For me, photography is an obsession. I breathe it. I exhale it. I want to do it in the morning. I want to do it at night. Inside. Outside.

Frankly, I am not sure if it is good or bad. What I know is that I enjoy it tremendously; in New York, and everywhere else - in the city, in the country, on the beach....you get the picture.

Every compulsion hides a fear. I've learned this the hard way.

For me there is a pleasant desperation in photography; a sweet clawing.  The soft click is my quiet raging against the dying of the light. A silent rivet.

The stitching of a lining. I have the feeling that I have "tucked in" the day.  But of course, nothing is ever tucked in.

A picture for me always starts as an inner landscape. Revealed to me.

I take my pictures, or rather they take me, in their arms; they talk to me, hug me while I post them, while I twist them. Pleasant monkeys on my back. I feel the power of the moment, its texture, its grain. I have a distinct sense that I touch on secrets that were not destined for me; I finger shapes that have important meanings, but would have lain there undiscovered, had I not paid attention, or turned my head at that moment and stopped, to discover the scene of a play of which I was both spectator (spec-t-actor?) and director.

The next day, no amount of riveting, stitching, posting will have blunted the lust to go and look from the inside, for another simple password; a code that unlocks my heart, and moves my eyes towards the lens, my finger to the body. 

The picture is the result.

Each step taken towards it is a piece of a puzzle, building up from inside to the outside, culminating in the image, to which the viewer then brings his own puzzle to the party.

But everything starts from the inside.

Beauty unfolds before me in the strangest of orders; an alignment of things that I had not known could be harnessed, or unleashed so powerfully in front of my lens.

Whatever gives me that slight flutter.