| Statement
My disability status is that since 2010 I have been totally blind. Earlier there was a 20% bit of sight in one eye, now gone.
In the late 1980s into the early 1990s after graduating from the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan with a BFA in art history and photography I accidentally became involved in what would be a ten year journey in commercial photography including such luminaries as The New York Times, Bergdorf Goodman, Martha Stewart, etc.
I have been positive with HIV since approx. 1982, asymptomatic until 1992. My commercial career ended suddenly when I was overcome by a sudden HIV related stroke that also took away 80% of my sight due to untreatable CMV Retinitis. It took one year and a half in St. Vincent’s hospital of learning how to walk again from scratch and coming to terms with my continued sight loss. During my time there I was able to record each incident that was to occur. Those notes became the basis for the first show of photography post sight loss. I was back home in my studio not far from the hospital. Much to my joy when I returned to peaceful surroundings I still had an unexpected internal sight that I was so excited about. When I finally laid down on my bed I had been away from for so long, I passed out asleep fully dressed with my feet on the floor. Waking up the next morning, it never dawned on me that the clarity of my sight would come so strongly from inside. It was a wonderful secret. Never being one to stay still I located my large format camera that I always thought I would use some day but realized it was time to put it to use now. Back home in Morton Street studio I realized with the help of my friends and family and partner I would still be able to realize my potential to be the artist I had wanted to be when I started college in 1980. Most all of the inspiration including the titles for the photos came from my time of great reckoning in the hospital, then back home diving into the life history and work of our great American transcendentalists, Emerson, Thoreau, Dickinson and Whitman. They gave me the words that would instantly create images in my mind and become the staple of the exhibitions that were to come. The people who were enlisted to help me visually illustrate these words were patient enough to trace my hand over the very large camera that had an 11x14” ground glass. I could never fully trust any of these beloved people to see what I saw inside, so they were patient enough to use my hands and fingers to make sure I felt what we were photographing and it was perfectly balanced. What at first seemed like a great drawback became the strength of the photographs. It was hard to describe my earlier style, but giving whomever was assisting me simple geometric description of what I wanted to be the final image. The result was a quiet peacefulness that seemed to be well suited to go into the future with.
I started this journey when I was 11 in Connecticut, like so many other photographers, with my plastic Diana camera. Even then at the age of 11 in 1971… I set out with my sister to my grandmother’s garden to create a picture of the Venus de Milo instead of looking for a picture that was already present around me. I had to step away from some of the allegory that I loved to create in order to make the commercial work that was assigned to me. What I did take with me from those assignments was the ability to photograph almost anything for the client and make it beautiful. Some very frightening things happened during my hospital stay, and I realized after a while of creating my first show that it was not possible to reference these events without putting them through the filter of beauty I learned about during my earlier career. I created still-life and portraits and self-portraits that poured out of me as if from a broken dam. The process of cyanotype seemed like the right one to resurrect with natural ingredients and low toxicity. My generous friends with a gallery in TriBeCa believed in me enough to suggest a very challenging date for a show. I was sorry at first that the pictures were blue due to the 1840s process, but to my great joy I realized the color had a very strong emotional effect on the people who came in throngs that night to be supportive of my efforts…
Every time I tried to use a different process even difficult and beautiful ones like albumen prints made with gold, egg whites and vinegar, it was inevitable that someone at a show would ask if I was still going to make the blue cyanotypes. I guess I felt I had a mandate, and then went on to have a dozen shows over the next few years in Manhattan, then around the country, and eventually in great art centers in Europe from Frankfurt to Rome. It was always a wonder to me the way people reacted to what I thought were pictures made for my friends and family. The pictures enabled me to share my loss with the viewers that saw my work. They were allowed to share their feelings with me in a way that was unexpectedly nourishing for everyone. There was so much passing away and damage done to so many people in the community; it seemed like creating things of beauty with an underlying message of loss, grief and struggle was a universal message. As I traveled around the country with these shows it became clear to me that for people of all ages, feelings of loss grief and struggle were universal, not just contained to my community. This all became clear to me some years later. When some time later I look back at how well received my imagery was, it was clear to me that the communication was instinctual. I didn’t really realize what exactly I was creating.
As things quieted down after many museums and collectors worldwide were inspired to acquire my work. I also had the honor of having a feature length documentary made by a Canadian filmmaker in 1999 that was shown in 49 cities around the world. There was also the opportunity to create 3 monographs of my pictures and most surprisingly to be invited to speak at major colleges and art institutions everywhere. I don’t think anyone will ever know how the photographs saved me from a different fate. I am here in the Catskills right now waiting out the epidemic. My 8x10” turn of the century Kodak Century camera is set up in my dining room ready to record the passage of these beautiful short days of winter. In the darkroom are about 50 sheets of film I shot with the help of my partner, Rey, during the summer and fall. People are so wonderful and resilient. I recently reconnected with the fellow who developed my film since 1994. I’m going to mail him these latent images to develop. I can’t wait to see them. I am hardly ever quiet except for when I am near my camera. Adding to the visual journey that so far has described my life.
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