"Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment."

Those words have been credited to Claude Monet.

Of course Monet never said those words. He spoke French.

Color has always confused me.



Instead of approaching color with a plan,

I stumble around until I find peace.

There is a beautiful image posted at Cascade Exposures
under the title
"Sometimes Water Flows Like Mist."

That turn of a phrase seemed to say it all.


I only wish that I had thought of it.


That phrase sent me back to the images that
I captured with that unexpressed thought in my mind.


And I smiled.

My first ventures out into the world of color involved taking slides. Many color slide films produced a vibrant color that I didn't know how to control. It was too much for me. I wanted to shoot color images that were more "black and white."

A dear friend had a portrait of her daughters that I've always admired. It wasn't quite black and white. After printing the image, the photographer used watercolors to add just a "little something." I wanted to make this technique my own.

While learning, I experimented with combining black and white with color in other ways.
Some black and white images seemed perfect for
using a touch of color to add emphasis or call attention.

Getting comfortable, it seemed obvious to try "graying out" a photo's background
and then highlight the subject with bright color accents.

That little bit of color seemed to create something new in what was formerly black and white.

This technique took on its greatest meaning for me when I was working with images
that I took at Dachau, the site of the Nazi concentration camp near Munich, Germany.
I vividly remember visiting the camp.
It was a beautiful Spring day, the weather was mild, and everything was in bloom.
The colors were magnificent.
Walking through the camp's front gates,
I suddenly felt the weight of the ground upon which I was standing.
The world changed. I could no longer see the Spring colors, the world became black and white. Walking towards a building, I was moved by a sculpture
that screamed the agony of the camp's prisoners. I took a photograph.
When I first printed this image, the harsh contrast physically upset me.
I was compelled to rework the image by adding color.

I felt a need to place flowers on a wreath to bless the memory of those who perished.

When I was in high school, over 30 years ago,
it was considered highly artistic to refuse to shoot in color.
I feigned artistry and followed suit.

At the peak of my self indulgence, I even took self portraits in b&w.




But the truth was that color confused me (it still does) and
I was terrible at seeing color and printing in color.
I sought refuge in b&w because it covered my weaknesses and helped me feel artistic.

I'd like to think that today, working with black and white has
nothing to do with how I view myself and
all about expressing something in the image.
There's a story in black and white that I cannot tell in color.
Some things are just better said in b&w.


Digital photography is wonderful but it has its traps.
I love the conveniences of digital.
I need to learn not to be handicapped by the simplicity of
clicking on a button and crossing over into grayscale.

Perhaps the term "b&w" is an overstatement.
It's not just "black and white."
Do you think of gray as a color,
or is it only a mixture of back and white?

And then there's the extreme
Taking an image and removing any shade of grey.

Not too proud to steal a good idea,
I tried this with the Brooklyn Bridge.

It's easy to get caught up in the attraction of color.

Thinking back on my life, there have been too many occasions when
something flashy caught my eye and prevented me from
seeing a greater, but more subtle, beauty.

Having been raised by immigrant parents in lower Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty holds special significance for me. My parents told stories of the excitement that they felt when they arrived in New York harbor and saw Ms. Liberty for the first time.
Her message called out to them.

In addition to the impressions made upon my by my parents, Ms. Liberty was a fixture in my life. On special family weekends, we took the ferry to Liberty Island, visited the Statue of Liberty and climbed to the top. In addition to these visits, Ms. Liberty was always there in the harbor. It just felt good to ride my bike through the Battery, look out and see her. She was my friend. I took different opportunities to photograph her and see her in new ways.
And one day she gave me the following image.

This shot awakened the deconstructionist inside of me. How far could I push this image and still have it be the Statue of Liberty?

Moving in another direction produced the following:

What does this all mean?
It's just fun to look at old friends in new ways.

Ok, I didn't really meet Andy Warhol.
I just saw him hanging around NYC a couple of times.



Warhol's recognition guaranteed an iconic place in the context of popular culture. His ability to deconstruct familiar images using commercial graphics just hit me.



I did in our family business was somehow artful.



The first time I saw him was at "Max's Kansas City. Max's was a club off of Union Square in lower Manhattan, one of the few reasons to go north of 14th Street (but not very far north). It was a very hip hang out. Lou Reed used to play upstairs at Max's. Matter of fact, the first time that I saw Warhol, Lou Reed was playing. I was in high school then, technically underage, but in those days anyone to walk into almost any hip club in the City.

In those days, nobody cared.


Warhol would hang out at a table somewhere in the corner. There were always people hanging around with him. I could swear that Keith Richards was with him once. I'm really not sure. When you saw a so-called "celebrity" at Max's, you weren't supposed to notice. That why the celebrities went there. And even today I feel odd about referring to them as celebrities.
Sounds like people who would appear on the "Lawrence Welk Show."

No, they weren't celebrities, they were "artists."

I once saw Warhol walking down Madison Avenue.
It was near Bloomingdales.
He was walking with a couple of beautiful model-like women.
He wore a wool sports jacket and a long scarf.
He looked at me and smiled.
I don't think he recognized me from Max's.