A Photograph Of A Woman Crying Tells

It Is No Accident That You Are Reading This. I Am Making Black Marks On White Paper. These Marks Are My Thoughts, And Although I Do Not Know Who You Are Reading This...the Lines Of Our Lives Have Intersected. For The Length Of These Few Sentences, We Meet Here. It Is No Accident That You Are Reading This. This Moment Has Been Waiting For You, I Have Been Waiting For You. Remember Me.

If I Indulge Myself And Surrender To Memory, I Can Still Feel The Knot Of Excitement That Gripped Me As I Turned The Corner Into Rue Mimosas, Looking For The House Of Rene Magritte. It Was August, 1965. I Was 33 Years Old And About To Meet The Man Whose Profound And Witty Surrealist Paintings Had Contradicted My Assumptions About Photography.

Taking The Photograph Is The Easiest Part For Me

I Still Find Doing Portraits A Terrific Challenge, But Even Though I've Done Hundreds Of Them, I've Never Stopped Questioning The Very Nature Of Portraiture Because It Deals Exclusively With Appearances. I've Never Believed People Are What They Look Like And Think It's Impossible To Really Know What People Are.

Then All At Once In Late August's Heat, Tall Leafless Stalks Crowned With Iridescent Pink And Purple Blossoms Burst From The Purgatory In The Earth. This Arcane Act Of Nature, Though Perceived By Us As Ordinary, Is A Manifestation Of Maya's Phantom Play, The Great Immensity Expressed In Every Way. My Garden Is The Universe. I Am The Universe. I Am My Garden. All Things Are The Same.