The allure of photographs probably beckoned the first time my eight-year-young eyes beheld a Playboy centerfold. Certainly I had seen a naked adult female body before just not one so gloriously posed, all her magnificence so openly displayed with a staple in her belly button. I remember vigilantly listening for the screen door to slam (my signal that an intruder had left the backyard barbeque) as I carefully paged through the magazine scrutinizing each lay out. Neither shocked nor titillated by the taboo that wasn’t carefully hidden, the compositions were artistic and tasteful, not the words of a child of course but something in me at that age recognized the appeal of a well framed shot.Fast forward to high school when I took a photography class that solidified my love for those moments instantaneously captured by a device that evolved from a box with a pinhole. One of the assignments was to use the camera to study a specific subject. By this period in my life, I had developed a fascination with architecture. I remember being whisked up to dizzying heights in search of gargoyles and other ornate gilding found way up in the Manhattan atmosphere. I can’t pinpoint on the chronology line when I became keen on black and white photos. I can say that it was James VanDerZee’s picture of Jean-Michel Basquiat that caught my eye. As I studied the figure with locks in his hair positioned like The Thinker, I knew the portrait would not have had the same effect on me had it been in color. Imogen Cunningham’s nudes raised eyebrows in her day, garnered approving nods from me who now recognized that a tastefully disrobed body positioned just so could also be erotic and sensual. And I will not soon forget holding a $4000 vintage sepia photo taken by Fan Ho. The 1957 image of a sail boat in the waters of Hong Kong, moonlight reflecting yet unseen, lured me into its shadows, made me wonder if a mysterious being lingered waiting to meet me in the dark of the floating vessel.
My interest in pictures that exquisitely preserve a single second in nature began when Ansel Adams personally showed me his landscapes. Exposure to his exposures gave me an appreciation for places and spaces I had yet to visit, encouraged travel. Andy Goldsworthy opened my eyes to the unexpected outdoors all around me prompting me to carry a small camera on my person years before my I Phone became de rigueur. But there is a professional whose name is not world-renowned, at least not yet. His visions make me see a new view of the familiar;
my adoration of flowers blooms more brightly on each occasion that I am fortunate enough to peruse his countless catalogues and files. Through his eye I witness the perky wonder of fresh baby buds, the elegance of fading brown edged petals no longer erect with life. I was able to articulate the span of the human cycle of birth to death through a continuum of his pictures that made me weep. Seeing them hung together as an installation in a pediatric facility proved that pure beauty really is ageless, defies the grip of illness, can never die in the eyes of one who loves what he beholds.No matter how many times I go to the studio, I am sure I will never see all that
the lens of Bert Shankman has captured. I am thrilled to have a bouquet of his work in both my home and office, giddy to have discovered a parallel between my collage goddesses and his blossoms, and was so honored when he named the sepia-toned image to the right after me. It won him an award; he is a gem. You will surely be remiss if you don’t visit Bert’s site as the three images he graciously allowed me to post only represent the thousands he has taken. I am determined that we will exhibit together someday soon so… keep your peepers open! ®
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