In Homage to Egon Schiele and John Running

John Running's photograph of the model Nettie Harris in homage to Egon Schiele.

Close on the heels of my last post, I follow with this haunting photograph by John Running (1939-2018) in homage to Egon Schiele (1890-1918). Nettie Harris, also deserves credit for her remarkable modeling.

I quote from John Running's commentary on his photograph.

Here is one of the most lovely images of Nettie Harris, which says a lot, since dozens of the best photographers have shot her, and she's helped create probably hundreds of photos that will someday be seen as the masterpieces of this time.

It is, of course, the nature of Art History. So much of it is hindsight. Like seeing the work of Egon Schiele. He was a protégé of Gustav Klimt. His work, often self-portraits and women, noted for their twisted bodies. Some say he was a fore-runner of 20th Century Expressionism. Schiele began to explore not only the human form, but also human sexuality. At the time, many found the explicitness of his works disturbing.

Today, the sexuality of the work isn't shocking. Rather, we can see that he was just a pioneer of erotic art. 

It is exactly a century since Egon made his now classic erotic work. This portrait of Nettie, holding a book of his work, is a fitting tribute, that I am sure would thrill Egon. 

At a first glance I would have attributed John Running's photograph to the masterly work of Jan Saudek. My post Weird or not Weird featured Jan Saudek's work.

Incidentally, the painting I featured in my last post is from a collection I have titled Sensuous Suggestions. Alas, my collection is to too sensuous and suggestive for a fine art society that claims to represent the full spectrum of the beauty of the nude.

 

I leave you with one of Egon Schiele's drawings.

Unadorned, unabashed, unappreciated

We are forever demeaning natures natural beauty and then diminishing it still further by what is known as "beautification". When nature is unadorned and unabashed she is regrettably unappreciated. 

My watercolours attempt to record nature's subtleties without favour or shame. They suggest rather than define. I leave you to interpret them as you may.

When the world was young

Relaxing aboard Dan Bowen's yacht at English Harbour after our first Atlantic Crossing.

The above faded photograph was taken soon after we had completed a five week voyage from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean. Dan Bowen, a veteran of many ocean crossings, is on the far left, I am on the far right, our friend Caroline is in the center, with my daughter Di and my wife Norma to each side. 

The painting below dates from those early sea gypsy days.

Down Island Boat at St. Barts.

I have taken the title of today's post from Eartha Kitt's poignant recording of When the World was Young.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBm5DD6DAWo&list=PL_YnYFDhXSMIbp8A7G4LXAesGSuZawBTH&index=6

Fiona and the mists of time.

The village of my childhood on a misty day thirty years ago.

For two days the countryside that surrounds my studio has been lost in mist due to the passage of Tropical Storm Fiona to the north. Thirty years ago I was painting my childhood village veiled in mists that were far from tropical.  

My current project, a mezzanine floor and stairs for a museum, is on hold until the weather improves. My woodwork shop relies on natural light and on most days there is no pleasanter place to work. I have a view of the mountains on one hand and the Caribbean Sea on the other. To that you can add the scent of wood shavings and tropical blossoms. 

So here I am, impatiently waiting for the sun to come out.

By Appointment...well, sort of

Me (center) with the fund raising committee for my lockkeeper sculpture.

As the British monarchy is in the news, let me add my slender links to the royal family. Not least being Prince Charles's contribution that covered the cost of casting my sculpture for the town of Sowerby Bridge. The article that accompanied the above press cutting reads:

The sceptics said that a small Yorkshire mill town would never be able to raise the money to pay for the sculpture - but it did! The money came from all over the place: the dentist, the sweet shop, the bobby on the beat and the old ladies who dipped into their savings. The town's newsagent has a vested interest in the lockkeeper's boot laces: after all, his contribution paid for them. When Prince Charles got wind of what we were doing, he also chipped in handsomely. He didn't sell off his football boots, but someone in Sowerby Bridge did, and the proceeds went towards the Sculpture Fund.

The sculpture went on to win the 2000 National Trust Award for Public Sculpture. From one of the old ladies that dipped into their savings, I received a letter that read:

I don't know much about art, but I do know that your sculpture will always be loved by the people of this town.

Incidentally, Prince Charles (now the King) shares many of my views on art and architecture. The Prince's Foundation School of Traditional Arts stresses the importance of working from live model, and his Regeneration Through Heritage initiative recognizes the merits of architecture linked to the Industrial Revolution.   

Expectations

Annabelle Sleeping

I perhaps have too greater expectations for the work of others, and hence my disappointment in ninety percent of what's out there. Valid criticism is replaced by "say something nice". I am my most stringent critic and only rarely do I meet my own expectations,. Today's painting dates from an halcyon period twenty years ago. It is one that I wish to be remembered by.

Education Through Art

A recent photo of the new British Virgin Island High School which was scheduled for completion in September 2022.

Regardless of the predictable constructional delay, the "new" BVI High School building is already outdated in terms of its ability to accommodate the new concepts that are desperately needed in education.

Actually, the "new concepts" are not all that new. They date back to when Herbert Read published his ground-breaking book "Education Through Art" eighty years ago.

The Caribbean is rich in natural resources but lacking in the one essential human resource that is needed to benefit from this abundance: that is, the ability to think and work creatively.

Research indicates that children are born with 98% the creative potential of genius. However, as they go through life, the figure falls dramatically.  At the age of eight, the percentage has dropped to 32%.  By the time they reach thirteen, peer pressure has brought it down to 10%, and by adulthood, conformity has reduced it to less than 2%.

Given the importance of creativity and the fact that at least 50% of children are creatively, rather than academically inclined, we would benefit if our schools and colleges gave more attention to the subject.

Nor should it be limited to what is perceived art. My work as an engineer demands just as much creative input as does my work as a sculptor and painter.  Creative thinking enhances academic qualifications but it is not necessarily dependent on them.

Apart from a technical block (presumably focused towards motor mechanics) and a small amphitheater, the new building appears to be a warren of regimented classrooms. I see nothing in the plans that caters for the creative arts in general: music, dance, fashion design, architecture, theatre, ceramics, painting, sculpture, carpentry, etc.

To think and work creatively demands courage, vision, initiative, innovation and resourcefulness. It thrives on doing rather than theorizing. Creativity fosters individuality and resists regimentation. Specialization and rote learning hamper the all-embracing aspect of creativity and committees are its death knell.

Perhaps the new school was designed by a committee!

On my own terms

A page from my book Notes on the Nude

My book Notes on the Nude has languished in the side bar of this blog for almost four years. Three years ago, I promised that I was working on it.  But then everything ground to a halt due to social media's horror of nakedness. All publishers have fought shy of the content, which is nothing more shocking than the page that illustrates this post. 

But enough is enough, and rather than modify the book to suit their prudish community guidelines, I will publish it on my own terms as an in house eBook. This makes sense in that the followers of this blog are scattered throughout the world. Many of them are art students and the cost of a hard copy would be beyond their means. Furthermore, since the 2017 hurricane, we have had no postal service from my island in the Caribbean - other than the prohibitive cost of sending by courier. 

Once again, I'm working on it. 

O muse. wherefore art thou.

Figures, palms and ruins, Caneel Bay, St John, 1989. 

The ravages of time has diminished the ebullience of the opening watercolour, but the lyrical quality that remains can be directly attributed to the influence of my muse. 

In an article about the role of the artist's muse, Germaine Greer writes:

A muse is anything but a paid model. The muse in her purest aspect is the feminine part of the male artist, with which he must have intercourse if he is to bring into being a new work. She is the anima to his animus, except that, in a reversal of gender roles, she penetrates or inspires him and he gestates and brings forth, from the womb of the mind...Artists have painted their wives over and over again, but their wives were their subjects rather than their muses.

At its best, the relationship between the artist and his muse is a platonic love affair. It is not dependent intellectual understanding, nor of conscious influence. The muse has no desire to create of her own accord. She displays none of the censoring influence of those who want to create but can't. She is that compassionate smile that leads the artist's unsuspecting heart on a merry chase.

O muse. wherefore art thou.

Missing but not forgotten

Alice. Seated with head resting on hands.

While searching through hundreds of colour slides and prints I found faded photographs of these two drawings from my 1989 BVI exhibition "A Portrait of Alice". The exhibition served to highlight the natural beauty of the Afro-Caribbean woman - Alice my model and assistant was from the island of St. Vincent. None of the drawings sold, and all but these two remain in my collection. The two that are missing but not forgotten, were given as gifts; one to Alice, and one to the manager of the hotel that bravely sponsored the exhibition.

The year that I worked with Alice marked a turning point in my work; from the popularity of palm fringed beaches to the beauty and profundity of the human form. 

Alice. Seated with hands resting on back of chair.

Alice. Portrait Bust.

My portrait bust of Alice was also included in the exhibition and has pride and place in my studio.

Beauty that goes abegging

 

Portrait, Denise 1992

After highlighting the depths of depravity in my last post, as witnessed in images of the British Virgin Island's August Festival, I now substitute the gross, course and hideous with this early portrait of my wife Denise. 

It's my attempt to put the record straight and reclaim beauty that goes abegging. 

Differentiating between nude and lewd

British Virgin Island August Festival Celebrations (Photo Credit BVI News Online)

My comments on differentiating between nude and lewd were first posted on this blog over four years ago. Nothing has changed. Whereas social media has no problem with the opening picture, they find the following photograph of work in progress on my life-size sculpture of the reclining nude violates their community guidelines.

 

Upon impossibility

 

As with Andrew Marvell's poem The Definition of Love, capturing the model as she turns from one position to another, verges upon impossibility. 

It has taken me a lifetime to say what I have to say in that never to be repeated split second with the minimum of lines and washes.

I can't remember which of my models was the subject of the painting that illustrates this post and my models are usually equally at a lose in identifying themselves in my work. But that in itself speaks of the universal and timeless beauty of the nude. Andrew Marvell's poem dates from the 17th century; my painting from the 21st.

The essence of romance

 Annabelle reclining.

The essence of romance is uncertainty. (Oscar Wilde)

And that relates to the uncertainty of painting from the live model. The chances of both model and artist simultaneously reaching a creative high are a thousand to one. But when it happens nothing can compare. In all the years that Annabelle was my model, she never once failed to inspire. 

Whereas the last painting on my previous post was a failure, my painting of Annabelle goes someway towards capturing the profound beauty of the nude.

Frustrated first sittings

The model's nervousness at her first sitting.

Charcoal on faded newsprint (17" x 13")

All first sittings are memorable, some for the promise of inspirational sessions to come and others for shear frustration. Recently, I have had more than my fair share of the latter. 

A first sitting lasts for one hour but only 15 minutes of that time is spent painting or sketching from the model. The remainder is spent explaining how I work with a model and the message that I hope to convey through my paintings. 

The opening drawing is of a young lady I had known for years, first as a student at my life classes. I was surprised when she expressed an interest in modelling. At my classes she had always appeared embarrassed at even viewing the nude figure. Other than that, she had all the attributes I need in a model: a lithe figure and natural charms. But on the day she arrived for her first sitting nervousness had crept in and although I did manage the one brief sketch, it was clear that modelling was definitely not her forte. 

At my most recent attempt at painting a first sitting, it was not the model's nerves but the frustration of cancellations and a late arrival that threw me. My muse went out of the door and laughed at my painful attempt to capture the subtleties of the nude. The model also laughed, she thought my painting was an hilarious joke. 

The painting the model thought was an hilarious joke. Watercolour (15" x 21")

Perhaps in her mind my model was echoing Yvette Guilbert’s response to a painting Toulouse-Lautrec had made of the cabaret performer: “You horrible little man”. But maybe I should be flattered that my work excited ridicule and hilarity, for after all this was the fate of the artists from past that I admire. 

Yvette Guilbert by Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901)

First sittings

Alice. 1st Sitting 1989

I could mount an entire exhibition of the sketches and paintings I've made of my models at their first sitting. The first sitting is the artist's first perception of the model and the model's first perception of the artist. First impressions are important, and for that reason I spend more time preparing for first sittings than I do for regular sittings. 

Alice's first sitting led to her working as my studio assistant for a year. That year marked a turning point. Throughout the 1980's my work had been at an impasse. With Alice's gentle support I was able to create anew.  

The only first sittings that disappoint are the ones where the model fails to show up, as happened to me yesterday.

When viewed through a different lens

 

Today's picture is the first painting that I've photographed with my "new" camera. I say "new" whereas actually it's a fifteen year old Olympus E -500 SLR. It has interchangeable lenses and a host of settings that I have yet to get used to. 

The background to my figure paintings is the white of the watercolour paper, and this is something that gives digital cameras a problem. Fortunately the Olympus E -500 SLR has the means of getting around this - when I've figured out how to set its sophisticated "white balance" features.  

With lenses and accessories, it is not the camera you would want to carry on a twenty-mile hike - I took my son along to help me carry it home from the shipping company - but on a tripod in the studio it's size and weight is not a problem. 

Since writing this post I've been able to delve deeper into the camera's 216 page Users Manual. The picture below is of a painting from eight years ago. It has been restored since suffering water damage in the hurricane. I photographed today without having to remove it from its frame. The challenge it to avoid reflections.

Jessica reading

 

My Olympus E - 500 SLR

Since you left...

The footpath that led from Doty to Wind Hill before it was blasted and bulldozed.

Soon after I left the British Virgin Islands in 1995 I had a call from an island friend begging me to return with the words: Since you left the government think they can get away with anything! She was referring to my efforts to preserve the island's intrinsic identity. 

Those efforts came to my mind yesterday when the editor of the island's newspapers sent me a copy of one of my many "Letters to the Editor" that they published over thirty years ago.

My letter was headed "Lamentations" and it read as follows:

On the last day of 1988 it was my miserable task to view the remains of a loved one. Her innocent beauty was the victim of a cruel crime. The features that I had known so well were mangled and mutilated beyond recognition. I speak of the footpath that led from Doty to Windy Hill – the footpath that has recently been blasted and bulldozed into a road.

I was not told of her impending doom, although I understand it had been premeditated for years. And after all, I had no legal right to her: she did not belong to me. My status was simply that of an illicit lover, and on quite afternoons we enjoyed our secret affair together.

But those to whom she was vowed did not cherish her. Her charms were lost on them, even though their very ancestors had labouriously fashioned her beauty. Did they know, or care, about the unique paved section, about the ruins at Arundel, about her flora and fauna?

But don’t mistake my lament. People should have the right to access their land. The concept of freehold is, to me, as inviolable as the concept of free speech. It must be so. In our economy, taxis and tourists have to be catered for. I am no more in favour of turning the whole island into a National Park, than I am bent on seeing it smothered in concrete. But oh, for some sensitivity and long-term planning to temper our materialistic short-term gains.  Alas, these virtues seem deplorably absent.

Land ripe for development! What will you bid? Thirty years ago, my (ex)wife’s grandfather sold his best land at Greenbank for $17.14 an acre. He laughed because he thought he’d done well on the deal. At today’s price an acre of land, with road access, above Ballast Bay could well fetch $250.000*. But the deal would be no better.

Your grandchildren my inherit the earth and fly to the moon – a miserable place by all accounts – but if they cannot savour the sweet and simple delights of the walk from Doty to Windy Hill, they will have profited nothing. They will be that much impoverished.

Some years ago, Sheila Hyndman, a young Virgin Islander, eloquently expressed her doubts for the future of these islands. I quote from her poem:

They will come with tools and machines.

            They will bring to light your secret places,

            They will demand your mysteries.

            They will destroy, build up.

            They will dilute your treasures,

            And rob you of your chastity.

            They will adorn you like ancient Jezebel.

*I have adjusted this figure to indicate the 2022 value. 

From father, to daughter, to grandson

Zeke

My daughters are intent on keeping the family image alive long after my time. Here is my daughter Trina, her partner Gary and my latest grandson Zeke. Trina tells me that he is already showing signs of being a very practical young man and one worthy to follow in his grandfather's footsteps. 

Here's Trina when she was not much older than Zeke.

The picture below is from our early days in Dominica. Trina is on the right, Tania on the left and my son Tristan in the middle. Tristan is now a strapping twenty year old. He is my helper in the workshop and the solver of all my computer problems. 

Paradise Lost

 

Puerto Rican tourists at a Christmas in July promotion in the British Virgin Islands.

Photo Credit Caribbean Journal.

I submitted the commentary below to a BVI news site two weeks ago. As yet, it has not been acknowledged or published. However, the same news site published the above photograph today in relation to an event that is currently being promoted. I am left to wonder how the promotion reflects the image of the BVI being "One of Nature's Little Secrets".

Paradise Lost

In 1975, while sailing north through the Caribbean, stormy weather caused me to take shelter in the British Virgin Islands. The anchorage off Road Town was exposed and uncomfortable and I was told of a sheltered cove a few miles along the coast. Its entrance was narrow but once inside the surrounding reef offered perfect protection. My intention was to continue on my way as soon as the weather improved.

The weather did improve but I stayed on, and that idyllic cove became my home port for the next twenty years.

In the BVI much is made about Belonger Status. However, Somerset Maugham in his book “The Moon and Sixpence” speaks about a deeper sense of belonging: 

Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth.

I collected the material for my book “Virgin Island Sketches” during the early years of my stay. It celebrates the way of life of the islanders and my sketches now serve as a reminder of those halcyon times past.  

While I was busy preserving scenes from the past, Virgin Island poet Sheila Hyndman (1958-1991) was prophesizing the future.

            They will come with tools and machines.

            They will bring to light your secret places,

            They will demand your mysteries.

            They will destroy, build up.

            They will dilute your treasures,

            And rob you of your chastity.

            They will adorn you like ancient Jezebel.

‘Till all that’s left of your true self

Will be an old and forgotten poem

Like mine.

I shared Sheila’s love of her homeland and in the years that followed I contributed my own work to that end.

But as the 1980’s progressed I found it increasingly difficult to relate the past to the future. The maxim “Yes, We’re Different” was being cast aside in favour of being the same as everywhere else. I began to realize that much of the development taking place was for the benefit of foreign entities. It had begun with the Wickams Cay reclamation project in the 1960’s and more recently, financial services and mass tourism. Although the islands are undoubtedly financially better off than when I first knew them, in the process of acquiring that transient wealth, Virgin Islanders have lost more than they gained.

My disillusionment of what was perceived as progress became all the more acute in the year that I travelled the region in search of material for my book “Caribbean Sketches”. As with my earlier book, I was working against the clock in attempting to capture each island before it degenerated into being the same as everywhere else. Cruise ship passengers step ashore to the same spurious scene as at every other port of call. We tend to forget that the individuality of places reflects the individuality of ourselves.

As my journey through the region progressed, I found that the fundamental problem faced by Caribbean small island states was not one of self-governance, but one of self-sufficiency. Even on islands that have claimed independence and that are rich in natural resources, the islanders themselves have not benefitted. Rather than farming the land, the present generation prefer to sit at a desk or serve tourists. To finance an alien lifestyle, their governments sell passports to foreigners and become deeply beholden to the People’s Republic of China. In real terms, these islands are less independent now than they were a hundred years ago.  

Self-sufficiency for small island states relates to lifestyle expectations. Three generations ago hard work was the order of the day and the islanders lived within their means. Since then, there has been a hankering for a westernized lifestyle and a reliance of wealth generated by foreign economies.

The fundamental challenge at this point in time is to seriously question the direction that the Virgin Islands and the region in general has taken. We need to re-evaluate the past in order to determine if what was originally perceived as "development" has in fact been in the best long-term interest of the islanders.

To correct the mistakes of the past and to start all over again verges on the impossible. In more ways than one, the past is set in concrete - and concrete is a difficult material to break down. Nevertheless, a re-assessment of values is a necessary first step towards rediscovering a paradise lost.

For otherwise, as Sheila wrote: “…all that’s left of your true self will be an old and forgotten poem like mine.”

Almost faded beyond recall

Figures on a deserted beach.

Figure on a deserted beach.

Many of the photographs of paintings I made in the 1970's and 80's have almost faded beyond recall, and so have the scenes themselves. The deserted island beach on which I made these sketches fifty years ago has since become a popular tourist venue, as shown in the photograph below.

I consider it my good fortune to have known the Caribbean before it became ripe for development. Unfortunately, most of the development - mass tourism and financial services in particular - has been for the benefit of foreigners rather than in the long term interest of the islanders. For the poets and the artists that dwelt amongst those earlier scenes, all has been lost.

Models from times past

Annette

While delving through faded photographs of paintings I made when my studio was located in the British Virgin Islands, I was reminded of models that I had almost forgotten. I say almost, because all of my models retain a special place in my memory. 

I first met Annette when she worked as a cashier at the island's supermarket. Her facial features and stature were majestic. And yes, she would like to model for my paintings. The only negative factor was her straightened hair. I told her that if ever she allowed her hair to return to its natural state, most certainly she could model for my paintings.

Months later the transformation had begun to take effect and I painted her portrait. 

Other paintings and photographs of models from times past - the twin sisters Pearl and Pearline, Gretel, Hemo, Elliana and my never to be forgotten Alice - set me wondering what those lithe young ladies from 35 years ago are doing today.  Please use the contact form on this blog to get in touch!

Alice at work on making the mold for her portrait bust.

They've paved paradise and put in a cruise-ship dock...

Pier Park & Cruise Ship Dock, Road Town, British Virgin Islands, 2022.

 

If we substitute "cruise-ship dock" for "parking lot", the lyrics of Joni Mitchell's song from the 1970's, serves as a fitting continuation for my lament to the British Virgin Islands:

With a pink hotel, a boutique and a swingin' hot spot, 

You don't know what you've got till it's gone, 

They've paved paradise and put in a cruise-ship dock. 

As a reminder of what paradise was like in the 1970's, below are two sketches from my book "Virgin Island Sketches". An obsession with greed and flawed priorities accounts for the intervening fifty years.

The building that housed the "Come See Department Store" floated into Road Town during a 1920's hurricane and the building across the road was as far as it went in terms of boutiques.

For those too young to remember, here's Joni Mitchell's song. 

 

Unabashed Curiosity

40 years ago a young lady threw discretion aside on a beach in the Virgin Islands. Whereas the camera lens would have been considered an intrusion into her privacy, a sketchbook invites permissive and unabashed curiosity. 

I was able to captured the memory of that fleeting moment in this watercolour. No words were spoken, but when I had finished she shyly asked, may I see. 

She understood that if my consent seemed hesitant it was only because, through my work, I also stand naked before the searching gaze of onlookers.

Virgin Island Nostalgia

 

Fritz Penn's Yard. British Virgin Islands

My lament for the British Virgin Islands sent me searching through boxes of photographs taken in the 1970s and 1980s.  Some of the photographs are of my paintings from those early days and others are of the islands and islanders. The photograph below was taken at the launching of a boat built by Mr. Frett of East End. Mr. Frett is on the left with the two children in yellow, and on the right, his daughter Rita is being interviewed for BVI Radio by Michelle Abbott Smith. 

The launching of Mr. Frett's boat at East End.

A painting I made of Mr. Frett's boat under construction is featured on the first edition cover of my book Virgin Island Sketches and my paintings on the same theme are featured in one of three series of postage stamps that I designed for the island.  

In the light of current events, I am sure that many Virgin Islanders share my nostalgia for those times past.

My Lament to the British Virgin Islands

 

Road Town. The capital of the British Virgin Islands as it was in earlier days.

In 1975, while sailing north through the Windward Islands, stormy weather caused us to take shelter in the British Virgin Islands. The anchorage off the island’s capital was exposed and uncomfortable but we were told of a sheltered cove a few miles along the coast. Its entrance was narrow but and once inside the surrounding reef offered perfect protection. Our intention was to continue on our way as soon as the weather improved.

The weather did improve, but we stayed on and that idyllic cove became our home for the next twenty years.

My book Virgin Island Sketches was written in the early years of our stay. It celebrated the way of life of the islanders. Those sketches now serve as a reminder of halcyon times past, both physically and socially. 

But the writing was on the wall, and while I was busy preserving scenes from the past, Virgin Island poet Sheila Hyndman prophesized the future.

            They will come with tools and machines,        

            They will bring to light your secret places,

            They will demand your mysteries.

            They will destroy, build up.

            They will dilute your treasures,

            And rob you of your chastity.

            They will adorn you like ancient Jezebel.  

Events of the last few weeks have brought the present sorry state of those islands to the attention of the world. My feelings can best be expressed in the title of Alan Paton's novel: Cry the Beloved Country. 

Subtleties

Jan Saudek

When I despair at finding original ways of depicting the beauty of the nude in all its moods and changes, I return to the masterful art photography of Jan Saudek. Born in Czechoslovakia eighty-six years ago, he was for many years considered a disturbed artist and oppressed by authorities. He is now recognized as the foremost art photographer of our time.

I sought him out today as an antidote to the bland "fine art" nude photography that is often inflicted upon me. His subtle combination of dress and undress gives me the motivation I need to revive my Bare Minimum fashion label.