I am writing this from my office, in which I have locked myself while pouring over this week's post, which promises to be full of mystery, intrigue, and tell-all revelations. Stay glued to this page. You may even want to hit the 'refresh' button every few seconds to make sure you're not missing anything. Until soon...

One of the ironies of my life is my need to get very close to someone, and yet let very few people get close to me. It's as if I crave and desire intimacy, yet, probably like many men, I am very fearful of it. I think this is a picture where I am playing with this idea. The polaroid of me within the larger picture is as close as most people are going to get to me. I'm letting you see me, but only on my terms. It's me once removed, slightly more isolated. It must be obvious that I do not like to be photographed, am extremely self-conscious, and for these reasons, am more comfortable behind the camera rather than in front of it. This picture was shot outside of Vienna, Austria. It is my son who is holding the picture of me. Really, neither of us are easily approachable, yet both of us are in plain sight to see. We're here with you, and we're not. This is the way I like it; almost like the old magician's aphorism, now you see me, now you don't. PS: I've always liked pictures within pictures. I did this once when I was much younger with a landscape, and more recently in Paris on a fashion shoot.

“O brave new world that has such creatures in it!” In my case, I refer not to men, as was Miranda in The Tempest, but rather to women. Women, for me, are the miraculous gift, given to a rather incomplete male. They are, on occasion, all that we need to complete ourselves. They are graceful, delicate, serene, and beautiful, although most modern art would rather depict women as empowered, strong, and capable, they in fact appear to me as powerless and fraught with insecurity. As a boy, women appeared to me as almost miraculous. They stood on a pedestal to be adored and worshipped. They had inherent power over men, which over the years they have fought so strongly to give up to be more like men. Now we are equal, and in the process women have gained something, but in my mind have lost much more. In the process of opening their own doors, they have lost the attention of men who view a woman as a lady. The model in this picture is Bernadette. I have photographed her for years, never tiring of her beauty. She is not your classic, modern American ideal of beauty: blonde, athletic, vigorous, but rather to me she is delicate, porcelain-skinned, and graceful. She always has been a woman of a certain time. She is my ideal of beauty. I’ve included a few other pictures of her, not from the book, but as a way for you to see her in all her beauty and variety.

“O brave new world that has such creatures in it!” In my case, I refer not to men, as was Miranda in The Tempest, but rather to women. Women, for me, are the miraculous gift, given to a rather incomplete male. They are, on occasion, all that we need to complete ourselves. They are graceful, delicate, serene, and beautiful, although most modern art would rather depict women as empowered, strong, and capable, they in fact appear to me as powerless and fraught with insecurity. As a boy, women appeared to me as almost miraculous. They stood on a pedestal to be adored and worshipped. They had inherent power over men, which over the years they have fought so strongly to give up to be more like men. Now we are equal, and in the process women have gained something, but in my mind have lost much more. In the process of opening their own doors, they have lost the attention of men who view a woman as a lady. The model in this picture is Bernadette. I have photographed her for years, never tiring of her beauty. She is not your classic, modern American ideal of beauty: blonde, athletic, vigorous, but rather to me she is delicate, porcelain-skinned, and graceful. She always has been a woman of a certain time. She is my ideal of beauty. I’ve included a few other pictures of her, not from the book, but as a way for you to see her in all her beauty and variety.  

Part 1 – Inspiration This picture seems to merit two weeks’ worth of my time. So today, for part one, I will focus on location and light--the sources of my inspiration. The first thing that strikes me about this picture is a small anecdote from a shoot that took place long ago at an estate on Long Island.  I asked the owner of the house if it would be possible to shoot the interior of the house as well as the exterior gardens. She reacted by saying, “Oh, you want to be able to come inside if it’s raining?”  My response, however, was, “No, I’d like to come inside in case it’s sunny.” This explains a lot about how I work. I have chosen over the years to never shoot in studios.  They feel sterile and artificial, and I became a photographer to find a way to be a part of the world.  I have no interest in turning my back on it, isolating myself in an artificial environment, and seeking total control.  I’m already isolated enough. Light—with all its glorious variation from day to day, city to city, latitude to latitude—is my source of inspiration. In biblical times, knowledge, truth and insight were exposed by how they were illuminated.  Without light there was only darkness.  Revelations came through light. Likewise, with me, natural light is what best exposes and illuminates beauty. As a result, for the majority of my 40 years in photography, I have worked with available light. And this location is an example of how natural light is able to illuminate beauty. America, which is a modern country, has for the past 75 years done its best to abandon that which is most sacred—light.  Most modern commercial construction is created with tinted or closed off windows, so that temperature and climate are easily controlled.  They are mimicking what photographers do in studios. They are turning their backs, closing their eyes to the outside. This is one of the few locations I’ve ever found in New York that has all the things I love.  It has age, character, and large southerly windows that open. It allows me to feel I am in some glorious space, as many must have felt as they first walked into Chartres Cathedral centuries ago.

Is it really The End? Is it the end of an era or something else? Should I heed the words on this spread: wade not into unknown waters? In the small remote corner of the planet I grew up in—a refined and course place where there were moments where men were gentle and at times even noble—I often felt estranged and separate from the general world.  I was drawn to the ideal, but mostly surrounded by the mundane. That is why I took pictures.  I was looking to unite the two.  I was trying to pull the ordinary me into the extraordinary, to get closer to the wonder of people and places.  I was searching for a way in as I was practicing a way out.  No wonder I was so confused and anxious as a young man. Just as I had finally found comfort with myself and my surroundings, the culture does its thing.  It evolves and changes into a place where I am again not comfortable.  Where I seek beauty, it finds contentment with an ugliness that is celebrated as an important vernacular.  Where I seek symmetry, the rhythm of life is discordant.  When I finally almost found my buoyancy, the world switches and everything is out of balance. The question is, as I walk into the unknown future, how do I find the way to me all over again? You can find the way to me this next week at PDN's Photo Plus Expo at the Javits Center in New York City. I"ll be lecturing on October 23rd from 1:15 to 3:15.  Come by. Look at the book.  Talk. I'll also be at the Kodak booth a majority of the day on October 22nd. Come and buy a book.

For many years I had tried, to no avail, to get an assignment where I’m allowed to use heavy-set men as the subjects. I have always thought that heavy-set men with a certain amount of style carry themselves in a way that lends itself to really wonderful photographs. However, in today’s culture, there is a formula that men and women must fit into: only certain types of bodies are beautiful and therefore only certain things are construed as handsome or beautiful, elegant or not, appropriate or inappropriate. But I disagree.  Take, for example, the great Italian designer Gianfranco Ferré, who had this incredible air of quality about him.  There was something attractive about this person, much more attractive than some skinny 20-year-old male model who looks vacuous and empty. Finally, the New York Times Magazine assigned me to do a photograph on exercise.  I immediately thought of this person, Marshal Efron, who is a great character actor. On one hand, the photograph is playing with the idea of this very heavy-set man exercising.  While that is somewhat funny, and it may be one reason why this photograph works, it is not the part of the picture that I like the most. Marshal Efron is someone I find very interesting.  He is not only strong of character and strong of will, but he is strong of personality as well.  I have found that people who generally don’t look the part—who don’t have the proper decorum, who aren’t traditionally handsome or beautiful, who are slightly outside the vernacular in one way or another, be it physically, mentally or emotionally—are generally the most attractive to me. Today I’ll leave you with a few pictures from my book launch party last week.  Thanks to all who attended.  We will have a book signing in December at Sotheby’s in New York City.  Hope you all can make it to this one as well.

First, I want to invite everyone to my book release party this Wednesday night, September thirtieth.  For those of you in New York, it will be fairly easy. For those of you out of town, I suggest you purchase your airline tickets now! Theory, the clothing line, will hold the book signing at its shop in the Bloomingdale’s Men Store on fifty-ninth street and Lexington Avenue in Manhattan. 6:00-8:00 PM.  Come buy a book. Or not.  We can meet and just talk. And drink. Regardless, I hope you all can make it. Second, Kodak Propass magazine recently did a short article on me and on the new book.  Please feel free to peruse it here if you would like. Their insight is always significant. Last, I think this spread, which was shot for the cover of the New York Times Magazine, is significant because it highlights all the people who helped make this book a success. Walter Thomas, a genius if ever there were one, wrote the text, and gave some of the funniest and most insightful comments I have ever encountered.  His words are the perfect complement to my pictures.  David Meredith painstakingly designed each spread in a way that is strikingly beautiful and artistically astute.  And finally, Kim Blanchette of Blanchette Press in Vancouver has achieved a triumph in printing.  His work is spectacular, and I am incredibly grateful every time I hear his name.  To any art directors, photographers, authors, or anyone else who may have a printing need, you could not possibly go wrong with Kim Blanchette.

While it’s Monday morning as I write this, this may not be posted until later, as I’m currently at 35,000 in the air feet on my way to the tropics for a shoot. I apologize if I’m late. Today, I’m posting a favorite picture that conjures up for me three different things. First, I have found that when I am able to let go the most, my pictures are the best. This was shot in Paris, at an old building on the grounds of a French Royal Garden called Parc de Sceaux.  We had shot for about an hour upstairs.  We were just leaving and as I saw the model, dressed in a robe, descending this beautiful staircase. I asked him to run down the stairs once more.  I snapped a few frames.  It couldn’t have taken longer than a couple of minutes, and it ended up my favorite picture from the whole shoot. If I keep my eyes open, and my sense of awareness keen, good things will come from it. Second, this picture helps me explore the philosophical, or even psychological aspect of the way I shoot.  Many of my pictures look carefully planned out; however, as I’ve illustrated above, it is often the spontaneity of the moment that creates great photographs.  For this reason, I do not shoot Polaroids, and I do not shoot digitally. Many photographers, in order to please the client shoot in-camera polaroids as a way of confirming they have the picture.  For me, this drains the shoot of spontaneity and mystery. The same goes for on camera displays in digital photography.  I appreciate film for the mystery, and I’ve used the same films all my photographic life: Kodak Plus-X and Tri-X. One thing I really love about being a photographer is the fact that you can play with perceptions of reality. People have a certain concept of reality: gravity makes objects fall; fire burns; running encompasses certain qualities. The camera can slightly play with this perception of reality. As I’ve never been sure of what is real or not real, this has always been appealing to me. I think this clicked for me when I first read Kierkegaard.  He talked about the Leap of Faith, a moment in time where one must leap off a precipice and act on faith and trust. I guess this is where people are able to say “I believe.” I’ve never been able to do this. I’ve never been able to leave the real world and believe in a supernatural one.  On the other hand, I’ve always been willing to use a camera and play with reality. The last thing this picture conjures up is the spirit of romance.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s just the location.  Maybe it’s the spirit of the picture. Maybe it’s the movement. Maybe it’s the altitude of this flight. But it seems ethereal and otherworldly. This spirit of romance is totally lacking in most contemporary photography. The vernacular in which most…

I’m going to go out on a limb, and say this: In order to say something outward, something universal, you must first look inward. I’m sure there are many people who would not agree with me, and that’s fine.  This picture conjures up for me the idea of self-reflection. When I was very young, in my early twenties, I had this tremendous amount of anxiety, emotional intensity that needed an outlet.  I didn’t know how to do it.  Photography became a means to the end of allowing me to express myself.  But I also knew at the same time that it was an incomplete expression—there was much more inside me that needed to get out.  So I began the process of psychotherapy. To me, therapy isn’t just the art of healing—although there is a lot of that included in it—but perhaps more important is the way it allows you to follow Socrates’ declaration: Know thyself. Therapy, and the resulting introspection, allowed me to become sensitive to the parts of me that were hidden, or repressed, or unavailable to me consciously.  It was an incredibly wonderful gift that the twentieth century gave to me.  Many of these pictures in this book are a direct result of that. To say a photographer has a vision is to say the photographer has something unique to say to about the world.  Why do some photographers have something unique to say, when so many others just shoot pictures that are general and lacking vision? Most people would say it has to do with talent. Maybe. But maybe not.  Maybe it has nothing to do with talent.  Maybe it has to do with the ability to express one’s feelings. The person who presents a strong vision has figured out a way to express his or her feelings, while others are struggling to do that. Talent, then, becomes not so much artistic talent, though that may be a good part of it, but rather emotional talent. This applies to music as well: much of music, obviously, is a technical skill, as is photography.  However, the difference between a good musician and a great musician is, I think quite obvious: emotion. When I was in Israel right after graduate school, I sat in on master classes with Arthur Rubinstein, Isaac Stern, Alexander Schneider, and Gina Bachauer.  I remember a particular class with Isaac Stern.  They had some of Israel’s greatest prodigies on the violin.  They would play in a technically perfect way.  But then Isaac Stern would play the same thing.  It was like night and day.  The difference was not so much that Isaac Stern knew the notes any better; rather, he could feel it better. He knew himself and his emotions better.