I find myself asking, as well as being asked often by others, about the environments in which most of my photographs take place. What is the story that underlies the places I choose to make my pictures? Nothing seems to make sense on the surface. I was born in Manhattan, raised in a mostly urban environment, yet my leanings and sense of sustenance is not usually there. I am attracted to landscapes where the hand of man is evident but not in an urban presence. Usually, I am attracted to an agrarian landscape or garden that has been tilled for centuries by farm workers whose voice has been one of caretaker rather than over-taker. Also, I am not a wilderness person. In fact, I am far from it. I do not like large mountains, deserts or places where the presence of man is not subscribed. I never like to feel thirsty. The earth, the landscape must feel abundant and furtive. I was never able to find the magical light of the high desert or the majesty of the mountains as inspiring to me as a well-tended landscape or garden. Having said this, it is no wonder I am attracted to European landscape and architecture where history and life are felt everywhere, yet all seems in order, peaceful, and well regarded. If one were to take this even further, I find myself most attracted to The National Trust Gardens of England or The French Royal Gardens of France. It is here where I am most pleased by the grand but still intimate scale of these gardens and houses, where trees are pollarded and treated as giant shrubs and evergreens formed into conical topiaries seem whimsical and perpetual. These are gardens that need full attention to stand upright at their best. But even so, despite their formalness, there is a relaxed gracious character to them that can be found in small corners and in small folly buildings around the gardens. When one walks these gardens, one is surrounded by green upon green. These gardens are of shape and form, not of flower. They are like rooms within rooms. There are exotic shades of evergreen mixed with the deciduous greens of hornbeam, lyme, and horse chestnut trees. I cannot imagine a more festive, nor restful place to be on a cold December morning, than in a small room of trees, all whispering to me, as a new day, a new year is about to begin.

I think as we approach the Birthday of Jesus of Nazareth, along with serendipitously yours truly, I think it only fitting to now have a truly serious and profound discussion with you, my dear reader. I feel after over one year of trying to tell you (in the most intimate details) the why, the how and the what of my life and it’s effect on my pictures. It is now time to take one step further downtown into the protected recess of my cerebrum to discuss my need for my belief in Santa Claus. This is not just a yearly yearning for Old Man Claus to drop down the chimney and bestow my family with gifts. Unfortunately, it is way beyond this. In order to do justice to my explanation of why Santa exists, I must retreat back, further back, putting a 50mm lens on my Hasselblad to be able to stand way back and look at the entire opus of my work. With this overview in mind, I began to ascertain certain truths about me,  my perspective on life, my subjects, my locations, my styling, my relationships, etc. but if you look even closer you begin to notice that this Christmas Eve baby has a peculiar and to many, a very outdated weltanschauung. For those of you not versed in theological discourse, you may want to translate weltanschauung into a kind of worldview. My particular view on the world underlies everything I do photographically. Whether I am photographing a farmer in tears, or a CEO joyful for the enormous Christmas bonus he is to receive shortly. It is seen in models I choose, in the landscapes, and in the locations. It is omnipresent in my work. This little unseen element, my voice, comes across in every picture I make. Some of you are voiceless, not because you don't have one, but you haven't found it yet or you are too frightened to let it speak but that is for another workshop. So through the years, both academically and theologically, and with an enormous amount of introspection, I began to study the nature of man, but not just any man, this man, myself, me. Slowly over time I have discovered what this little voice has been saying throughout my photographic history. First, despite my outward appearance that the glass may appear only half full, this voice exposed quite the opposite. My photographs are a world of optimism and happiness. There is often whimsy and joy in the pictures. Secondly, and perhaps most deeply and most importantly, although I am most fundamentally embedded in the soil, my pictures speak often of a life that is just around the corner, just barely out of reach. They are plausible but it requires extra effort to be there. I guess that is why they are often referred to as aspirational. This is very important. This is like confronting a void, and believing there is something on the other side. It is wondering at the possibilities…

Some gifts are easily given and easily taken, while others surprise you with their generosity and knowledge and are the kind of gift that is hard to describe. I am going to try to tell you how I learned to see rather than just look, and how this has helped me teach others how to learn to be themselves and express this so others may see. This is a story about why teaching is sometimes the greatest gift we can give. In the fall of 1966, off to a University I went with my ties, jackets, and all my emotions wrapped into an elaborate suitcase. I was full of wonder with powerful feelings surging through my body, like some mysterious energy that needed an outlet. It felt like a continuous flowing river that needed an outlet, similar to a river winding it's way to the ocean. I had hoped and assumed that literature was my outlet. I came with a love of words, hoping to find a way through novels to express my feelings. It is the great literature I love. I found a constrained, yet beautiful and graceful, way through books to delve into the human condition. There was something in this process that was liberating to me. It touched unconsciously on all my troubles. I was young, vibrant, alive and full of enthusiasm. As expected, I quickly gravitated toward the English Department in search of teachings to help me continue my quest to find the heart of the matter. I found it in the literature but not in the teaching. I found the teaching too banal, academic, and conceptual. While Leer is raging at the world of his blindness to see clearly, the teaching was unemotional and lost in the abstraction of the text. This did nothing to sooth my restless and needy soul. One afternoon, I wandered into a class in the young, fledgling religious studies department. It was a theology and literature class, and all at once I had found my home for the next few years. It was not that I was spiritually in need of help (although who isn't) it was just that the existential questions of life (the nature of evil, the nature and destiny of man) were lauded and questioned. The questions we confronted were based on human existence, who are we, and what is our purpose in life? The questions that confront all of us as human beings were not avoided, but were rather allowed to come to the surface as if it were the cream rising to the top of a cup of coffee. I loved it. I didn't understand why or how. But I knew this was the way for me. The game of life was afoot, and by no means was I going to be left behind. I began the eternal search of who am I and what do I feel? This quest lasted through graduate school and over 40 years of therapy and now I am willing…

Many years ago, I remember dreading taking this picture because up to this point, most of the pictures I had made were of a single woman. This was one of the first times I was called upon to make a strong picture of two women. I was now shooting a landscape with two figures placed in it. I saw this spot and placed the two figures into the landscape and immediately, to my surprise, it felt right. A foot in either direction and the whole picture would have fallen apart. There is something about my relationship to them, their relationship to each other, as well as our relationship to the environment that feels wonderful and mysterious. This picture has always felt resolved, yet unresolved, with everything in the right place, everything in order, but even though all is well, nothing is answered. More questions are raised, and more issues unresolved. I think the two figures lead you into this place. They are attractive, slightly sexy, and timeless. They appear to some as if from "The Last Year at Marienbad." This picture, like many of the outdoor pictures I shoot, is made in a space that feel like an exterior room. I've often been told that my exteriors feel like interiors. I think this is correct. I think people do experience my exteriors as an interior spaces. I will explain why this is the case... For most photographers, placing someone in front of something whether an icon or simply some exterior, unconsidered location is their idea of a portrait etc. This is not mine. The purpose of this picture, and many other of my images, is to know how to fit people into their environment, rather than haphazardly placing them in front of it. Having the figures within the space rather than in front of it, makes all the difference. You can tell how I feel about them from how I have placed them in their world. They are in it, not apart from it, yet it is still incomplete and begs you to inquire about their story. Photographers must learn about themselves so they can learn to properly fit their subjects and themselves into a world they may fear or may not know. It is not my intention to stand outside or apart from life as a sociologist might, recording and viewing the world but not participating in it. Although in the non-photographic parts of my life, I do. I am always on the search, almost a quest for a certain place where I can be one. I think this appears in my photographs. The locations, as much as the pictures, tell of my yearnings for resolution both within the world and within myself. As we end this year I keep wondering how I will fit into this brave new world. Am I in the right place at the wrong time? Or do I offer an entry, a vision, to a slightly more attractive and nicer place you may have forgotten…

During my winter break in 1964 when I was a Junior in High School, my father informed me that the following summer I was going to Europe. It was a special tour where I would be living in Holland for a month with a family and then traveling with ten others to various places on the grand, but very modest tour of Europe. He felt that this would be a good experience for his son. I, of course, immediately upon hearing this, tried desperately to get out of going. I begged him that this was not for me. In his fashion, he announced to me as if from the voice of God, "you can go and have a good time or you can go and have a bad time, but you're going and that's final." Of course deep, deep down in the marrow of my bones there was a little voice that was excited, but only fears and anxieties were apparent. Oh how silly a boy I was. For this trip was where I finally became a man in a young boy's shoes. I remember that early June evening, when all the parents and students met and were introduced to each other. These were the students who would be traveling with to and through Europe. I remember walking into the room and seeing the girl of my dreams. She was shy, delicate, and oh so beautiful. I immediately thought that this was the girl for me and just imagine, we had over two months together. We soon, thereafter, boarded the ocean liner, a floating student ship with over 1,500 kids, (mostly of college age) making a lazy eleven day crossing to Marseilles. Just imagine 1,500 kids, with little chaperoning, for eleven days with an Italian crew, drinking, laughing, playing, and... I didn't know where to look first. It was the adventure of my life. Girls, girls, and more girls, sunbathing, drinking, and dancing all night. It's quite amazing; I made it to the other side. When we landed in France the ten of us and two chaperone made our way to Holland where we all met with our new host families. During the month we'd often all get together as a group and slowly I began to fall in love with this girl. I always felt myself so awkward and so unattractive and worst of all Jewish. I never thought I'd stand a chance with her. Deep into our last month in a convent in Venice after sneaking into the convent after the closing hours of 11 o'clock pm she and I embraced each other and became one. It was the first for us both. It changed my world and two and a half years later, we married and ultimately had a son together. I remember one evening some months before we were to be married, she asked me if it was alright that at times she didn't care for me. I remember being in shock but so worried I…

Many years ago, I was commissioned by  The New York Times magazine to do a series of pictures referred to as The Line Pictures. I did three in total and this one was called Skyline, 1995. The only art direction I was given, was that they wanted to shoot a picture with the  New York skyline in the background. How, when, where, and even the why was left to me. The wardrobe was styled by The Times, but other than that everything was produced and created by me. I scouted for days both on the East and West Sides of Manhattan. I scouted from Brooklyn looking back at the East Side and from New Jersey looking back at the West Side, which seemed the right view but leaving me too far away. I remember that I kept thinking, "If only I could be in the middle of the river on a large enough platform this picture would work." Finally we found a barge company in Staten Island which had the perfect barge (a floating dock) that they would tow for us. Even though I was shooting directly east, I wanted to take a chance and shoot early in the morning; directly into the sun. Luckily, my favorite weather occurred and I didn't have to deal with the sun as a heavy mist and grayness had settled in upon us. As we maneuvered into location, I was informed that the barge could only hold that spot for a few seconds; the current was just too strong. So while the barge was making large circles, we quickly dressed all the models.  Just as we were finally beginning to get into location, it started to rain harder. Like everything else I shoot, it looks very contrived and in a way it is. The fact that I knew the exact location I was going to shoot was very unusual for me. Right before we got there I did not know how or where I would place the models. In fact, As I started to place the models against the background, I realized we were one short. It was at this point I quickly asked the stylist if she would be in the picture. She agreed and we quickly dressed her and placed her in the far left of the picture. Since it was raining now and very cold that November morning, we shot very little film. Between the rain, the weather and the drifting barge, I was lucky to get this one frame where everything was in the right place. This picture has become an icon; particularly after September 11th. It is hard to imagine New York without these towers, though I must admit, I so disliked them visually. Not only did we loose these architectural giants with thousands of people, but America has seen even more lost since those days. Along with the loss of these towers, America continued it's loss of optimism and  innocence, which was so beloved to me. This picture was…

During the late 50's and the early 60's, visiting my Father's office was always the best and worst of times. Quite honestly, the best probably outweighed the worst by a large margin but there were always consequences to having a good time with my Father. Ultimately his power asserted itself, never with the intention of hurting me but simply his way of saying Father knows best. I can remember each year coming home for the holidays from boarding school in Connecticut. We would take the train from Hartford, making our rounds through New Haven, eventually arriving at Grand Central Station around 1 pm on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. My father's office was only a few blocks from Grand Central, by two o'clock I would be standing in his office while he and Gunther, his partner, talked about their newest adventures. Gunther was Austrian, tall, elegant, refined and distant. My father, a New Yorker, was funny, short and fearless. My father was the salesman who all the women buyers adored and Gunther was the man who worked most clearly with the designers. For over 25 years, they made a towering duo. Of course as soon as I got to their offices, I would slowly, surreptitiously make my way back to the cutting rooms where the models were. There were always a few girls for me to gawk at. I was the boss' son so they were always so nice to me, even though I probably wasn't as tall as the top of their legs. I would simply stand afar and fantasize about all these women. Of course, unbeknownst to me at the time my father carried his fantasies slightly further. He probably was sleeping with all of them. No wonder they we so nice to little me, because they were extremely nice to my father as well. By three o'clock, almost like the clock that kept perfect time at the Biltmore Hotel where I would meet my classmates to go back to school, my father would inform me to go downstairs and get a haircut. On the ground floor of his building off and back somewhere, through a set of doors into another Manhattan building was this long, long room with what felt like 50 to 100 barbers. It was right out of an Al Capone movie of Chicago in the 20's. All the men were surrounded by women, doing their nails, giving them suntans, massaging their scalps, shampooing them, etc. It was a sea of white with the lonely male barber and his client. This was an all male bastion that just happened to be occupied 3 to 1 with attractive women. Perfect, as far as I could tell. My father's barber was of course expecting me, and I was immediately sat down in a chair, with a crisp white apron placed over my body. Immediately, out of no where someone started to polish my shoes and my father's attractive manicurist quickly came over started her work on my nails. She could…

This is a story about a very simple room that to this day is stamped clearly in my consciousness. It all started in 1959. By this time my Father was a man of means. He traveled the world with my mother on one adventure after another: safaris in Africa, and swimming with turtles in the Seychelles Islands, but of course nothing pleased my mother more than a shopping trip to Europe. It was her love, her passion and truly a testament to her expertise in finding the most expensive item in any store. So my father announced one fall that over our Christmas break, the whole family would be making the grand tour of Europe. It was time for his son to see the world. This was not some ordinary trip; this was an excursion of a lifetime. Each leg had it's own story, but for the sake of not meandering into Swiss pastry and watches, or English theater, I will stay firmly fixed in our first stop, Paris. We arrived at the Plaza Athenee. We were shown our elegant and beautiful suite and then immediately off we went to Christian Dior at the Place Vendome.  It was so opulent: the women beautiful, the smells that invigorated every item and soul with a delicate French perfume...and at that moment I began to fall in love with the French, the women that is, not necessarily the men. I noticed, even at the ripe old age of 14, that the women in Paris were different. They seemed to dress, not of the moment in the latest styles, but rather had an innate sense and style of their own. They seemed timeless and oh so...beautiful, elegant and refined. They were beyond reach. They were to be adored, mysterious yet provocative. Even on the streets, I noticed the women in Paris were different. They wore beautiful cashmere sweaters with pearls and elegant scarves and sunglasses. They had beautiful long legs with simple skirts and beautiful shoes, all in great taste. They all seemed so approachable, yet un-approachable. America seemed so hard to me. The women were athletic and the “American Dream” was a California blonde in a bathing suit. America was strong, vibrant but seemed to lack mystery and timelessness. All of this, unbeknownst to this young desirous 14 year old, has had a big influence on me (then and now). My idea of style derives from this first trip to Paris. This opulent, extravagant, beautiful trip began to teach me about restraint and good taste. It was on this trip I began to notice that less is more. Style and elegance lie within the soul of a woman, as much as they do in the clothes she chooses to wear on the outside. That sexiness is not necessarily wearing less, but perhaps wearing more, with what lies underneath a mystery to be discovered. Paris at age 14 is where the women of France began to show me the art of simplifying: real style versus fashion,…

Since daylight savings time, I haven't been able to straighten out the time. It still seems to go in a BIG circle. Here it is almost 4 o'clock in the afternoon and for whatever reason it feels like it is 4 am. By tomorrow I promise I will be back into the circle of life. Well regulated and returning to my normal neurotic self. Until tomorrow.

I'm sorry but I think I need a break this week. I am feeling miserably sorry for myself, and I can't imagine any good spirits or humor emanating from this saddened soul. So for the sake of you, I will not languish in my sorrows and try to go forth into a brave new world, and return a happier more enterprising soul next week.