Yesterday, we officially began our attempt to oversee and evaluate every major and significant college and university in the United States and England. By the time we are through, Fodors will have nothing on us and our ability to evaluate, to find and recount schools from Chicago to the East Coast and the United Kingdom. If you want to know any significant fact, like how many cafeterias there are, how late the library is open, book and shelf counts, etc., we are the ones to ask. The students at the first school we visited, all seemed exceptionally bright (young Mark Zuckerberg's) full of ideas and thoughts to change the world. They are participants in this new, high tech world. As they were bouncing around the campus, leaping from steps, exposing great ideas in mid air, I was exhausted from just having walked from the lower campus to the upper campus. It's time to move aside and relinquish this brave new world to them. Thank God someone still has enormous enthusiasm and optimism for the future. I on the other hand am looking longingly over my shoulder to the Edwardian England of Downtown Abbey. I must admit I consider myself a man ideas and letters, and education is very important to me. I do not care about the basketball or football teams. I don't care how well the lacrosse team is fairing. I do care about learning, teaching ideas, and knowledge. College, the greatest four years of your life, is about emotional and intellectual growth, and although I joke endlessly with my daughter, I am a very proud father. So while traveling to Boston yesterday I was reminded of my total humiliation with my second and last college trip with my father some 47 years ago. In the early spring of 1965 my father decided that I should go to Harvard. Never-mind that no one in our family had ever attended there, and it was extremely questionable whether I had the grades or the ability to attend. He was very determined that it most probably was the right school for me. To this day, I never knew where he got this notion, definitely not from me. He made an appointment for an interview, and I was informed that he and I would drive up to Boston together in his Rolls Royce. Maybe he knew something that I didn't. I knew he wasn't rich enough to give a building, or endow a chair, or outfit the whole school in uniforms, but without any delay or equivocation, off we went that fine spring day to Cambridge. All went well until we were just outside of Cambridge on the Massachusetts turnpike, when I heard a large noise followed by a large thud. We had a flat tire. Of course, I proposed calling AAA to come and change the tire, but that would have made us considerably late for our meeting and my father would have none of it. He had purchased some months prior,…

As many of you might be aware, I pride myself on being an original, some would call it an eccentric. To me it all feels perfectly natural, and if you were to gaze at me superficially, I most probably on the outside appear to be quite normal, successful, and happy. It would appear that I have it all. On a later date I can explain why appearance can be deceptive, and why I appear as I do, but this is not even the first sentence to the prologue of this story, so I better get on with it. You see I have always loved houses. I easily could have been an architect, a furniture designer, or a woodworker. I love jointery and how things fit together perfectly and permanently. So, in the early seventies, with a small inheritance from my grandmother, I started to restore an 18th Century sea captains house on the Connecticut coast. It was a very modest house with an old boathouse attached to the back which we made into a kitchen. There was also a small cow barn which a few years later I made into my studio and darkroom. Now here comes the kicker that I expect very few Americans to understand. We live in a land where everything is speculation, ease of mobility, transition, status and a means to a larger end. As I see it, very few Americans invest their soul in their houses, keeping them simply houses rather than a home. To be perfectly clear, I am not talking about raising children in a house, living in one place for a number of years, feeling security and comfort that a roof provides, or enjoying the neighborhood and friends. I am talking about something that is completely different. You might think that the qualities described above distinguish a home from a house, but for me they do not. What I am talking about is analogous to a mother's eternal and uninhibited love for her child. If there is one place that remains in this culture where emotion, passion and feeling are still expressed openly, it is in a mother's love for her child. Now my home (for better or probably for worse) is my life. If I open my front door to you (which today is a totally different house and place, which I will talk about more at a later date) I am opening my soul to you for scrutiny. I have invested the very fiber of my being in the details before you. I have allowed you to enter a very private domain, the hidden recesses of my emotional life. Now here lies the problem, most Americans do not have a clue what I am talking about. My house today is a far grander and perhaps a more beautiful home than my earlier house, but the same held true then as it does today. It is my belief that as most people walk through this beautiful house, they are probably figuring…

Like the culture, I am running on empty this week. I need a week to fill up. Stay tuned and see you next week.

"For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and loose his own soul?" - Mark 8:36 It's not that our culture, our lives, our aspirations has lost its soul, it's simply misplaced them. We have exchanged moral and emotional character for cerebral acumen, success and creativity. For the last 25 years I am afraid to say, our culture has been running on empty. Photography, with all it's myriad of critics, curators, pundints, have simply followed the leader. Everyone is chasing each others tail, desperate for anything that strikes them as different. Instead of leading us to a better place, we are left with work that is soulless, and proclaimed by those who know, as insightful, brilliant, and all other manner of other affirmations. The problem is, that in these photographs, life is befit of joy and God forbid, emotion. Photography and much of modern art is without a real sense of self. It feels incomplete, empty, and very, very lonely. So with this joyful prologue, I am about to tell you a simple story about the very best student I ever had and over the years. Unfortunately, I have only a story to tell and without pictures it is hard to specifically tell you why I think she was the best. I have had many. It is hard to specifically tell you why I think she was the best. But like a good aphorism, and you are just going to have to believe me on this, I know greatness when I see it. When I first graduated from graduate school some 40 years ago, I taught a great deal in an attempt to provide some modicum of income to a starving photographer. I also enjoyed it. I taught for years at different places and finally through a friend was asked if I wanted to teach college seminars at Yale. This was not through the photography program, which would have no use or interest in me; it was through the master (the head) of Branford College at Yale. Anyway, for two years and four or five classes later, I taught a seminar to about 15 students at a time, photography with a twist. There were texts in Theology, English, romantic poetry, 19th and 20th Century Literature, along with a spattering of photographic literature and handouts. I knew I was rocking the boat, but as usual I just simply plowed along. Finally, after two years I understood that there was a rebellion. The English and Theology Departments wanted to know who this person was teaching their text, and most importantly, I was summoned in to Tod Papageorge office, the then chairman of Yale's photography department, and without any interest in me or any equivocation, informed me that no one, and he meant no one, would be teaching photography at Yale, unless it came through him. So with that kind and gracious exchange, I stopped teaching at Yale and went elsewhere for a few years, but not before…

Please forgive my tardiness. I am completely surrounded by disorganization, that is on it's way to being organized. Who could stop in the midst of all this chaos to write a blog. Not I. But by the time I am finished, even the Swiss would be proud. They might in fact give me a second award (the first being awarded from the Swiss School of Packing) for my organizational acumen. By next week we will be able to put our fingers (in white gloves) on every creation created in this studio. See you next week.

Oh boy, this should get me in real trouble. I've always had a way of "stirring the pot" and seeing what rises to the surface, but what I am about to tell you will probably really curdle your milk. You see it's my belief that the classical notion of being noble and distinguished, represents one's moral character. And that a fall from grace requires first that you have reached a significant level of moral courage and fortitude (this is not an easy task). Somehow along the way with the help of capitalism, a few robber barons, and a touch of Calvinism, America (and the rest of the western world) began to worship or should I say confuse monetary success with nobility and wisdom. My parents were perfect paradigms of this belief. How could anyone of great wealth, power, elicit anything but great admiration. Most conventional religions have joined the party. The more money you make, the more money for them. Never mind that one's soul is empty, one's brain befit of ideas, one’s being second rate as long as one has financially succeeded. Monetary success is to be envied and applauded. The soul who labors honestly with integrity and a true sense of service to their job can only be valuable up to a point. True success comes from a self made man of means or notoriety. Now I realize this is ridiculously simplistic, and you might ask what this has to do with photography, so I am trying really hard to quickly get to my point, and skip all the research that is necessary to back up anything I say. About 25 years ago I gave a lecture. A woman came up to me at the end of the lecture and said to me, "You are so clear. I have never met anyone who knows who they are as well as you. I am so confused. How do I become clear?" Well this is the problem as I see it, and there is definitely no easy answer. I have been struggling with this for 45 years. America, as personified by Dale Carnegie and others have placed this enormous premium on success, which I assume is monetary success. They have preached along with various churches that it is more important to influence others, to smile, to be positive, to be engaged and to influence others so that you may reap your reward, more success. Somehow, misleading others telling them things they want to hear is supposed to make us more civilized. Well this is the fork in the road I suggest you may not want to take. Take it all right to win friends, to be happy, to influence others, to sell them on things they didn't want, to tell them it is for their own good when it is really for your own benefit, to endear yourself to others at the cost of loosing who you are. I have tried (and for some who know me well have seen…

Do you remember a world where men distinguished themselves by aspiring to be gentle men, where one's word was more potent than a contract, where a woman was a lady and had special privilege, well I almost do. But, what I do most definitely remember is when a photograph was admissible as evidence in a courtroom as factual, where retouching mostly constituted a removal of a scratch or dust, or some slight modifications. I realize there has always been some desire to moderate the picture. As a painter adds and subtracts reality at his will, but that very quality of dealing with the real world and using film to its full advantage was one of the great thrills of being a photographer. Recently I understand that there has been discussion as to if I retouch my photographs. There is a photograph that I shot in the Dominican Republic, with a woman standing on the edge of a Sea Plane wing. Let me assure anyone that doubts its validity, she was there standing on the very tip of that wing, and the very notion of adding her (posthumously) to the actual picture would be against "the lie agreed upon" which is a photograph. You see photography as I know it is not illustration, painting, printing, compositing, collage, or anything else, although it has rapidly become this. Photography is a joyful affirmation of the world as it is given to us at the given moment. I used to like the fact that Vanity Fair magazine would time and date the photograph, as if it was a specific moment never to be recaptured again. Now it feels like a sham. What part of the picture are they talking about? As the picture represents a composite of many moments and places. I understand that I am a dying dinosaur and in my fashion I also understand that I have manipulated pictures from the first days of making them. I was always aware of the strengths and limitations of film and it's response to light, and would use the characteristics of film to my own advantage, but also often to its disadvantage. I knew because of reciprocity law failure that light when translated onto film would diminish far more quickly than your eyes perceived it. And using only porticoes (windows, doorways, etc.) as light sources, I realized I could make part of the image go black even though your eyes would see detail. For example, in the picture below, the doorway although appearing to be black, was full of detail. I knew I could remove the detail when I shot the picture because of the quality of the film. But this was working within the confines of the film and knowing the medium I was working in. So I guess I have retouched as well, but here is the difference, I have always done it within the camera at the time the picture was made. I don't think that this is a composite or a…

I've never been a very nice person. I would like to be. I can remember in camp as  15 year old thinking that many of the other boys in the cabin were much nicer than I was, and I was going to try to fulfill some destiny, and resolved to be a nicer person. I am not sure what that meant; because on the outside I was a relatively benign, fearful, harmless, and even funny, but inside I knew I had acquired my mothers powerful critical eye, and was capable in finding fault with most things and most people, which happened to also include myself. To this day I still have great difficulty liking myself although I am better at integrating the two aspects of my personality. Ironically though, through massive doses of therapy, living, thinking, and watching, I have learned much to my amusement that this very critical dwarf that has resided in me since childhood has been my salvation. Learning how to let it out, realizing it's potential and enormous strength has allowed me to flourish and helped me significantly as a photographer. What I took as weakness, anger, and something terribly frightful, has turned out to be confidence, strength and enormous determination. You see these terrible dark fears when released become the powerful forces that drives your green fuse. What feels so wicked, so terrible, can turn out to be so good. As I mentioned I have a very critical eye which I have used to attack others as well as myself. Through the years (and I will tell you more about this in later blogs) there have been people such as Anna Freud and Frances Ilg (one of the founders of the Gesell Institute) and others who have commented on my perception and that not much slips by my being. I have often been referred too as witch like as I pick up clues immediately as I pick up cues about people, places, objects, etc. I once had lunch with Anna Freud and I mentioned to her that when I looked at somebody through the camera lens, I did not see all their evil but rather all their fears and anxieties and where 20 years of therapy could lead them. I could see people had a choice to choose in believing in the evil or working hard to realize they are just fears. I can see right into your soul, and this gift has allowed me to pursue photography. Even though at this point I do not do much portraiture, I can still pick up a camera and see what lies deep within you. I can see what you would consider your weakness and frailties, but I am capable of seeing them as your greatest strengths. I know this is a life long endeavor, but if you are capable of facing your fears they will disappear and you will find the strength of character you never thought you had. For weeks I have been reading the…

The last few weeks I have been feeling in/out/and besides my sorts. I can’t seem to equalize all the turmoil, but Christmas is arising and I am off to see America and grandchildren, and life is slowly returning to an equilibrium. So, before I become so mellow and slip into a meditative trance, I thought I would write you a few more words of wisdom to lead us into the upcoming year. I have told this story in the past, so for those who have heard it before, please forgive, and place those new reindeer earmuffs over your ears as I tell it again. People are often asking me what influenced my life that made me choose the life of a photographer. Here below is one of my answers. When thinking about what were the most important experiences in my life, particularly those that had an effect on me as a photographer, here is one in particular story that stands out.  This may sound peculiar to you, but it seems perfectly normal to me.  The experience I'm about to relate has nothing to do with photography.  In thinking about this, this seems to be a pattern in my life.  I studied theology with the intention of being a photographer.  At first glance, one would think they have nothing to do with each other.  But, in fact, they are intimately and intricately entwined. About 30 years ago, give or take a year or two, I had the good fortune to attend a lecture by Jerzy Kosinksi.  For those of you who don't know who he is, or rather, I should say was, as he committed suicide some years ago, he was a director and writer of one of my favorite films, Being There.  At that time I had just become a fellow at Timothy Dwight College at Yale University.  A few times a year, the master of the college would invite people to lecture to other fellows.  It was a group of about 50-75 people.  As I lived in New York, it was hard for me to get to New Haven, but luckily that night I made it.  I'll try to recap the lecture or perhaps I should call it a story. Jerzy (after this lecture, I became so interested in him, we actually became quite good friends) began the lecture talking about sitting by a swimming pool in some hotel in Thailand.  He said he was sitting there peacefully reading a newspaper, when a number of Buddhist monks walked into the pool and began a conversation amongst themselves in the deep end of the pool.  As he described it, they were not standing in the pool, nor treading water.  He described it as having achieved buoyancy. For hours, they did not struggle to float, but rather were able to stand in the water in this buoyant state. The remainder of the lecture was his personal odyssey to try and learn how these men were able to do this.  He described his upbringing in a…

Beside the fact that I never camp, I am still not a happy camper. I have been putting off writing my ruminations because I feel like a lone wolf in the arctic, howling into an empty world with nobody listening. But alas, like a good fool who continually hits his head against a solid wall, I will get all my ranting out today and next week I will arrive with a more gentle Yule tide spirit. Many years ago I had the good fortune to spend some days with Ansel Adams in his house and darkroom. It was an era when photographic technique was truly a test of craftsmanship. There was a nuance to technique; one that would help exemplify one's own inner feelings. One's technical expertise was like a painter's expression through his brush work. A painter's choice of pigment and it's expression would help to reflect their inner demons or strivings. It was a further affirmation of their vision. As I was intense and nurturing a very critical eye, my needs were for deep rich shadow detail. I struggled for years with developers, papers, etc., to find the right formulas. My copy of Ansel Adams, The Negative and The Print became so thread bare it became like a sarcophagus that had dried out and would crumble into dust with the slightest touch. Over the years I would correspond with Ansel Adams, and finally an opportunity arose to spend slightly more than a week with him in Carmel, CA. At the time I was primarily a 35 mm and large format photographer, and my pictures aesthetically had very little relationship to his, but my technique was all derived from Mr. A. So I spent a good part of a long week with him, pumping him in his darkroom, at lunch, etc., with every conceivable technical question I could think of. He most graciously answered EVERY question. All his photographic history, experience and photographic life he was willing to share with me, and I listened very, VERY carefully. It distilled down to this. There is no easy answer. There is no pill to take the embodies you with technical and aesthetic wisdom. If you want to be a classics scholar (a.k.a a noble photographer) you must learn all the rudiments. You must learn Latin, Greek, and you must study endlessly. You must spend years with your craft and you must live your life and mingle your craft with your feelings. On occasion someone is so vulnerable that they can skip a few steps but this is a rare gift from the Gods. Life must flow in your heart and be regulated by your discipline and craftsmanship. So I say to the nice lady who wrote me a rather angry letter, that since it took only a few seconds to take a picture (not months or years like a painting) that my pictures are only worth a few hundred of dollars, not the thousands that I charge, it may have taken…