The Architecture of Cities: Just a Dream

June 06, 2024

Imagine Fifteen thousand blinks per day: 15000 moments in which I have missed a photograph: 15000 snaps I think about: Each day, every day I ask: so now what? So now what must I do. How do I recapture time and imagery that has been lost in my mind or absconded by thieves in the night, thieves in the day: Fifteen thousand amounts to almost four hundred million images I have not made in my life: Where have they all gone.

Imagine one thousand planetariums: Each punctured with with one million little star like holes: Now imagine tossing planetarium atop one hundred bilboquets: Your eyes freeze frame: your mind steadies: your dreams electrified: Imagine my naked retinas gathering stories: I cannot miss a single moment with all of those stars pointing me in one and every direction: I do not crave to capture: I crave to consider what I will capture: Time and ideas unfold: The aperture opens and shuts like light blinding darkness into light. This is the simple life of a couple of eyes examining what lives before you. Now imagine the joys of dreams.

The Glimmer that caught my eyes: Madison Square Park” #KPF Architects and #Related Developers

My little big secret: I love the life of a visual storyteller who chicken pecks with an abundance of ideas:Most ideas that will never see the light of day: The ideas live in my every visual moment: Those moments becomes a photograph: I must pause: Time hurries along my side: hurry I must.

There is the cinema’s spools of film making a clippety-clap-clap: There is a constant whirr with silence:

Black and white sprockets splayed like abstractions on the screen: They disappear before I can count one: The movie might have just completed: The movie is about to begin: All of my influences are imaginary: memories in real time either vanish or are stolen: fragments of visual tenses are immersed in cinema’s history. My secret is that my visual life is a constant reminder of what I wanted to be: A reminder of the shapes of things I have always wanted to be and see.

Architect #Odile Decq #Paris 8th Arrondissement

In no particular order I remember I am a disciple of many: I wanted my pictures to howl like Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo atop the bow along the Amazon: I wanted be the disciple of Orson Welles cinematographer Gregg Toland: I wanted like Toland to invent techniques that were not seen but were seen with awe across hours of screen time: I wanted to be a disciple of Charlie Chaplins cinematographer Rollie Totheroh: I wanted Rollie to share the best perspectives for filming people while exposing the audiences to moments of laughter and passion: I wanted to be so many people: I wanted to insert my eyes into their film cameras: I wanted to be part of one hundred or one million masterpieces: I wanted to understand the consequences and pleasures of being brilliant and the consequences of being brilliant and failing. I just wanted to be part of moments that made me feel.

No matter the moment: No matter the architecture: No matter the design: There is no process: There is possibly a discovery of the seen and unseen. My eyes live in a constant investigation of a city’s, a planets’ behavior: My camera enjoys the discovery my eyes see and what my eyes may see. The ideas in my eyes change as my mind changes: My mind changes with every glimpse of something I have never seen before.

A Fragile or even a sacred moments lost is never heartbreaking: My eyes’ memory blinks 15,000 per day: quantify that in terms of not merely a day but a lifetime capturing what was, is, and will be.

The Architecture of Cities: Realities

May 30, 2024

I have considered that I have spent decades as an illogical architectural photographer:

I have considered that I have spent decades as a voyager who has embarked on many journeys to find photographs that will become architectural:

I have considered that I have spent sensible and irrational decades wondering what it might mean to be an architectural photographer.

I have thought about my conversations with Oscar Niermeyer, Ricardo Legorreta, Kevin Roche, Zaha Hadid, Paulo Mendes da Rocha, Kengo Kuma, Paolo Soleri, Richard Saul Wurman, Arata Isozaki, Santiago Calatrava and hundreds more. They may or may not be (according to folk-lore) what the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley referred to as the “best and brightest…”.But I do know their shares; a tête-à-tête eased my anxious: eased my needs to tear up the earth: they unwittingly propelled my mind’s eyes to see the practice of my photography, illogically.

Architect: Fuksas Shenzhen, China airport

The Kipling “IF” rattles my mind: If I were to partially morph into Kipling I would say: If I were to abide by his principles: If I could hear his gentle mentoring: if I might receive the gift of sensible sensibilities: I begin again.

My cameras’ ideas live: My brain has an abundance of compartmental viewing screens: I make photographs as if I am outlining visual algorithms: I make photographs that inadvertently abort the patterns infused by algorithms: I begin again.

The language of others often pop into my intimate reverberating cranial conversations: Sometimes it feels like prairie dogs on adderall: Sometimes it feels like Smokey Robinson’s wine infused full-throated falsetto cooing “ooh baby baby”. How does one compare hisself to himself when the visions for exploration live in a false dream? I remain an illogical photographer.

Science fiction is a fiction about reality: I am photographing what might be the real world to some: What may or may not be real is open to debate: I photograph for one entity or another: I reveal to a planet that what is seen in my camera might never have come to the light of day. A million other cameras travel the planet to recover and recall our built communities: Architecture’s architects sometimes fail to realize why the visual image is significant to our past, present and future: Again.

Architect: Jürgen Mayer: Building Mannheim, Germany

My visual thoughts often recall my voice/visual assistant Major Tom: David Bowie’s Space Oddity: “Ground control to Major Tom”, lives in degrees of my reveries: The call is something superficial: something so vital to the way ideas become realities.

Those who know me a wee bit understand that my mind often travels atop and along the ridges of the “bardo”(to borrow from Tibetan tradition and of course George Saunders). I follow a kaleidoscope’s path as I step into the heroic visions of past generations and the mastery of what might become.

Yes I can hear my assistant Major Tom: I know the balance of what may be best is part of the visual quest: The rules of visual algorithms need to be adhered to: The physical and visual context are everything until just possibly a hosts of visual revisionism’s come into play.

Tales are tales: but the truths that lie front and center are deliciously true: Those truths become my photographs as reality becomes science fiction and science fiction becomes reality.

Now tell me what you see.

Architect: SANAA. New Museum, New York City

The Architecture of Cities: Shapeshifters

May 23, 2024

Santiago Calatrava Architect: St.Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church and National Shrine:
I photographed the church before “September 11th” and Made this image recently

The oasis that was once Africa:

Travel is neither romantic nor adventurous: It is biblical: It is about a past not yet seen. It is about a place known as our planet: I have grappled with the significance and pleasures of my photography from series and series series of historical compositions and recitations. My mind is filled with dog-eared reminders of where I need to be while history’s moments are still jewels: I am not writing a memoir: My eyes are about my memoirs as moments.

Elsewhere:“If you understood everything I said, you would be me”[Miles Davis].

What happened before history became history: Before there was a Congo there was a quieter landscape: The recitations of In Paradisium might not have been heard. But what if you dream in loud volumes a bit; What if with a bit of romantic clarity you realize that In Paradisium was possibly the antecedent to “The Saints Come Marching In”: What if you march alone in the footsteps of history’s Kingdom of the Kongo: What if you are the only one who can hear “The Saints…”.A past that can transport your dreams and mind across the globe but maybe within a few feet of your front door to discover what you are looking for: not elsewhere but here: I am drawn to the minds’ map of past, present and future reveries.

Jeanne Gang’s Aqua seen in reflection: Chicago

Anticipation is equal parts a celebration of what your eyes dreamed about: A disappointment that your eyes expectations were not met: I have had so many episodic dreams; and they all suffer the fate of what I was hoping for and the everlasting “is this it”.

We admire discovery for many reasons: Our hearts and minds dream of what it might be like to be first: I have always thought about when people like David Livingstone or Sir Richard Burton arrived at where they wanted to be: It is not their memoirs nor biographies that tell me my truth: it is their eyes revealing every step that led to when they arrived: There can be no measure of how the mind receives the eyes impressions.

When you are alone in mind and place, there is no such thing as an intellectual or emotional lighthouse warning: I wish there was.

When I am using any type of transportation it invariably means that I am energized by the almost stillness of a sundial: everything in the vicinity of my mind feels like a maelstrom of images and ideas: Nothing is moving as fast as it should: everything is racing by me too fast to appreciate: I am anticipating the unknown experience: I am frightened by the movement of the light of the day: I am frightened by what may become my moment: I am frightened by what failure may feel like: I slap my internal sundial to make certain it is not yet a corpse nor am I.

I have celebrated the idea of elsewhere and the anticipated psychosis that saddles up to my eyes as arrive at what may be.

Imagine being embroiled in The Battle of Dorking everyday you mount an offensive to find peace to snap a capture: Fiction, fiction and more fiction lies in my mind as I approach a heralded piece of architecture: So many dreams are ensconced in my mind: So many recordings play round and round in my memories: The minds of generations: Do I remember what what great minds from the architectural design discipline shared with me? Zaha Hadid told me? Do I remember what Jacques Herzog, Kenneth Frampton, Frank Gehry, Oscar Niemeyer, Kengo Kuma and so many shared. Why is it important? Motivation is the accelerant that appeases my angst, and gets me through the anticipation to capture: allows me to capture what I may anticipate.

Renzo Piano’s ‘The Shard” in reflection (ergo the lights in the sky” while waiting for my moment

Why The Battle of Dorking matters? Because a story about all of our future truths is our “lighthouse warning”: something is out there: It isn’t fortune-telling: Shapeshifters live around us and possibly through us: they disappear into the landscapes and our minds: the camera has to be prepared for how our world is altered before our eyes by all of the natural elements: the world is filled with shapeshifters of every kind: I am prepared to experience the joy of engaging greatness, and the measures of disappointment.

I race to capture the moments: what remains is just that, a moment.

When I am alone in the Kingdom of the Kongo’s valleys and deserts, there is that memoirist’ moment.

The Architecture of Cities: Between Two Winds:

May 16, 2024

There is a fairy tale that I often share:

In some ways I have likened my life capturing images to a life and death battle with an octopus: You know that moment when the sea is filled with darkness and the octopus grabs an ankle as you are trying to lift your head above level to make that snap:

How important can that moment: what extension of your mind does it take to make a visual capture: There is both a task and a battle ahead.

In my world I have to deal with at least two winds: My mind is coordinated to imagine: The surroundings that are most natural engage each and every antenna: I need to focus on the natural forces of the known environment to execute a moment: What might the known environment look like:

REX Architect: : Perelman Performing Arts Center Meets One World Trade Center

The southern winds deal in fathoms: How deep is necessary to see what I need to see: What depths do I need to explore before I can see beyond what the photograph is and what it can be: I feel the lure of the Venus flytrap’s silky lip atop the Mariana Trench: slightly encumbered by the fast and taunting Dumbo Octopus, Frilled Shark, Dragonfish, Fangtoothe fish, Barreleye fish, Vampire Squid: I reach deeper towards the deep: Certainly there is not s definition of the deep until I have made a capture:

The northern winds deals with the unfathomable: From above celestial alien armies consider unimaginable attacks on the known planet earth: How high must I reach to discover something not new but more importantly not yet seen. I reach upwards to see and feel the necessities of finding an image: Two converging worlds as if shaken but not stirred together inside an ornamental glass snowball: polemic universes imminently collide: Each day I embrace the needs to make as many snippety-snap-snaps as possible before I can no longer avoid the brains’ inevitable chemical combustion.

The meanings of sanity and madness live in every freeze frame. I have had dreams that become reality: Realities have many times seemed like dreams: Discovery isn’t always what you might have hoped for: I have since before birth imagined that I would create a new cool as Miles Davis had.

I did and maybe always do dream of what “The Birth of the Cool” would mean in my captures:

I thought at one time and I am sure tomorrow I will feel again, that landing in Rio, Dhaka, Belize City, Copenhagen and New York was cool.

I did think and possibly in the future I will continue to think that making photographs like my heroes W.Eugene Smith, Bill Brandt and Man Ray was and would be cool:

One hundred years later I realized that what is new could be cool and what is cool could be new: in the end I am me.

Time intervenes sometimes as a friend and foe: I never know when the a moment interrupted will make or break the momentum I have collected to make a capture: But time created an illogical connection for me: Thematically my images have become some sort of study: I am a victim and a survivor of the discipline and life study portrayed in my own “Gorillas in the Mist”: To understand my ideas, I needed to understand my cameras’ idiosyncrasies. What mattered, I realized, was that cultivating a way to see and a way to make an image became the only visual gift that I will die with: how does one die without living:

There is an emotional and visual transparency that tags along with me from day to day, image to image: It is as if there rides with me a polyphonic symphony of visual sounds: a collective of ideas from science fiction movies overlap the history of science fiction literature as I wander: I wander in film freezes: I wander around moments that will be stories: I hope it never stops:

New York City: Tiffany’s Interior by Peter Marino and Shohei Shigematsu

I am constantly addressing the new in architecture: New is not necessarily what has been built today: new is a force of discovery when you engage something aged or as the “star child” from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Something mesmerizes your camera as it appears seemingly for the first time: Possibly it is only new in this light.

I emphatically share the “two winds”. A photographer alone in the fields or the avenues is constantly pressed for time and ideas: Even when there are none: there is a crush of information and desires that compel the eyes to look for more than poses before your eyes: Then we’ll see.

The Architecture of Cities: A Bit of Fantasy

May 09, 2024

There are the …ings ( buzzing, stunning, and living) that some may imagine. Then there are the …y’s (Dreamy, beauty and fantasy) that might come to mind.

There were two naked bumble bees inside of a lab Petri dish. Their furs had fallen along their backsides as they seemed to expose their nakedness: This was the bee hazard: a form of dancing that appeared to be about twirling around a maypole: This was a moment of natural erotica not yet seen by this human eye.

I have made portraits of a number of scientists: Some “Nobel’s” and other extraordinary characters: But the one who remains a fixture in my mind is Geerat J. Vermeij, a Paleoecologist and Evolutionary Biologist: When I sat my camera down to listen to his dreams that were realities I began to understand what seeing means in life and photography: Seeing is a way of participating in the minutiae and the universes’ collective of galaxies:

Geerat is blind: His brain had a pyrotechnic event as a young boy: he lost his sight but transferred the senses to his brain and beyond: He can land in almost any part of the world and grab a seashell among the oceans wake and identify the seashell and the geography he postures in.

Photographing someone who is blind is a fairly facile assignment: Then you must try and understand: There is no truth to “an easy” photograph: Blind or not, who are they, and what are they trying to say is a human condition still too complicated to master with my camera.

The funny sad reality of my photography is that my mind lives among an abundance of hives: I am listening and looking for direction: Directions that are manipulated by the way sounds drive the camera to pay attention: Directions on where to look:

No structure living within the tiniest or most gigantic footprint is literally sitting there by itself: Waiting for its closeup, waiting to be discovered. To make something awaken within your camera frame: there is extensive existential investigation: an examination of the existing properties: One must discover what should remain in the frame.

It is possible to imagine walking in the shadows of Beatrice Potter: She was and possibly remains the caped queen of fairy tales. She enthusiastically nailed the grooves of the mushrooms/fungi natural habitat: Hustling with intellectual clarity she made drawings that fascinated and lived like a metaphor for a life not experienced: The world is colored: My world is filled with color: there is a bit of fantasia in my everyday if I allow for it.

My camera mounts an assault on a image to be made: Like the Potter tales collectively living among the masses of nature’s realities: architecture lives amongst us with tales of equal history and mystery.

Kengo Kuma’s Tokyo: A view from a Kengo Kuma Building

I think about those tales and where they for me originated: possibly retreating back to my very first time on rue de bac in Paris: I stood nestled between the curvature of the street and the ( DEYROLLE, a Parisian cabinet of curiositiesDeyrollehttps://deyrolle.com › products › deyrolle-a-cabinet-of-c... ) Deyrolle taxidermy display of creatures that will never breathe or walk again. The windows that are home to the natural and unnatural like the Glasgow Hunterian: Or maybe the Ponte Nossa Church where a five-hundred year old crocodile dangles from the rafters: (The Hunterian - University of GlasgowUniversity of Glasgowhttps://www.gla.ac.uk › hunterian Crocodile at the Santuario Madonna delle Lacrime ...Atlas Obscurahttps://www.atlasobscura.com › places › crocodile-at-the-...

Meeting up with such magnificence is a pronounced celebration: Pieces of history’s natural order or nature’s Darwinian lineage, is still never a eureka moment, but a powerful quiet understanding of what my camera must see going forward.

If you are looking at architecture any other way than a biological examination of the planet, then you might be missing the essence of not just the built environment, but the biological design of our lives, our cities: The cities are mechanisms: they function as a place like a hive: the buzzing is quite frightening and joyous: The life we engage from street to street: boulevards to the highways is what maintains for me a certain amount of sanity: It ain’t “Walden: but maybe something more reflective of who we are who we were and who we might become.

I see pictures and what I want from them: Cities shape architecture: architecture shapes cities: In the end, I dream that I will remain hopelessly curious.

The Architecture of Cities: To be Fearless

May 02, 2024

Fellini: ”…I am not directing the picture the picture is directing me: I only have to follow the picture…”

The dawn to midnight dreams begin: To be a nomad in the Cascadian wilderness: to arrive atop one of earth’s extraordinary mountain ranges.

Do you remember Steve McQueen straddling his motorcycle in the Great Escape: He throttled the “bike’s rpm past seven-thousand while contemplating the unattainable. The great Mountain Goat elevating his eyes atop thirteen thousand feet: poised cloven hooves and muscular calves and thighs sheared to near nakedness: Portraying a fearless agile ability to scramble: his eyes saw the unattainable was with in reach.

I have two or three dreams in hand that I have promised myself: I would not die gripping those last gasping grasping dreams before realizing the best that my photography has to offer is near.

Lifting my eyes: I was neither a precocious or ferocious child: I think from day one I tried to roll the dice and see where they may fall: The Bumper Car challenges at the Pacific Ocean ParkWikipediahttps://en.wikipedia.org › wiki › Pacific_Ocean_Park amusement park was a last man standing event: No bawling allowed: Maybe that was when the lightbulb went off: How does a photographer manage a populated dense environment: Years later in cities like Mexico City, Dhaka,Tokyo,Sao Paulo I realized my childhood bumper car competition was a good primer for my life competing with the eyes of billions.

Philip Johnson and Mies Van der Rohe: Seagrams Building New York City

Then there was the Go-Cart racetrack: an urban desolate neighborhood where one could pretend to be somebody going fast to nowhere: The track was designed like a faux LeMans track: It was a nine year old’s dream into adulthood: Maybe Carlos Castaneda or Oscar Niemeyer began as well to dream at nine:

I had not thought of becoming a photographer then: I realized then that to win races I needed to look ahead: beyond the turns to navigate and comprehend what my eyes might see: Funny thing about the photographer’s skills to see the picture or the world beyond the moment and into the past and as one might suggest back to the future:

One may race the Oval track at The Brickyard in Indianapolis The cars are fast, and the skills apparent: Does one need to race in a circle like a hamster to change the way you see: does a camera see anything separate from the light before the twilight presents the end of the race: is there an elevation of vision that one might see evidence of fresh perspectives.

Debates are sometimes about converging and diverging ideas: The most beautiful Formula One Race track is possibly Belgian Grand Prix - F1 Race - Circuit de Spa-FrancorchampsFormula 1https://www.formula1.com › information resembles possibly a collection of secrets no matter how practiced you are at every turn: “Wow”! A mouthful of great visuals come to mind: Racing at great speeds: putting your life on the line to win: what a photographer needs to do to see what is beyond the next corner: to see where the light takes the camera: to live at at fast speeds not to get somewhere: but to live an experience before time runs out:

The game is only to live in your mind absorbing what is possible: but warp speed is what is necessary to get to those places so you can make the necessary determinations for what the eye may see.

A photographer spends a life time with a bob and weave move: He is at once Joe Frazier and Mike Tyson: protecting and attacking at all cost: Fearless comes to mind: feeling the danger and feeling the joy of being in the moments while chasing what you have not yet seen.

New York City 42nd street: Chrysler Building and…

When I was becoming a photographer I was like a minor August Sander: I was merely recording contemporary art history’s names and places: Moore, Miro, Noguchi, Dekooning, Warhol, Basquiat, Haring, Johns Lichtenstein, Cage, Cunningham, Bourgeoise, Krasner, Frankenthaler, Motherwell, Koons and thousands more: I was a recorder of time in my time.

Those images today look like refugees from another era: unbeknownst to the youthful eye I was having conversations with light: a child playing magic tricks with light.

Today, I pursue the light of architecture and architectures’ light: The influence growing up a photographer with artists minds in tow was a magical experiences Today I am recording a different type of reveal: I daily espy a constant splay of cinema in cinematic light: It only exists in my eyes: I will try and continue to share my visual experiences rounding turns and chasing Mountain Goats and the unattainable.

I have measured my heroes for a lifetime: To use the word extraordinary is not an easy utterance or a mere passing thought.

There are foot prints across cities and continents that may never be seen nor filled: This is the point I have realized that my photography is only partially about my camera: it is also about places and times never to be reconvened:

The numbers of a worlds’ disciplines that are homes to greatness are innumerable: Miles Davis trading with Coltrane: Ali sparring with the entire human race: Whales breaching across the Seven Seas: My Mountain goat teetering on life’s future end: These are good places to start.

How do I see this world: How will I capture a moment that lives in our future yet to be and in my history still not made: So lets continue:

Architecture of Cities: Truman Capote

April 25, 2024

Truman Capote is dead: The Slow loris observer of New York in modern times:

The magic is in what will be and certainly what was the night before: The moment begins with the arrival of the yellow taxi in the midst of a misty dawn;

The hovering mist waited not in the chords of Moon River, but more in John Cages ’4’33’: (John Cage once infused my mind with a tea teased with an herb or two: He begged me to listen to the silence). The shapely shadows formed by the morning sun impatiently waited to appear:

I remember Capote for many things but mostly for ”I am always drawn back to places where I have lived…”: Truman’s descriptive presence, visual stimuli encapsulates my past, present and futures in the unexpected : It is almost as if Capote saw Darwin’s evolution pinging between an urbanism imaginary sequences of time: Schulman and Golightly through a glimpse into a reflective black pane of glass saw their lives: It was a dialogue about needs: for me I morphed for a few seconds into natures’ Slow loris: My eyes widened as if my irises were magnetized to take in a history of visual experiences in a single frame:

I have been influenced by thousands of films: Breakfast at Tiffany’s is particular for me because the first thirty seconds or so not only highlight the talents of cinematographer Philip Lathrop e.g. (Touch of Evil, Cincinnati Kid, Point Blank) but moments that encapsulates narratives of my photography dreams:

For decades I have seen myself standing naked alongside Audrey and Holly: They both stood wearily remembering their dreams: The reflections show both women in Givenchy: But who wears it best: Holly/Audrey: tilted sunglasses: a nip at a pastry: a sip of coffee: the mere blackness Tiffany’s window holds framed for posturing: eyes momentarily laser in on the unattainable: dreams dance like water nymphs swimming within our life’s expectations. Thirty seconds of film doesn’t make a lifetime: Photographers are built to dream: to dream and to capture:

The Moon River that accompanies our eyes is not merely a soothing facilitator: It is about a passion for something that will unpredictably play in your life ahead:

When I photographed Kirk Douglas, I wished that he would have declared “I am Spartacus”. He will always be that power to the tenth for me: When I first saw Michael Caines Peachy in Kiplings’s The Man Who Would be King, I knew that a dream needed to be had not in life; but in the photographs I would need to make: Where would all of us be without Quixote: But then where would some of us be with out having seen the chords of Miles Davis rhapsodize are place and dreams: My end game is not to merely make photographs: the streets hold more mysteries than answers: my captures are merely present to illustrate the mysteries: People, places and of course architecture.

To this day I am amazed that a mere paragraph of Capote, a mere thirty seconds of Breakfast at Tiffany’s reminds me that I feel alive in a city that can feel like a continent of jungles:and I am a mere Slow loris living the life as if Jimmy Page was my personal minstrel through my cities.

The Architecture of Cities: The Primary Colors: Yellow

April 18, 2024

I have hundreds of thousands of visual diaries archived away. I am much more of a visual dreamer than I am a visual diarist: Maybe I am mostly a lion tamer of visual captures.

There is a primal scream that no known creature can hear it: The scream is engaged to a moment when I espy a capture: That moment will never be seen again in the same light: Then I feel the tingle: Then there is my yellow.

Photography’s vocabulary often sounds like a Winnie the Pooh cast of characters: Pooh, Eeyore, Kanga & Roo, Piglet, Tigger, Rabbit and Owl: somehow auditorily echo photography’s Saturation, Values, Hue, Red, Yellow and Blue. It is only natural that since my visual dreams live in a fictional world, my camera techniques must mimic an animated world of “disbelief”.

I am neither a scientist nor a mathematician: I am certainly not a realist: My problem with reality is that a mere six words enliven and dictate the science and math seen in the art of photography’s possibilities: I spend my mornings into my nights making pictures from dreams that may live beyond my time: I need more than six words to make captures.

There is yellow in architecture as there are yellow whales: A twenty-foot Cuvier beaked yellow whale was seen diving three-thousand feet into the darkness of an ocean: The intended dinner menu was a giant octopus with eight tremendous arms. As seen from a planet near Saturn the yellow whale appeared like a shooting star amidst a galaxy of seas as the octopus was schooning for safety.

The rare sighting sometimes invokes my own visual captures: sometimes I see something real: sometimes I see a fantasy in my frame: either way if truth be told: I have many dialogues with my cameras: How else would I capture the truest sense of what a photographer can be. My greatest confidant is myself:The voices in my mind triangulate between my ideas, my dreams and my captures: I know that all creations, all inventions and everything that begins with “A”: Anthropology Archaeology ,and Art continue with, “is there more”. There are a ton of nutty minds running around: How many admit to such lunacy.

Photography’s primaries: red, blue and yellow: enable my eyes to elevate my abilities to the tenth power. Yellow whispers: I am more interesting than red and blue: Yellow guides my eyes as I swim with my yellow whales: My eyes espy “The Yellow Submarine”: The yellow stars that fly above billions of Chinese: The yellow glow peyote induced spiritual reality experienced by the Great Plains Indians: Comanche, Kiowa: Cervantes’ Quixote struck out towards dreams beyond the yellow sun: The soft violent yellow mix of smoke seen enveloped in and around “Hell’s” notion of destruction of the World Trade Center “after the fall”:

Sometime in my past I saw the words on a book “I Am Curious Yellow”: Sometime after that I heard a minstrels’ Mellow Yellow: My eyes locked on to a vision of creamy icing waves highlighting the Hawaiian Island’s amber sunsets atop my Chantilly cake.

Presently Google Offices: Previously Hangar for The Spruce Goose

Yellow is a life force that brings a focus to my camera’s eye: Yellow will become an imprint that stays with me for lifetimes not yet lived.

I tip toed upon entering the California coastal Hercules IV airplane hanger for the “The Spruce Goose”: I glided atop a Tokyo subway station of illuminated steps: A glint of yellow begged my camera for the five-thousandth capture of New York’s Flatiron Building: Sir Norman Fosters’ Gherkin was seen as in a trapezoid with vaguely defined lines:

From Asia to Europe with stops in between my eyes see primary colors as a subject: Maybe that subject is the proliferation of vibrancy in my photography.

Century’s of art and architecture have formed how my vision could be: As the film of tears swims across the retina and more …I have realized that the colors of my photography, the significance of the color of photography never wavers.

Maybe it is my landing in a new city: Maybe it is revisiting an old urban friend: Maybe there is a blindness in my future: Maybe I make a duet dance among colorful prismatic displays of colors because as a science fiction writer may suggest: Because my whales await.

Sir Norman Foster’s London The Gherkin: 30 St Mary Axe and Swiss Re Building

The Architecture of Cities: Past and Futures

April 11, 2024

The Architecture of Cities: Past and Futures

True story: The second time I thought about my life dancing at sea with whales, occurred after my experience with CERN: My head felt like it was in an intergalactic vise made from an accelerating collider: I stood a few feet into the Atlantic Ocean: I faced a whale a few hundred yards as the “crow swims”, head on.

The solos of Miles Davis rarely heard played to my heart the way a whale might send songs across the many seas: To anyone who might listen, it was not the heart that heard the soaring melody’s but my eyes:

There is nothing literal in my photography: images are shaped by the possibilities: The sounds of whales in my present future is seemingly possible

I have posed my camera in front of many fabulous architects: Niemeyer, Piano, Hadid, Kuma, Mayne, Ando, Gehry, Foster, Ito, Prix, Johnson, Ban, Venturi, Nouvel and hundreds more: The notions of how they, I, see our built environments present and past have been absorbed into my cameras like a family of ghosts sharing generational ideas through the centuries. There are many rewards gleaned in these experiences: My dreams will one day pass on or die: I need to work harder is apparent, not in life but in the moment of the capture: My dreams may make my pictures: My eyes and body must continue to work overtime.

I have been thinking a lot about the cost of photography: Not the bank($) but the time to make a picture: today, most photographers spend hours in front of a screen or with the hours attributed to a specialty lab making the photographs successful: “ya gotta do what ya gotta do”.

I have always known at first glance which picture might work best for me: There are two agendas: The one that makes my heart flutter: my eye lashes shiver: The breezes that bring my body upright. The Great grey owls’ eyes become mine: My eyes lean into the moment: the moments that need to be captured: My dreams have been actualized: the eyes say aye. A funny thing about metaphors.

The second course of action: agenda: where there was none: If I am willing to sacrifice my life there is a reason to make a capture: Yes of course there is no reason to leave a life behind: But just maybe the exception to the rule is a capture versus a future: not for any legacy nonsense: But to learn how to breathe new life into todays’ moment and possibly tomorrow’s:

I needed to make a picture of a building: Yes I could have used a drone: Yes I would have spent hours in front of a screen determining the values of an image:

I received permission to stand outside of a window on 57th street and Madison Avenue: Yes! To a bit of the crazies: The picture was for a book on the Pritzker Prize: I felt I needed to make a picture that could not have been made unless I extended the frame of my body a few feet off the ledge: Eyes bent like an animated “Road Runner”: Tarzan nor all forms of simian cousins could challenge my shrill as a couple of toes mimicked a scene from The Crawling Eye.

Was the experience worth it? Oh, absolutely! Was the photograph successful? Oh, absolutely, maybe.

What is it about the eyes of a singular voice that make architectural images pronounced: Just maybe the voices of others that fuel the visual discourse: The privileges I have experienced by spending camera time with a percentage of the best architectural minds of the twentieth/twenty-first century? Or has it been the flourishing joys from the likes of Henry Miller, Goya, Bill Brandt or ten-thousand other cultural savants.

What is it about the spectacular future: What is it about the spectacular past: It doesn’t matter: I have spent a lifetime fusing into a single entity the spectacular of the new/future and the pasts’ beauty of the present future into designs of architecture that reign supreme in my consciousness:

If there is such a thing as “most important”, I have noticed that the spectacular of the new: newest material or shapes of design reigns supreme. My attention has been fused into a single entity: The significance of the past and the beauty of the present/future grips my passions:

My Great grey owl espies its prey: My whale winks with a nod for a future encounter.

Architecture of Cities: Primary Colors Something Blue: Frank Gehry

April 04, 2024

Frank Gehry sat by my side: Frank looked like a cat on a hammock with a Cheshire grin: The “cat” whispered: “let’s roll”.

The two hour train from New Haven Connecticut to New York City Grand Central station was possibly an imaginative reality: There was and is always an illusory frequency of highlighted cinematic rewinds in my mind: In this moment The Trip to Bountiful : Driving Miss Daisy and Strangers on a Train enter my guileless mind. Most photographs I make are related to a cinematic or music influence: The dreams I have in my virtual life making pictures is a dream within the reality that I might see:

Frank Gehry’s eyes reminded me of Geraldine Page’s in “A Trip to Bountiful”: Peering out the trains window, his eyes equally soft and electric that danced within his genius mind as if he was seeing a newfound landscape: He was more than eighty years of age at that time: His youthful past met head-on his aged architectural prowess: I of course was the Rebecca De Mornay character: yes, yes different genders: a train instead of a bus (but age appropriate). Geraldine, Rebecca, Frank and me became a tailor made play for present futures and past dreams: So we shared on our Bountiful road trip a bit of who we are on the inside that those on the outside rarely see.

Frank asked me if I had made any photographs of his “works”. So of course I pulled out my favorite of the dozen or so Gehry’s I have photographed. He whispered as if looking around stealthily: “I have never seen that angle before; why is that? I told him he has probably walked by that location one-hundred times: The blue probably deceived you: It is the color of design and this case the blue that blinds most people: The building being a space gray, the heat rays from the bright twelve-o-clock sun has an oxidation that is seen but not recognized:

I tell Gehry that I have always thought of this image as a Star Trek Black Hole moment where the captain orders ”warp speed” and the ship disappears into darkness. “How come I don’t own that image: This is where he becomes Miss Daisy and I am the chauffeur Hoke: Well of course ( graciously)I would love for you to own it. “It is really beautiful” Frank says as we continue to look at more of my photos on my iPhone.

Making a Frank Gehry “pic” set the agenda for decades of my photography: All of my photography of architecture has had many layers of relevancy: History, footprint, place, time and more.

I realized with Gehry’s moment that the dominance of shape is enhanced by the shape of light and the shape of color: In the family of the primary colors, blue is the lowly cousin, the third child: red, yellow and some blue make up the spectrum that we see in photography: Well that is an approximation that I assume in my work: Somehow over time, blue became my steadfast omnipresent companion.

St Mary’s Cathedral in Tokyo by Kenzo Tange

My dreams suggest that I have lived among the Blue Whale sand the blue oceans they inhabit for many lifetimes: I have dreamed about blue sky’s not seen: My cameras have paraded among bonnets of blue bouquets: of Hyacinths, Marigolds, Periwinkle irises in tow.

Blue in all of it’s guises is the the most present color in the universe: Blue is the rarest of the colors that we know:

I live inside the bluest of Sapphires that mirrors my wandering mind and eyes. The blue melancholy of Coltrane’s Blue Train and Mile’s Kind of Blue whisper throughout my nights: My lens reaches out to make a blue moment: a photograph that will forever be seen and unseen:

We arrived at Grand Central Station: As is customary for strangers on a train: We parted ways with two things on our minds.

Feeling Good:

“…it’s a new dawn

A new day

A new life…”

Anthony Newley/ Leslie Bricuse

The Architecture of Cities: Walking Alone in Milan

March 28, 2024

Milano: Salone del Mobile Designed by Fouksas

It has been suggested that we should connect the dots from the past to the present: I suggest the present to the past:

When photography was new to me it was thrilling: I was never afraid but fearful of my curiosity: my camera was compelled to travel alone and peer down and across corridors: what was seen, never existed before that moment: my mind never had a story to tell until the eyes gazed upon the capture: what was not known became known when the shutter snapped.

My future is more exciting everyday forward than any day in my past.

My camera has become an encyclopedia of my history: and then there is always more.

Have you ever walked among the shadows of the jungle: the silent jungle lets out a scream: what is heard is the life and light of photography about to be: A lone person walks into an inhabited town: Milan: La Scala, cathedrals, monuments, Mussolini and more wave frantically to be acknowledged. They are posers that my camera has little interest in: If a city was only that without what captures the imagination then what would it be.

My feelings are interlocked in the details that captured my eyes before I blinked: nothing or nobody can be as remote and alarming to my sensibilities as Conrad’s “Kurtz” in Heart of Darkness: why would any discovery of self and city have to stare alone into the blackness of our minds? Maybe Plumpick in the “King of Hearts” film makes more sense to emulate: Some lunacy and confusion makes one ripe for new moments to be revealed.

When “aha” is bellowed from the rooftops the wonderment that steps before my eyes begs to be illuminated: The questions and reasons of a photographer’s purpose poses before the camera: The romance mo f photography is offered: Instead of “I am Spartacus”, for a few seconds I am Plumpick: My camera is my King of Hearts: My mind is swimming in animated nightmares: Only today do I look back and know that my decades have been a dream. I dream as I think I capture images as I dream

“Oh. I’m sleeping under strange, strange skies

Just another mad, mad day on the road”.

Rolling Stones: Moonlight Mile

Quasimodo rings the bell: I constantly whisper to myself to listen for the signs, the vibrations: the electrical vibes that signal the brain to “look”:

I discover the city as if floating through an aquarium naked for only the fish to see: I glance into the exhibitions as if I am peering through windows of discoveries like Christmas on fifth avenue or a laboratory of one thousand petri dishes floating in a petrified forest: The make up of what the city has been and might become hide in plain sight: Intimacy is an underrated word: My lens has never been about the spectacle of the grandeur: The capture of the intimate designs of the grand and of the small has attracted my lens for most of many decades.

I align my heart and lens with the songs of the whales of the seven seas: the currents carry the songs: We only know about the sounds if we listen: The sounds may travel great distances but they are intimate choruses that are heard by a few: It is how I reflect on my captures: They are part of cities universally: intimate images exist only if they are heard,captured.

Some things new will be old: They will live among treasures that I sometimes remember:

I dream of dancing naked among the whales to celebrate what my eyes may capture next.

Architecture of Cities: Primary Colors: Red

March 21, 2024

I have deliriously stitched together corners of a literary universe: somewhere between Laurence Sterne and Joan Didion, I have relentlessly pursued five hundred years of sentimental journeys of passion.

The most ambiguous question I have ever asked myself is: “Can I commune with my camera”. Or is it may I?

I am never sure if I am aware when and why I am communing. What poses before me I am certain is a capture of the heart: I constantly remind myself that the wonders of our histories are out there for the taking: the capture.

I adore the idea of communing with my past and history’s past: There is something about finding refuge in anothers’ past and integrating it into my present: It makes the photograph like a hub of a web connects a spiders’ universe. Before I was me I admired the minds and moments of others who communed with adversaries and ideas that in most ways are unmatched in our time: Aristotle communed with Alexander the Great: Aesop communed with fables: Thoreau communed with Walden: Kipling’s “…would be King” Daniel and Peachy might be my favorite example of communing: Oh for good measure, Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Yorick’s skull: Cervantes’ Sanchez and Quixote makes sense as well.

It is merely a maybe that Ken Kesey’s communing with LSD reminds me of Brancusi’s communing with nature as he marched from Romania to France: is there such a thing as the bawdiest of communing?

I remember when I was one of Henri Matisse’s stark red naked dancers: My mind was joyfully filled with memories of photography’s history: My equally responsive habitués Roger Fenton, Charles Marville, Eduard Baldus and possibly one-hundred more joined hands with me, and have done so for decades: Their works triggered in me something about “happen upon” a capture is an elixir that has stayed with me for some decades: Learning to discover is what heaven is about.

The primary colors of photography: red, yellow and blue reside in my eyes: I utilize the colors as if I am conversing with the science of my photography: everyday the conversation changes as does the prominence of color that poses before me: I cannot have a favorite color: the spectrum of light and color is what makes the fun of my photography more engaging and equally elusive: I want to capture something or anything desperately: objectively it is difficult to always see what is before you.

London School of Economics and Political Science

When a single color winks at me from something hidden in plain sight I am ecstatic: When the color is integrated with the architecture at hand, I feel I have won some sort of victory: When I get to utilize all of the primary colors equally I feel as if I have won a victory.

My efforts to succeed do not know any limits: I have photographed buildings in zero degree temperatures: I have stood in five feet of snow: I scandalized myself by standing in a flood of perspiration as I begged for a sliver of shade in one-hundred degree weather: I have challenged all of the elements of a day and a night to make photography what it can be:

My entire career has been about how I commune with my friends from dancing naked across the planet and how I have found a voice to share with my camera.

“…If I want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself”.

Rudyard Kipling

Architecture of Cities: Places to Pray

March 14, 2024

Common prayer

The camera is an extremely subjective tool: The camera’s photographs are not objective: It is the eyes behind the camera that see what should be framed: those eyes can never see the entirety of what is in the frame: That frame is a funny truth: The truth can be mesmerizing.

Sometimes I hear the sounds of prayer: Sometimes I imagine the prayers are about salvation, hope and desires. I don’t know why I think this way? But why not.

I stand alone armed to expose what I see: Sometimes I will shoot the sounds that I may see: A mass of congregants can seem quite like John Schlesinger’s finale in “Day of the Locust”: or maybe like Terrence Malik’s pageantry of lonely willows of grass in need of company in “Days of Heaven”.

On more days than I would like to remember I have been truant from what I may call my photography regimen: I am lured sometimes by the sounds I do not hear but know they are to be heard. I merely imagine what billions of people are attracted to. I begin to feel a tonnage of guilty pleasures as I am trespassing into houses of prayer: I have no intention participating with the gods, priests or rabbis: I just want to photograph the sounds.

I have traveled to hundreds of cities with the intentions of photographing urban landscape and the voices who have created the way a city looks today: Imagined sounds of prayer touch my eyes: I am lured across cities and continents to where billions before me have gone: My camera travels past the native grounds of the Navajo: The churches that dominate Sugar Hill in Harlem, the synagogues of Florence Italy: The mosques of Istanbul: The temples of India and the gatherings in Samarkand and Bukhara. I have stood before Rafael Moneo’s Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels in Los Angeles: I have gazed across 155th street in Harlem at the Greater Files Chapel Baptist: The Oldest Synagogues in New York wait for my return on Yom Kippur: Central Asia listens for when the American will return. I have photographed the kingdoms of prayer: The “houses” are not always about the greatness to behold but the beauty of the moment: the beauty of the travel: the beauty of merely being somewhere that offers a place to dream. I have made places of prayer an entire narrative: A volume of architectural world history.

Houses of prayer are more than curiosities of light and scope: the buildings are equally among the most and least conspicuous vivid examples of religions realm: To own a camera that travels the planet: To have a camera that can bear up to the eyes that ask “why is that camera pointed at me” is a an enjoyment that needs no explanation merely a smile.

An infinite amount of snaps are heard as I pace between the shadows and lights that make my photography: I live and harbor dreams inside of an emotional pendulum that play tricks on my memories and my realities:

There is no snippety-snap-snap when I am making these pictures: the houses of prayer devote their space to the practitioners and congregants. I point my lens: light and shape that reflects my capture. There is an empowerment to see: I often dance naked on top of whales of the seven seas: I celebrate: I acknowledge that I will never breathe long enough to see enough.

“Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood”.

Nina Simone

Architecture of Cities: In Transit

March 07, 2024

Transit through time is how I remember my past until I reach the future.

My photography of architecture often engages transportation: Wading through undulating waves, experiencing time travel. From the waves’ crest to the trough, I have sometimes seen unparalleled landscapes and urban landscapes. Crafts of known and unknown transport have transformed my experiences as a photographer.

It is as if everything important is seen in the vastness that is Antonioni’s The Passenger.

Ironic imaginary soundtracks from Judy Collins’ Leaving on a Jet Plane and the Byrds’ Eight Miles High pervade the skies like auditory hallucinations are what I could expect to hear: There are no songs, no sounds just mere privacy: time is precious: it races onward.

I have been saucering my entire life. As a child I imagined I was an adult: As an adult my heart is betrothed to my childhood: My eyes and heart are tethered to my past, present and future.

My mind meanders along a circuitry of dreams: Undulating waves rise and fall before me: Rod Serling’s A Kind Of Stopwatch doesn’t exist yet: I am transported across continents in planes, trains and more. I have seen the skies and mountains tangle from Zurich to Haldenstein: Moscow to Samarkand: Aspen to Albuquerque: St Moritz to Nice, Los Angeles to Vancouver: Nonstop journeys.

The places in a way don’t matter: I can dream about travel and record something in my mind that will have that indelible moment printed somewhere on my brain.

But what about the chickens, cows, pigs, Major-Generals, lieutenant colonels who have bunked alongside me: The experiences from the smell of funk across plane cabins, train cars and a cog in engine buses that have transported my mind transported my camera : travel is a love too great to ignore.

Photography dresses up my life: I prance along the edges: My camera accompanies every prance and all dance.

My favorite pictures in my camera come from saucering: Transported while the rhythm of transit undulates atop the earth and below the underground: Into the horizons and atop the crests and troughs of the built world.

The fabulous perspectives make my eyes come alive: the capturing spirit has seen cities seemingly fly by: unidentified structures I can’t get close to seem magical: I dream of these of dreams.

Would I jump from the transport to achieve a better “snap”. Would I get my boots stuck in three feet of mud for a better explanation of what I am looking at: would it make sense to self examine how I see while I examine how to snippety-snap-snap? Possibly.

The Thrill is Gone doesn’t exist in my camera: riding over the Swiss alps, through the Honduran jungles and teeter-tottering over Big Sur is about neural pulses: “electrified”.

I have imagined to make photographs feel like Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s “magical realism”. It is a reckoning: that I have not yet cultivated: It is merely what arrives in my mind as I stand alone in cities of thirty million, or deserts with not an echo in sight.

Making photographs of the constructed environment the constructed footprint is an adventure:

Everyone has their “whale”. Mine starts with my imagining a sighting of a dorsal fin: From there everything and anything is possible: I try to make photographs that are the beginning of the story.

The Architecture of Cities: Entire Cities

February 29, 2024

The Pope visited New York City 1979 on Fifth Avenue

Aristotle seemingly whispered: “lift your eyes:

The past is behind you the present is almost the past the future is near:

Lift your eyes and show me what you see”:

Looking up is the end of the moment, but how you get there is what the photograph may be about:

Not a single picture begins until you lift your eyes: then you elevate your gaze:

Sometimes my eyes consume entire streets, boulevards and avenues: The history is self evident: the process takes moments I have not been able to count yet. But I might estimate hundreds of thousands of snaps make for a career’s mosaic.

Imagine my ears like a caffeine infused amused lynx’s twirling to the fabled told tales by Mark Twain: Imagine my world following the closing pages of Will Durant’s “Civilization”:

From the moment I arrived in New York, my camera has seen thousands of days of daylight and evenings.

The Empire State Building on Fifth Avenue

The New York I know has throngs of people passing by every street corner: Taxis, buses and subways maintain a tremble throughout the day.

Richard Strauss’s Sprach Zarathustra fills the air: Stanley Kubrick, the fledgling photographer genius filmmaker quietly addressing the photographer’s speak: Lift your eyes:

The camera pans Fifth Avenue: The Guggenheim is a distance: Tiffany’s is near: Bonwit Teller was razed: St Patricks’ Cathedral is a few arms stretched: Atlas, sculptural reliefs and Rockefeller Center hover: What else is amiss?

I never saw the Pope:

The land spreads beyond wide angle proportions like the desert crossing in John Ford’s The Searchers: The eyes have it: It is amazing when the unexpected becomes the purpose: The sounds that turn the head: The required gait like a jacanas toeing atop the lily’s: The fixed lens seeing when to snippety-snap-snap.

Everyday in some fashion I continue the cinematic gaze, the pan east, south and like an owls whirling neck back to the west and around.

I have with excruciating pleasure begun to realize the captures that are necessary: They are moments in time that I may never see again.

I have kept an old fashioned card catalog of dreams: Those dreams on occasion become reality: At some point those dreams will have an expiration date: My archives are alive in both my dreams and in my reality:

It was never a process: It was about steps:

I was making a book about architecture: I had a list of buildings I was to include: The list was pieced together by the publisher and advisors: I had to choreograph my days not just in New York City: I managed to travel to dozens of cities: Each city had an invisible clock: Fifth Avenue in New York subconsciously was my visual template for seeing not so simply a building but the light and spirit of a city: When I arrived in the mornings, or the evenings I couldn’t merely approach my destination and shoot: I had to capture entire cities in one hour: I had to understand the rigor that each city had to offer: The directions the stars pointed?

Every city is never the same as the previous: But all cities beckon: Copenhagen, Berlin, Stuttgart, Barcelona, Tokyo, Moscow, Paris, Rotterdam and more: 2001: A Space Odyssey’s“Strauss” continues to could be heard across continents:: Aristotle whispers: The clock ticks:

I often stare across cityscapes and landscapes when my agendas are completed: My mind rhapsodizes about my captures: It is like a drug induced psychosis: I am remembering the most recent photographs: The photographs from decades: the train windows reflecting images: the locomotives’ interior spaces: The “…scapes” that I pass by: One image in my mind frames a lifetime: a million miles of traveling for photography: Millions of miles for more.

Architect #FumihikoMaki WTC 4 in New York :: No longer in view from this Fifth Avenue angle

The Architecture of Cities: The Beauty of Looking Up

February 22, 2024

The Beauty of looking up:

The earliest examples of some portrait photography were about the essence of gazing into the twilight lives of others:

The most significant recipients of a photographer’s exposure were beautifully executed studies of a subjects gaze: The freeze, the subjects had to undertake early on was part art, part scientific experiment: if the image moved it would be blurred: so there was this study in an unintentional way of the life in its twilight years:

I understand a bit of portrait photography because I at one time had made thousands:

I always liked the notion of the subjects “gaze”. I do remember fondly Irving Penn’s portrait of Joan Didion: This exuberant silver toned image: beautiful does not appropriately apply: the framed study was beyond: I remember the silver tone, but I also remember the gaze.

Today two hundred years later, the portrait gaze is still significant.

57th street: The Solow Building New York City

Architectural photography is about a different beast: The captured image is about the photographer’s gaze: To examine a moment in time that will be lost forever if not for a reflexive snippety-snap-snap. When the photographer sees the assumed edifice of his intentions he might acknowledge it as an otherkin or mere brick and mortar: he considers the needs necessary to shoot, the needs to be snapped: If the photographer turns his head for a fleas second and returns to make a capture: what was felt in the initial capture may be gone forever: The photographer may say till death: “the one that got away”.

There is rarely chaos in architectural photography: Sometimes there may be a note of pell-mell: an infusion of creative passion: We must all adopt techniques that the science and tools will allow: the tricks are numerous: The art and execution desirable: Where to go next: How to see next: But what is architecture without the photographer’s gaze:

The measured photographer embraces a photograph like a lab technician waiting for atoms to disperse under the microscope: He sizes up the landscape: He acknowledges the footprint: The gaze absorbs ideas: a particular moment is elevated: Imagine sleeping naked with a snow leopard.

Photography’s marriage of archaeology or anthropology might seem a bit convoluted: The photographer may merely espy the reflective qualities and considerations: but there is more:

Every urban or rural development stands in a history’s moment: the history of yesterday will reveal something about this now, but what will it feed us about tomorrow.

We are swinging in a continuum of change: the question for this photographer is: how do I reveal it: Digging a massive hole under the Empire State Building? Excavating documents from a decade or a century past: Impossible: The gaze is not a peek: The gaze is about why I am seeing:

I look at architecture: l consider the possibilities:

One day my parachute fluttered above my head: It seemed like a mess/flock of birds

spirited away in slow motion: At first I tired of the look up: Then I caught the sound of wings below: I laughed with laughter: Two black birds sweating like athletes in training hovered an arm or two away: I looked down and across the sky as if I was one or more of the perspiring crows or sparrows: I nodded with a bit of ho-hum:

I realized that the infinite that lives inside my lens while looking up reveals something more: Maybe this is where astronomy lives in my mind: somewhere up: Maybe it is through astronomy where I learned how architecture could be captured: Looking up is about more than architecture it is quietly about our universe above: Possibly my lens possesses a communing of the stars and dreams in one frame.

Maybe in some eyes I sound like William Wharton’s Birdy: Something compels me to fly while merely addressing the values of seeing through my lens: to put your mind at ease there is nothing psychotic, just a dream in my reality.

All of the materials, all of the surfaces on this globe and beyond are my canvases: My eyes stand before me: Everything looks so inviting: What might I do: For the moment, I will take a picture of what I imagine is there: From there I will see what else may be captured:

“And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.” (Robert Frost)

The Sherry Netherland Hotel meets Apple Store on fifth Ave

Sent from my iPad

The Architecture of Cities: New Cathedrals Part Three

February 15, 2024

adjacent to the Pompidou Art Installation by Jean Tinguley and Niki de Saint Phalle 1983

Nary an eye can see it.

Not even a “Moon’s eye” can see it all.

A glimpse is just a glimpse, a glimpse is just a glimpse: I wish I could remember what I remembered yesterday. That is what most people rewind in their mind’s recall.

It is very personal it is very universal: You leave your parents to become an adult: Your parents pass and leave you as an adult: what glimpses of your past do you recall.

The art of architecture and the architecture that is home to art are edifices of cultural delirium. To the moon and back there is so much to see and absorb that objectively it is impossible to remember what we have seen today or yesterday. Details are funny evasive components of everyone’s history.

It is one of the great apocalyptic events that implode in our brains.

The day that I communed with Velasquez and Goya was not about the art: I found a particular position in Madrid’s Prado, where my eyes could simultaneously cross generations and centuries to caress Spanish art history.

Most often I catch a glimpse of architecture as in Nietzsche’s espying a side view glance:

It is a mere glimpse of something to follow: the glimpse you capture as you leave for another: you hope that what was essential to the moment, is essential to the capture: the synaptic connections that bring our heart and history (a history in nano seconds) into one focus.

I remember visiting the home of one of the father’s of photography: Nicéphore Niépce: It was in Charon-sur-Saône, France: What a rush of memory and history staggers the body but enlivens the spirits: You step into history like a surfer steps in liquid: awash with the pleasures of the past and the rush of the moment: The passion is alive in you: It is saying hello: if you don’t feel it then, your body might as well be cold.

Was I in the home of the the very first photograph ever made: possibly: I have always realized I wanted to be part of history: If this is where it began or even a second cousin, what a fabulous time to inhale all the microorganisms that have lived and died in this (now) musee.

Then the cavalcade of stars dance before your eyes: if photography’s history means nothing to you, so be it; but if it does, count the great lives whose DNA began here in France.

I am a romantic when the passion pushes me: but if not to connect here then to where.

To this day I remember exhaling seeing the Niépce with a glimpse into what would become my past.

I have entered the cathedrals of art and architecture to embody something bigger than I am: When did I realize that architecture is anthropomorphic? When did I first witness an edifice morphing from stone to skin and flesh and dreams? Was it in Charon-sur-Saône or was it to be in Rome’s The Galleria Borghese.

In both places I could feel below me the shattering shifting tectonic plates across continents: I stepped into not hallowed ground, not a place of worship but the home to the delirious ghosts of art history: “Wow” is just a word that appears as a bubble in the clouds.

Museum of Modern Art: a Caler over the steps

When I write these odes to places that have swayed my heart, I always hear the white asylum straight jacket snap me tight: The Borghese’ Caravaggio’s and the Bernini’s came to life: I knew I was where I needed to be: I captured a glimpse.

My mind does not register a single artist who reigns supreme: there is the experience of traveling across countries and continents to experience a glimpse: the moment you realize that you have been where others have been: But you saw something more: a living breathing anthropomorphic edifice that may be home to something more precious than the then or now;

Delirious with pleasures that are mine: I have caught a glimpse that is mine:

Even the “Moon’s eye” never embraces the entirety of our visual experience: but what a joy to merely share a glimpse from our time.

Architecture of Cities: New Cathedrals Part 2

February 08, 2024

My story has always been about the about the Moors and Romans. My story has always been about Charlton Heston and Kirk Douglas fighting the just fight: They fought side by side (albeit) in different films:

My hurried education:

Sophia Loren and Jean Simmons were my muses before I was old enough to know…

Cultural wars were beginning to say hello.

I look back in time and douse the years in calendars from yesterday and tomorrow.

What’s the difference where and how are minds amass time:

I had, one day completed the dystopian novel; A Canticle for Leibowitz when I realized I needed a hero to place the reset button in my mind: I needed to take the deep breath and cheer for heroic deeds. I am pretty certain I wouldn’t be making images of any kind if it wasn’t for El CID and Spartacus.

Herzog and de Meuron Parrish Art Museum: Water Mill New York

As you can see my childhood’s visual playgrounds to my professional endeavors was not too big of a leap: My life has been an attempt to make a cinematic narrative with each frame my camera sees: Not necessarily to tell an heroic story, but to certainly make photographs with every efforts I have in my body: My camera’s aperture opens, my mind makes a movie.

Everyday I find myself landing at my own caravan serai: It is a place in mind in spirit where I play in my mind the past and future passions for architecture. Somewhere in the distance I can hear the straight-jackets.

The calamity and dystopia A Canticle for Liebowitz played in my mind has somewhat vanished: Obviously youthful memories don’t die.The calamity of a dystopian world needed to be shaken from this youthful memory banks: I am well aware that the romance of epic battles and storied adventures influenced me to the hilt: But just maybe so did the cracker science fiction I saw in The Blob.

My memories don’t always correspond to the way I dream: But I find just satisfaction in the greater tales: What is the point in telling stories about architecture without mingling fantasies. The fantasies are much more present in my reality. I am not certain when the written word tickled my brain a bit: Facts and fictions have danced numerous tangos throughout my mind: Language and my visual appetite have become grand companions while adrift: Adrift hunting for the camera capture.

When I am with my camera, I am alone. When you are alone in the world, it is not what you know, it is about what you don’t know about the world. This is when you lean forward, lean as close as you can: To what may be the truth in photography: Not in what I may see but what I know I feel.

I have mapped out many approaches to photographing architecture: I have at times felt equally like Rommel and Patton. I have drawn maps across continents to the nth degree: I have tried to be practical crossing every line of longitude and latitude: Unfortunately I am an amalgamation of dozens of mammals in heat: My entire circuit system goes into overdrive as I near my intended capture. I wish I could master the laconic Sam Spade: But you need a certain amount of verve as you make your approach:

The Pritzker recipient Eduardo Souto de Moura dropped me off at the Pritzker recipient Alvaro Siza’s Museu de Arte Contemporânea de Serralves: I knew these two giants of architecture are great friends: Eduardo thought enough of my stay in Porto to share what he referred to as his mentor and friends’ great accomplishment: For me entering was like entering a modern cathedral:

The mass of Renzo Piano enthusiasts referred to the intimate Beyeler Foundation almost as a cathedral of intimate prayer: Ernst Beyeler was very curious to see how I might capture this quiet collection.

Almost every architect I have met has had a voice in how I might interpret their creations:I realize the most about my eyes when my hand is held and pointed as if I was a Wirehaired Pointing Griffin: a bit shaggy and determined.

Alone and lost in my mind and on just about any map, is when my camera is at its best: I take pictures to find my way: I take pictures to find myself: There is always a shutter clicking when I hear the word “suddenly”. I have found what I have been looking for: Frank Gehry motioned forward: Richard Meier motioned forward: Both architects embraced the photograph that had not been taken before: This Madhatter has found his way: Not the road taken but the single frame that defined the significance of cross-crossing the globe for architecture.

Architecture of Cities: New Cathedrals

February 01, 2024

Palace of Legion of Honor: San Francisco

I remember inhaling a firestorm when I first landed in New York City. I remember every next morning I needed the hair of the dog: Not from too much alcohol but to savor my intoxication: I had a drunken fever: Tomorrow I will live some more.

Nothing measures up to the begging: gasping exhortations: is merely the internal self pleading:

There is no substitute for a lifeline: there is not a lifeline that grants a life that dreams in reality.

Dallas/Fort Worth Museum of Art; Architect Tadao Ando

Many people have traveled to more places and seen more than I have: For me it was this insatiable quest: I couldn’t be first somewhere I merely wanted to be anywhere.

The remnants of the firestorm left behind dreams not yet mannered: Dreams that I can point to: For one day that became more than ten thousand I dreamed I became the art world’s Albrecht Magnus: I thought to chronicle everything art in my twentieth-twentieth-first century art world.

The afternoon in Uzbekistan’s Bukhara was not a dream: I walked into the tiniest synagogue on this planet: there was a painting:

The morning in Saint-Petersburg’s Hermitage wasn’t extraordinary until I realized I was the only living walking eyes in the entire collection of galleries.

In Bukhara there was a mere masterpiece: In the Hermitage there were a thousand masters of the universe that left me gasping.

Rome’s Borghese Caravaggios were not mere entertainment: I heard my echoing footsteps: I saw Bernini’s dance the Watusi: For an afternoon I lived inside a fairy tale: I literally bowed to the greats as I exited into Rome’s summer furnace.

I stood alone frozen in Tokyo’s Modern Museum: The Samurai posed in European castles: The Japanese idols seemed so alone: But I was with them.

Klimt was alone in Vienna’s Leopold Museum: I sat on a bench with him: Neither of us moved.

The Prada’s Goya and Velasquez danced a pas de deux: I stood alone: I dreamed alone.

The places I inhabited for art in hindsight were merely a directive: These were places: fifty countries and thousands of creations/articles set aside their days for me to experience: I was alone.

An illusory caravan transported me across nations: It has been quite a ride.

I think the first part of my camera life was a means toward and end: The architectural cathedrals that were homes for art later caught my breath: it was the collection of edifices popping up in my mind like an opening sequence to Games of Thrones: That is what I remember most acutely. My days of rubbing my cheeks on the canvases of the Post Impressionist was coming to an end.

I realized I was standing naked in front of naked buildings A fantastical universe was staring into my eyes: my future was clear: I was given the tools and the heart to not only realize analog images of some of the greatest examples of centuries of architecture: But buildings that speak beyond art, and yet are art in my camera:

I see why I landed in New York so many years ago.

I remember Lina Bo Bardi in São Paulo: I remember the Maeght Fondation: I am begging to remember continents and buildings large and small: They suggest a vision that started seemingly after a dream that I haven’t had yet: The buildings were not blurry, but my memory of them is slightly blurred after an optical surgery: Maybe slits and slats prevent me from seeing what I need to see: The colors never seemed to be bright and emphatic like the dilated virile saturation following the optometrist touch.

After awhile I began to come to terms with myself: I began to see: I began to feel like a naked Buddy Bolden: My camera was playing sounds that only the Bayou could hear: That is when I began to retrace my steps: return to what I over abundantly and possibly unnecessarily bellow the “Cathedrals of Art”. That is where my visual education arose from.

I wanted to honor those moments: Now landing on continents, countries and cities made sense: It was about art, now it is the art of architecture:

Now I feel most comfortable like Being There’s Chauncey Gardiner: Tending to his garden is my life ahead tending to the photographs I need to make.

The Architecture of Cities: The Midwest

January 25, 2024

Peter Eisenman’s Wexner Center for the Arts: Ohio State, Columbus Ohio

Catnip: Catnip is one of the many pleasures that move me throughout my career: I find it in thee discovery of light: I find it in the adventures of landing on. New planets: I find it in the evolution of my work: I find it looking back at the many decades with a camera in hand: I find it in tomorrow.

I always wanted to feel like George Bowling in Orwells’ Coming up For Air: I wanted to see the canopy of trees and feel the air enroute to the south of France:

I wanted to sit in the Ferrari as the basketball player, Wilt Chamberlain raced one-hundred miles an hour through the night across country: He would regale me with his basketball and women conquests: I would feel the awe of America at night:

I wanted to be sitting alongside James Bond as he drove the French Atlantic coast after a night of clandestine activities and just a few martinis: The Bentley’s top down, the morning ocean spray alerted me to the pleasure of the endless life on the road.

I wanted to sit in the front seat between Thelma and Louise as their car was just about ready for lift off over the forever cliff: I wanted to experience the delirium.

It is what photographers get to do: dream about what they see, dream about dreams.

I was just about to land in what I refer to as O.E Rolvaag land; I for many years equated Giants in the Earth novel as my Midwest.

Some years ago I was driving alone on the road. A city boy pushing his car through America’s Midwest was part Stephen Kings’ Children of the Corn and part the essence of Americana: Worlds’ Fairs. It was a bit of humbling fun to make fun of what I didn’t know and what I may never know: The Midwest: My first professional foray into an American foreign land: I cannot remember the exact order, but I was zig zagging through Cincinnati, Dayton, Indianapolis, and cities in between before a two and a half hour rally drive from Fort Wayne Indiana to Columbus, Ohio.

Michael Graves Hanselmann House: Fort Wayne, Indiana

I was doused in catnip: every blink of an eye was a photograph: for a few seconds I was the photographer W.Eugene Smith shooting the portrait of the Country Doctor: He made his way through the tall grasses…But this is what catnip does, it stimulates your electrolytes, receptors.

I arrived in Fort Wayne Indiana to photograph Michael Graves “Hanselmann House for AIA Twenty-Five Year award:

The house was hidden amid a cluster of Sassafras, Pine and one Black Walnut tree.

I was alone in the shadows: Some may say it is special to have a house to photograph alone and alone: There are sights and sounds: There are the Children of the Corn and other psychological frights. I wondered how Bojangles might have navigated those initial steps: So I danced: Alone in the house I remembered that I had photographed more than half a dozen Graves works: Somehow this less imposing built house seemed the more important: putting history into perspective: award winning architecture is a reflection of a greater achievement: standing the test of time.

My efforts produced more frames, but also a concentration that might only be best understood as an homage to the architect.

So as I drove off from Fort Wayne to Columbus Ohio I wondered why so many fabulous architects made something brilliant in the Midwest: The Midwest was their special studio. Oddly China became a similar platform for the best of a certain pedigree of architects: the platform to be the best of what they could be.

While alone on the road there is a certain sound of music that you can’t hear. You know it adds speed to the propeller s that thrust you along the roads:the back roads: and the roads you inevitably get lost on: To be or not to be: I am lost, do I call for help: I am lost do I seek out something new: The pleasures of the music that you cannot hear makes me dance.

I arrived in Columbus, Ohio: My mind was filled with a card catalog of the “Prairie Writers”. My mind was aloft in the country fields watching time. I had pulled up to the gas station: It was also part five and dime and hardware store. While my gas tank was being filled I went in to get some nourishment of various importance.

I noticed a giant window attached to a local ice cream parlor. It was like looking into a Pee Wee Herman rehearsal: Lollipop colors as far as the eyes could see: A rotund couple wearing matching candy colored “tees”. Their ice cream cones were subject to some sort of abuse.

I made my way to Ohio State’s Wexner Center for the Arts. It was designed by Peter Eisenman.

Not a soul to be seen. I have never seen people in any of the pictures by others. It made me feel as if this is what is meant by the prairie lands: the expanse and the beauty of America laid out for my eyes: Standing in the midst of the open, is a new architectural church: I am not a critic, so I never offer an opinion on such things: Say what you will about the quietude of being alone with your thoughts: The music still plays on: Snippety-snap-snap. What I believed to be a contemporary moment in in the Midwest’ bucolic bliss.

If the Midwest had an ocean near by, I would live somewhere near by.