Despite the best intentions and preparation, the printed image always surprises and reveals.

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Nothing is quite as exhilarating as looking through the camera. There is a pleasure in seeing an arrangement of forms, the light falling on objects, the order of things, or a color that attracts one’s attention. Then, too, there is an excitement in moving in, back, or to the side to re-examine that first moment of recognition. Sometimes I crouch, bend on one knee, stand on my tip toes, or bend slightly to see it anew. Suddenly, another angle presents me with possibilities. I release the shutter and all is anticipation, hope and expectation.

Afterward, having downloaded the files to the computer, I occasionally regret not having stood further to the right or left or looked down more when, suddenly, I see something for the first time in one of the frames. Look at that! What a pleasant surprise.

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“…the secret to memorable nonfiction is so often the writer’s readiness to be surprised.” (Ron Suskind)

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I remember first seeing the work of the Flemish painters. Who, among all the painters in history, were more enamored of the visible world? I felt admiration for their sheer delectation in describing how things look. A whiff of smoke from an extinguished candle or the texture of fur; for them everything was worth seeing and rendering.

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Appearances, as the saying goes, can be misleading. Photography is thought to unravel mysteries but at its best often succeeds merely in deepening them.

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There are two fundamental sides to my photography – the pleasures of seeing and making and the necessity of promoting. Having spent nearly twenty-five years in the business of representing commercial photographers I recognize the urgency of the former and the strains of the latter.

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So often the most intriguing images are those first presented by ordinary, found phenomena. These naturally occurring visual sensations abound.

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Sometimes, people will look at my photographs and ask how did I manipulate the image to achieve the results before them. The short, glib answer is “I pressed the shutter.” True, there is always some post-production work on any digital image, but the key to what I am attempting to explore is that the images in the “Veils” and “Rain” series grow out of looking at what is presented to me.

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Most of us are beset by doubts at various times but it is the artist’s lot that he or she must accept, indeed embrace not knowing in order to achieve some breakthrough.

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There is a marked difference between a compelling object and a compelling vision. When I started the bike series what fascinated me were the objects themselves. Not whole bikes chained to stands, railings or poles, but carcasses -- the remains of bikes forgotten, abandoned, picked over and scavenged – and what they signified about urban life. It didn’t take long, however, for me to begin to see these remains as an assemblage of triangles, circles and lines in vivid colors. My perception of them – the vision if you will – had changed.

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I’ve always wanted to make mysterious pictures, all the better when they derive entirely from what lies before me.

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I cannot imagine making photographs solely for the purpose of putting them away in boxes, taking them out from time to time for a few moments of furtive reverie only to return them to the shelf. Everyone who makes pictures, at least everyone I’ve known, desires an audience if for no other reason than the notion that viewers inevitably carry with them the possibility of completing the equation, of supplying insights and comprehension or at the very least decisions the photographer is incapable of reaching on his own.