knew I wanted to be a photographer, and the answer is at once quite simple, yet has perplexed me psychologically for over 40 years. When I was young, I would often go to the Museum of Modern Art, not as something I wanted to do, but rather it was something I thought I should do. I would look at the art, and the photography, and feel (except for the color palate of some of the paintings), very little connection to them. Their abstraction, their take on the world at the time, felt very estranged from me. I was anxious, confused, and dumbfounded by life, and most of this art did nothing to resolve my conflicts. In fact, their disoriented nature only confounded me more. And then... there was this miraculous day, out of the blue, or should I say grayness of a New York winter's day, in my sophomore year of college. On Christmas break, I dragged myself once again to the MoMA. I remember walking in the old building, and something on the 3rd floor, outside of the permanent collection of photography, caught my eye, and I decided to look again at the photographs. I began, as always, with early 19th Century photographs, and slowly made my way to the more contemporary, which at that time, was about 1930-1965. I have to digress, and pontificate for a moment. As I saw it, in my fashion, painting had already made the leap to abstraction and conceit. It slowly had begun the evolutionary process of abstracting itself from the world and becoming more cerebral. I don't care how much, or how often one states that abstraction is the process of quantifying and qualifying life to its essence, a way of realizing an emotional core, an awareness. To me, this modern painterly process, although somewhat successful with Cezanne and others, had begun the process of becoming distant from a life I wanted to lead. Art for art's sake had won, at least for a while. And then, there was Edward Steichen, (the remaining curator of photography at the MoMa, who was also quickly replaced after this visit). His affirmation of life and love, not only in his own work, but in exhibitions he mounted, such as The Family of Man, etc., was replaced with a meanspirited, dispassionate, and very angry view of the world. This became the norm, and was more in keeping with painting and sculpture. But on this very special day, which I think happened to be very close to my 20th birthday, I made the turn in the gallery, and began that day to discover Margaret Bourke-White, Dorothea Lange, W. Eugene Smith, Reni Burri, Andre Kertesz, Henri Cartier-Bresson, etc. My life was never the same again. I looked at these pictures over and over again, getting more and more excited, and saying and feeling to myself I can do this. This is for me. This is my life. So for the last…

Some years ago, I was shooting at an estate in Long Island, New York, for two clients at once. I know this sounds peculiar, but it was initiated by the clients themselves. Two clients had agreed to hire my services for the price of one. The main client would use most of the pictures, and the second client would piggyback on the production of the first, and get its own picture from the shoot. I'm not sure this makes any sense to you, as it surely did not make any sense to me, but what I do remember is that one picture from the shoot would be used and paid for by the second client. The only stipulation was that when the picture was made for the second client, the model's face could not be recognizable. Those of you who are faithful followers of this blog will remember something similar happened on a much earlier occasion. To find out the resolution of that problem, you must go back and read all of the blogs, until you find the answer, by which time your eyes will have been glued shut. Over the years, I have been asked continually why I shoot people with hats. The answer is that I'm not sure exactly, but what I do know is that I like the appearance of the hat, particularly on men. If you were to stand beside me, as many Art Directors have, and I ask you which looks better, the figure with the hat, or without it, you most likely, as many before when confronted with this situation, would probably say it looks better with the hat. It's not just any hat. It has to be the right hat, the right size, for the right man. If it is working correctly, it completes the figure, it answers the question, and by its very existence, seems to help raise more. It adds distinction, while at the same time makes a singular man everyman. Getting back to my story. So on that fateful day, when I was trying to do two-for-one, Don, the enigmatic model, was sitting in this $4,000 suit, with $2,500 shoes, a $450 tie, and out comes my $50 hat. I said to him, How do we show these clothes, while cutting off your face, not to spite you, but to save a client? He immediately put the hat over his face, and I took a few frames, and off to the races we went. Throughout the years, a hat has saved me on more than a few occasions. Some people have used it, hat in hand, to solicit money. I, on the other hand, have used it to further complicate some rather ordinary events. It has become like my favorite semicolon at the end of some sentences. There is more to follow. In this case, instead of the eyes being the window to one's soul, the hat has either hidden Don from me and the client, or allowed him, on…

My desk is currently being lit by an assortment of candles due to a colossal storm that passed through New York over the weekend, knocking out all the power in the studio on its way. Stay tuned for illumination that will hopefully be brighter than these candlesticks. I will officially return to the blogisphere when the power comes back on. Until then...

And you have made the world. And it is large and like a word that yet in silence ripens. And as your will takes in the sense of it, tenderly your eyes let it go... -Rainer Maria Rilke It seems like such a simple thing, it feels so natural and appropriate, but in fact, it has been my lifelong goal. It is all through my photographs. It is in every corner, every nuance of my work, right to the very edge, it is "the force that drives the green fuse" through my very being. It is a sense of serenity or well-being. It can be expressed as humor, grace, delicacy, order, etc. It is a sense of equilibrium, or buoyancy, where chaos meets order, and on some level, is resolved. It has almost been like I've been following a yellow brick road for most of my life, seeking this peace, but only rarely, on a singular hilltop along the way have I even gotten a glimpse of it. I know what it feels like, and I know how to express it. The problem is, I don't know how to enjoy it. Peculiarly, I can remember on two occasions in my 62 years when I was able to sight, or perhaps feel is a better term, what I've been seeking feels like. On both occasions, I was on a beach, the tranition area where land meets sea. Where one unknown confronts the next. It is on this unknown, small strip of land, where people feel the least inhibited, able to shed their clothes and burdens, and feel somewhat liberated. It is here, on these small strips, that my life, on a few occasions, has felt the most at-ease. The first was when I was a boy, about 17 years old, where I and my family had gone to Barbados for holiday. It was during that transition period I described last week, where instead of anxiety at the diminishing of the day, I felt peace. I could feel it slowly enter my body, and resolve itself to stay for a few moments. All at once, the struggles, the queries, and anxieties relaxed, and I felt a sense of unity. Of course the night continued its journey, and the normal lack of stasis reemerged. The second occasion, I was also on a beach, on a glorious early spring day, as today, in a small village in North Wales. It was called Aberdaron, and we had crossed a small bridge to get to the beach. I was with my five-year-old son, and out of the blue, the air, the sea, the smells engulfed me with renewal. I felt once again complete. I was able to stop, and simply enjoy the moment. I can't figure out why there, but those small glimpses have led me on. I realized I could enjoy it, and experience the thrill of contentment. I have continued this quest, both in my personal life, and in my pictures. I see what…

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray Do not go gentle into that good night Rage, rage against the dying of the light. - Dylan Thomas  I am fearful of elevators, loneliness, and the evening. It's not the deep dark weightlessness of late night that perturbs and frightens me, it's the transition from light (to be able to see) to darkness that troubles and unsettles me. It is within these hours where I become anxious and filled with despair. This must be one of the reasons I am a photographer. I go out into the world, to breathe its notoriety and humor, to be able to see clearer, to look for understanding and purpose, to open up, and reach exuberantly and unforgivingly for the light. But as the sun sets, and darkness begins to overwhelm the struggle, my life becomes unsettled. This is in my pictures. It is my desperate attempt to stamp the world with good humor and grace. It is my attempt to fight fiercely, with "ruthless determination" against banality. To feel the world, to find its purpose, to understand its laws, to expose its beauty and grace, for me, lies within the hours of the day. As I work within the conflicts of the rebellious and uncontrollable light of day, I wait for the repercussions of the night, like a naughty child who waits for his father to return home in the evening. Additionally, please check http://www.npr.org/blogs/pictureshow for Npr's review of The End, as well as this blog.

This picture was taken a few months after my father died. In late August of 1972, when I was 25 years old, a wonderful thing happened to me. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news. It was afternoon on a late summer's day in Connecticut. I was mowing the lawn, when my wife came out to me to tell me that my uncle was on the phone. My father had just died of a massive heart attack. Suddenly, just like that, it was over. The grandmaster, superman himself, had just died, and with it, all the battles I was fighting came crashing to a halt. I had gone from feeling desperate to separate myself from him, to feeling totally alone and helpless without him. He had always felt like the source of my power, and without him, I now felt like nothing. Another wonderful thing was the total loss of his wealth. You see, my early life was one of great privilege. I was raised in a 19th Century life in the mid-20th Century. There were grand houses, servants, chauffeurs, luxurious cars, and travel, and this too, on that fateful day in 1972, was all gone. Most people today who meet me, and knew my family, assume that I had inherited my father's wealth. But fortunately for me... like him, the money was all gone. This is a great story, (a Hollywood epic of sorts), but it's a story for another time. So commencing in the fall of 1972, there was no one to battle with, and very little money to survive. I was on my own. I somehow paid for my last year of graduate school, and began the journey of becoming not just a maker of photographs, but the struggle and battle of becoming a photographer. As Robert Anderson once wrote, "death ends a life, but not a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind." This has been my life's work. Surprisingly, my father is gone, but he has never left me. For 40 years, his voice has been with me. I have struggled, and perhaps finally at age 62, have just begun to End, like the book, my struggles with him. As the book title denotes, the end is just the beginning. Today, February 22, 2010, a terrible thing has happened. I miss my father. I miss his wisdom, his strength, his humor, but he is not here to share my life. I have begun to put my struggles with him to an end. I think he would finally look at his son and be proud. To all of you who struggle to make photographs, the life you lead is not just one of imagery. These are the symptoms, the reflections of your life. It is what's on the inside that makes you a photographer, rather than simply someone who takes pictures. This is a life struggle. The talent is to find a way to do it on your own.

While the U.S. of A. observes the birth of its first president, I am respectfully sunning myself in beautiful Key Largo, Florida. I shall return to the blogosphere with radiant insights next Monday. Until then, my loyal followers...

I feel that my very core photographic existence today has been a maturing or transitioning process from my earliest years as a photographer. I keep reflecting on the idea that to go forward requires continual reflection on where I've been. Firstly, back to the days in graduate school, as I mentioned last week, my primary, or at least my degree focus in school, was in Theology, but... equal time in school was spent studying photography in class, and in the darkroom. I learned my craft with great discipline and rigor. I learned how to expose my film, carefully and properly, and to utilize the right developer and printing techniques, which best reflecteed my inner psychological needs. My prints were rich, very black, strong shadow detail, and contrasty. This did not happen haphazardly. I spent hundreds of hours mixing and trying different developer and printing techniques, to nurture and achieve this emotional intensity I needed expressed in my prints. For the most part, other students achieved or wanted a tonal balance, or a full tonal range to their prints. I wanted this, but I also wanted more. I wanted the 35mm camera to achieve the technical tonal results of a large format camera. I worked and worked, never happy with the results. The image was never sharp enough, the tonality not rich or intense enough. It was a struggle to realize my potential. My hero at the time was W. Eugene Smith. My prints were like his, yet they were quite different. It appeared to me that for most students, light was necessary to render an object or person. The purpose of light was for exposure. The more you had, the greater latitude for exposure. Of course, people have always been interested in good light, or special light, (sunrise or sunset, "the golden hours"), but no one I'm aware of ever questioned the purpose, not only of light as a source for exposure and quality, but of illumination. Of course, if you go back a few hundred years, or perhaps even just to the 19th Century, painters were consciously, or unconsciously aware of light as a source of illumination, like the illuminated manuscripts of the Renaissance era. For me, the light I used in my photographs was not only an aesthetic choice, but rather a source of knowledge and wisdom. Light provides the illumination, which provides wisdom and knowledge. In his gospel, John, one of Christ's disciples, refers to light as the source of all knowledge. Without it, there is only darkness and despair. It is not that I only believe this, but in my early work, light seems to be one of the main sources of great portraiture. The light of the Middle East, where these examples were taken, is unique. I often found myself wondering if the light reflected or created certain events. There is obviously some purpose, whether otherworldly or purely mundane, that creates the light of this geography. It is also true in Flanders, where the light…

To my devoted readers, I'm so sorry we did not get the blog up yesterday. We had extreme technical difficulties. For some reason, when we came to the studio first thing Monday morning, we found the building upside down. It took us the whole day just to right it, and thereafter, to reorient ourselves to what is up and what is down. Don't dispair. Everything is now in order. I thought this week it is about time to talk about this picture, as it is tipped on to the slipcase of the book. For those interested, the tip-on is an original silver gelatin print, made in our darkroom, and required many hours of printing to make each one. For many people, this photograph has become the iconic image for The End. The printing, as I described earlier, is a problem in and of itself. The message is as painstaking to fathom as the print is to create. First for the mundane. This picture was made some years ago on a rooftop in Manhattan. If you look closely, you can see the photograph was made at 4:57 pm on a summer's day. It was 83 degrees at the time. Marking the moment was somewhat deliberate. I shot this picture very quickly, and it was never used, as it was not the one I was originally commissioned to make. Although it was not quite as terrifying as it looks, it was still very frightening. In all, the picture could not have taken more than five minutes to make. Now for the extra-ordinary. As much as any other picture in the book, this photograph seems to feel like a self-portrait. It is me metaphorically, but it is not me physically. Ironically, I was just feet away, yet the picture is not of me, yet it is me. You are seeing me, and yet you are not looking at me. I've shown you a great deal about myself, yet you do not see the physical me. All my pictures are like this, but this one is special. People, for many years, going all the way back to my deceased parents, have often asked and questioned me why I spent so much time studying theology, if I always had the intention of being a photographer. What is the connection, what is the purpose? Ironically, from my own self-interested perspective, my answer could almost mimic a favorite anecdote: Thoreau, a 19th Century Transcendentalist writer, had been arrested for civil disobedience, and was sequestered in a small one-room jail in Concord, Massachusetts. Emerson, another 19th Century writer, his friend, comes up to the window on the outside of the jail, and calls out to Thoreau, more in the vernacular of their day, "Why are you in there?" Thoreau yells out,"That is not the right question. The right question is 'why are you still out there?'" The study of theology was not purely an academic experience. It was fundamental to my life. It was my beginnings with the…

I thought it only appropriate, given the terrible circumstances surrounding this overwhelmed, under appreciated, decimated country, that I spend this week talking about my experiences there as a young man. I had the good fortune to live in Jacmel, Haiti for a number of months almost 30 years ago. Still till this day, it remains not as a source of dispair for me, but rather an experience of triumph and perseverance. I loved Haiti and its people. I did not go there to change the world (it was way beyond my means and my abilities), but rather selfishly to find strength. I did not feel pity for the Haitians, but rather felt admiration. There are many stories of Haiti I may tell you as time goes on, but today I want to address a particular issue I mentioned last week. This takes me back to the U.S., particularly Chicago, about 15 years ago. I was in Chicago with my wife, who is a graphic designer in New York City, where she was the head judge for a competition. She asked me if I would photograph the judges for a small brochure they would produce for the winners of this competition. Basically, she was requesting simple, unenamored portraits, quickly done. I remember shooting these pictures in the hotel room with my Leica, with the window as a light source. There were no lights, no assistants, but done rather simply as I did at that time. It was simply the subject and me. I think that there were 4 or 5 portraits, and when I arrived to photograph one of the judges, (the one filled with the most bravado), I remember his comment rather disdainfully, that anyone could do this, implying that there was nothing new or original to this work, and it was surprising that anyone would pay for my services. I remember wanting to punch him out, but instead of hitting him, I took the challenge... I said to him as I photographed another judge, to stand right beside me and use my camera and take a picture immediately (within a few seconds), after I did. Unfortunately, I no longer have that roll of film, but I remember that if you looked at the contact sheet, you would immediately notice the few frames he shot. Although they were in the same spot, with the same camera and lens, taken just seconds apart from mine, they look nothing like my pictures. To me, they missed on every level. Although he was correct, that these pictures were simple "head shots," and were made very simply, the onus then is on the photographer, rather than the technique and the equipment. It's as simple and toned down as possible. It is straight on, face-to-face. The ultimate question in this type of work is: How vulnerable are you willing to be? People expect a great deal from their subjects, you must be able to meet them straight on, with equal intensity and openness. Rembrandt once…