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.

All good things must come to an end.  All my photographic life I was obsessed with the compulsion to make my pictures as sharp as possible.  When I was a graduate student, I would spend hours working with all different types of films and developers trying to get the acuity of a 4x5 camera into the composition and film size of a 35mm.  This obsession with sharpness was not just because it was titillating and fun, but because I felt that the camera’s eye had a greater acuity than my own vision; therefore, I was able to see clearer and sharper with the camera than with my own eye.   The camera was like an extension of my eye in and helped in my attempt to get as close—philosophically, emotionally, metaphorically—as possible to somebody or something. And so, there was always this kind of dialectic: I always tried to see the world clearer and sharper, and as an end result it was never sharp enough, never clear enough, and never resolved enough.  It is probably what always pushes one forward, but it was always frustrating.  And so, probably in an ultimate attempt to kind of deal with it all, I decided to blur a picture. This picture, shot in 2001, is one of the early results of that.  Of course, it’s a lot easier to shoot like this than it is to shoot a sharp picture. On the one hand, this picture is in contradistinction to what I’ve been doing for most of my life. On the other hand, it’s a continuation of it.  If you look back on this blog to the picture of leaning house, you’ll see that the house has many entrances to it: you can go in the front door, you can go in the back door, or you can go in the side door.  In this case, I was going in the side door, it’s just not as readily apparent.

Unlike most of the pictures in this book, this picture was shot totally spontaneously. The experience taught me several important lessons.  We had just completed a shoot for Ralph Lauren and we were driving back to New York City.  On our way, the art director realized that we had yet to shoot a picture of a certain outfit. We stopped the car immediately to solve the problem.  Directly outside the car was this field. The art director said we needed to shoot a picture without showing the model’s face. At first, I suggested we shoot from behind.  For some reason, this was not acceptable. We had a canoe for the shoot that we had never used.  Suddenly, I came up with the idea to place the canoe on top of the model’s head.  This sudden thought was a combination of spontaneity, luck, and necessity.  However, unbeknownst to me at the time, there was probably also something deeper at play. For years I had placed hats on the heads of my subjects.  By doing so, I obscured their heads and faces, and these pictures inadvertently became more and more surreal.  This was not because I consciously or intellectually decided that’s what I wanted; rather, it was because I liked playing with the iconic image of the hat.  On the one hand, it dressed people up, finished the outfit, and made them timeless. But on the other hand, it acted as this obscuring object that made the person every man, as opposed to a specific person in time and history.  So, without even realizing it, I used the canoe as if it were a giant hat. I usually spend days scouting and finding the perfect location.  However, here we were obviously pressed for time, and we had to get this shot right away.  We literally took the canoe off the car, and placed it in the field right where we stopped.   This was a very important lesson to me.  While the location is so important in my pictures and I work so hard to find the perfect place, on occasion, I can take what is given to me and make a great picture. This particular picture was totally fortuitous. We did not scout or permit the field; it was just kind of handed to me.  And to this day I really like this picture. Sometimes, days of preparation will not necessarily result in a perfect picture.  I have learned over the years to try to use things to my advantage.  I scout when it’s sunny, but it rains on the shoot.  The model is happy at the casting, and depressed on the shoot day.  The right clothes don’t arrive, etc. If you want to shoot on location, be open to the possibility of luck and chance. If this ability to not be in complete control is too bothersome, I suggest you stick to inanimate objects, landscapes, or accounting. Be open to complications and problems.  I welcome the rainy day, because I never…

Greetings.  At this moment, I’m feeling a little less abandoned than this picture, but not by much.  The spread reads, “Forgotten but not gone.” This picture was shot about 50 miles west of Calgary in the very rural farmland.  It’s a somewhat recent picture.  What strikes me about this picture is the integration of architecture, landscape, and figure.  I need to digress momentarily to talk about my early years as a photographer. In my early twenties I shot mainly portraiture and landscapes.  For some reason I always found my self attracted, or pulled in, to getting very close to people. This translated visually in my early years to photographing people face to face. I didn’t use a long lens to get close to somebody.  I would physically be close, and ended up photographing people mostly from the waist up. I never used long or short focal length lenses.  It was always a normal lens. If you want to get close to somebody or something, don’t stand far away.  I would either shoot close up portraits of people, or shoot landscapes. I rarely integrated the two.  Ironically, rarely was there a sense of place in my portraits.  See below an early example of my portrait and landscape work. Over time, and for a number of reasons that I will discuss at a later date, I began to integrate landscape photography and portraiture.  This picture is a good example of this integration of architecture, landscape, and the human element.  There is something about the disintegrating building that makes it a very important—if not the most important—part of the picture, as strong or even stronger than the figures.  This is a very modern example of years of shooting landscape, figures, and architecture, and integrating them all into a simple composition that all feels right. People often ask how I found this particular location.  The way I found this location is indicative of how I go about doing everything.  Two days before the shoot, an assistant, the art director, and myself drove hundreds of miles looking for appealing locations.  I happened to pass this place the day before the shoot.  I knew immediately I could shoot a picture there. I didn’t really know what the picture would be, but I knew that I liked the building.  I realized the picture had to be shot first thing in the morning, before the sun emerged from behind the building.  We planned this to be the very first shot of the day.  It was probably 6:00 or 6:30 in the morning.  The sun is directly behind the building, right on the horizon line. In another hour or two, the shot would be impossible. As always, finding the right location is the single most important aspect—and the most challenging—in creating a photograph.  It is often days or weeks of work to find the right place.  After that, making the actual picture comes rather quickly and easily.

Welcome to another Monday morning. It’s hot here in New York, but I am happy: this morning Blanchette Press completed final printing of The End and shipped it to the bindery. I have to admit that they have done a spectacular job with printing. So, it’s in high spirits that I will talk about this spread from the book. The text on the left reads, “Merry Leigh she rolls along.” This picture was shot for the now defunct Mirabella Magazine at an estate on Long Island. The inclusion of this photograph arose from the need for a picture of a beautiful woman. The thing that is attractive—or maybe even unattractive—about this picture is the following story. We used two models for the shoot: Annika, the girl you see on the bicycle who is German, and Marie Claudia who is Brazilian. There were three days of shooting. After the first day of shooting, I didn’t really get along with this German girl. She was somewhat standoffish and aloof. The Brazilian girl, however, was lively, gracious, entertaining and funny. I suggested to the art director that we only use the Brazilian girl for the last two days of shooting. Citing contractual concerns, the art director said we had to use both models for the last two days. I continued to shoot both of them, basically not really connecting with Annika. I don’t think she particularly felt a connection either. The result of the situation is rich with irony. For the most part, I’m pretty good at knowing what the pictures are going to look like when they are made into final prints. I don’t shoot Polaroids, which is maybe something we’ll get into later, so I have to get into a mode of visualization to imagine how the end results of the pictures. But in this case, I was completely wrong. Because I did not feel a deep connection with Annika, I felt that the pictures of her would not turn out. On the other hand, I had high hopes for the pictures of the Brazilian girl, as we got along wonderfully throughout the shoot. In the end, however, the pictures of the Brazilian girl were just okay. They were not really exceptional. However, the pictures of this girl, Annika were exquisite. She looks strikingly beautiful in every frame, no exception. This is very memorable to me, because I was completely wrong. Here I was, not really feeling a connection with this model, yet I could not take a bad picture of her.  This experience contradicted all my experience up to that point, and culminated in this picture.

I know your screen is small, and it’s hard to see the text in the upper right corner.  It reads, “We’re all in this alone.” This picture reminds me of something my ex father-in-law, the playwright Robert Anderson, once told me: “You’re always weaving; you just never know when you’re weaving in gold.”  This picture was shot very spontaneously on a regular day of shooting.  We had just shot the following picture in a field using this coat and hat. It was actually quite cool that day, so AJ, the model, was still wearing the coat as we were preparing lunch.  Just as he was sitting down, a workman from the stables where we were shooting walked by with this ladder.  Without realizing why, I decided to shoot a picture with the ladder against the wall. During this period, which extends to the present, I am so used to shooting the figure in a landscape, that it seemed incomplete to have a ladder without a figure. After convincing the workman to lend us the ladder, I placed the ladder against the wall and asked AJ to quickly climb it. He stopped where you see him.  It all seemed perfect.  I shot the picture. The whole process took less than three minutes.  The ladder was returned, and we went on to lunch.  It was not until after the shoot was over that I remembered I had even shot it. This seems to me indicative of other experiences in my life.  When I least expect it, and I’m not looking for it, when I seem to let go completely, something wonderful happens.  The more I trust my instincts—which are a combination of intellect and emotion—the more I like the experience. The more I hold on, the more fearful I become, the more controlling I need to be, the less I seem to get.  Particularly in photography, you have to learn to let go and trust your instincts. This seemingly offhand decision to shoot AJ on a ladder has over the years turned into an iconic picture of sorts. For many, this picture connotes looking into the future, or knowing what’s on the other side of the wall. It’s as if the figure in the picture has some sort of special knowledge that the rest of us are unable to access.  None of this was conscious to me when I shot this picture.  It may have been in my psyche, but it was not in my awareness. Another quality of this picture is its timelessness. Many people have often mentioned they are unable to place my work in a specific time period.  This particular picture was shot fifteen years ago, but many would not be surprised to hear it was shot last year. That is a compliment in my mind.  As I’ve written in an earlier post, I believe classicism never goes out of favor. It may not be au courant or fashionable at the moment, but it actually never goes out of…

Welcome back.  I have to admit, blogging, tweeting, emailing, texting, is very strange to me. I enjoy letter writing, so blogging feels somewhat familiar, but yet very strange. It’s as if I am writing a private letter to a public audience….Anyway, I hope you find reason to enjoy my innermost desires, etc. This spread from the book brings to mind several things. First: the picture.  It is quite old, shot in 1999.  I still like it. I have a problem with actually liking my pictures—it usually takes me a few years, or at least a few months, before I start to tentatively embrace them.  But this one, surprisingly, I liked initially. This photograph was actually quite serendipitous.  These are two very funny Canadian twins who are not really models at all, but agreed to model for me for a period of time.  Unfortunately, they no longer model, and this tree no longer exists.  It was an opportune moment to get all of them together at the right time. Second: the layout. Many people have commented on the fact that my books have type with the photographs. I have had to spend some time in introspection to understand why I fell that the right text, rather than limiting the photograph, enhances the photograph. I was an English and Religious Studies Major; I have a love for English and the literary word. When I was younger, I just assumed I would be a novelist.  I had the sentiment but not the skill.  Maybe this attraction to text with photographs is a leftover version of my dormant desire to be a novelist. Regardless, I have always tried to integrate some writing—humorous or straightforward—with the photographs.  As I am a visual person, design—how the text is laid out and how it relates to the photograph—is very important.  It goes back to that idea of classical thinking where proportion and composition must all fit together.  The text has to complement the photograph.  It cannot be extraneous, superfluous, or unnecessary.  Somehow, someway, they all must work together seamlessly. Third: Mr. S.  Over the last few years—in my books, on my website and in my newsletters—we have created a Mr. S character, which in some cases is a loose personification of me. Mr. S is an anachronism in the twenty-first century.  He is eccentric and original.  All things I strive to emulate rather than avoid

Well. Here I am. On the internet.  I am not so sure someone like me belongs here. I shoot film. I listen to Beethoven and Copland. I visit the post office daily. I relish my daily morning paper. But, technology calls, and I feel compelled to try and enter the twenty-first century on all four feet. I look forward to any comments or thoughts you may have about these spreads from the new book, even though they are small on your screen and the book is huge. Some pictures just sort of happen very spontaneously (think  Henri Cartier-Bresson) and others are very created (think Irving Penn’s still life portraits). This picture was created. What strikes me about this picture is the old adage, “location, location, location!” fused with “production, production, production!” This was originally shot for New York Magazine in the summer of 2008. The original concept was to create an essential New York picture and incorporate the great New York icon, the yellow taxicab.  That was my only direction.  The first step: location.  One of the problems finding a location to shoot 30 cabs in New York City is finding space, and then getting permission. After much searching, and several failed attempts, we found ourselves at 125th street underneath the west side highway.  The second step: logistics. It was a long and arduous process arranging to have 30 cabs at the right place at the right time, perfectly placed for a seemingly whimsical photograph. After that, shooting the picture was very simple.  The whole story was about this couple in love. Placing them on top of the cab was my idea.  Again, shooting the picture was the easy part.  Throughout my 40 years of photography, the hardest part is always finding the perfect location, and then the production involved in making it happen. The second thing—which has to do with photography in general, not only this one photograph—is composition. Composition is to photography what rhythm is to music. It is about symmetry and proportion, resonance between the photographer and subject; where everything fits just so. Almost like iambic pentameter in poetry, or natural cadence and body rhythm.  To me this picture represents not only everything in its right place, but also the right proportions, the right relationships, the right cadence.  Composition is seriously lacking in most photography in the 21st century.  It has been abandoned—whether due to lack of skill or lack of interest I’m not sure. It seems to me losing a sense of composition is synonymous to having an irregular heartbeat.