The Painter.

Date: 1982
Place: Broadway on Manhattan’s Upper West Side
Modus operandi: More intent on grocery shoppng than photography.
Weather: Outdoors overcast.
Time: 3pm
Gear: Leica M3, 50mm Summicron
Medium: Kodachrome 64.
Me: Looking forward to the smell of all those cheeses at Zabar’s.
My age: 31

The Story: Few who are familiar with New York City’s west side would deny that amongst the greatest cultural attractions to be found there are the Julliard, Carnegie Hall, and the Carnegie Deli. And let’s not forget the greatest deli grocery store in the world, Zabar’s, up the road a few blocks on Broadway.

Now Broadway holds many precious memories, not least of them being this snap.

Once, lazily catching a Broadway bus rather than walk the few blocks home from 80th Street to 56th and Eighth, I sat transfixed opposite none other than the gorgeous Lauren Hutton, and found myself getting out on the opposite side of town, having missed my stop. On that same Broadway I lost my seemingly nuclear war-proof doorman’s umbrella, double struts and all, in a blast of wind when coming out of the Met with my mum in 1986. The umbrella died magnificently, sacrificing itself under a massive Checker cab. Every Thanksgiving you would have found me during the years 1980-86, cheering the Macy’s Parade on Broadway. And every winter, there I was on Broadway at Columbus Circle, watching the marathoners come home.

Now Zabar’s is far more than a European grocery store. It’s a place to meet, to argue, to debate. Art, politics, food, music, ballet, it makes no matter. A place where I sometimes went to gaze at the arcane cooking instruments, trying to work out their uses. A sure cure for depression. Add a pumpernickel bread my Polish forbears would have died for and a selection of coffees unparalleled in the Western hemisphere, and you have a special place.

So intent was I that Autumn day to get my provisions that I shot right by this amusing scene. Nothing gets between a hungry polack and his food. My mind’s eye caught this little piece of drama, however, and a few seconds later, disregarding the urgent messages from my tummy, I was retracing my steps. The tableau was still to be had!

After that, I was on autopilot.

For a daily snap be sure to visit my photoblog Snap!

Max.

Date: February, 1972
Place: Olympia Exhibition Centre, near Hammersmith, west London.
Modus operandi: Usual stealth gear – scruffy jacket, worn jeans, generally unkempt.
Weather: Indoor arena at Cruft’s Dog Show.
Time: 11am
Gear: Leica M3, 90mm Elmar
Medium: Kodak TriX – the single greatest monochrome emulsion ever made, underexposed one stop at 800ASA in this case.
Me: Simply electrified at the abundance of subject matter all around.
My age: 20

The Story: I have never met a dog I did not like. Fact is, I’m writing this on the sofa wth Bertram the Border Terrier looking over my shoulder. Indeed, life without a pup in the home would be a far sadder affair. Who can equal a good dog’s love, loyalty and adulation? You come home, beat. The firm just went belly up. Your car got hit on the way home. Your wife left you for another woman. But the greeting from the pup is always the same. A wagging tail, joyous body language and that wet nose looking for an unsuspecting piece of exposed flesh. And suddenly life doesn’t seem so bad.

Having watched the world’s greatest dog show on the BBC for years (back then there were three TV channels in England – BBC 1, BBC 2, ITV; standards were never higher) it didn’t need much of an excuse to drag my newly acquired Leica with the 90mm Elmar for some character studies to the show center. A wonderful environment and if you know dog people, well, there were as many varieties on display as there were breeds.

Much of this sort of show demands patience, more than anything, from the owners and handlers (back then, they were one and the same before professionalism imported from the USA’s Westminster Dog Show pointed to the need to separate the roles); there’s a lot of waiting, during which time you groom your charge, feed him snacks and generally fret over whether the whiskers are just so.

On an ethical point, it is very easy for a photographer to ridicule the owners and their pets. Such crass behavior held no more interest for me then than it does today. Let it remain the province of photojournalists. Further, the general, stereotypical, dog-and-owner lookalike stuff had been done ad infinitum. No, I was looking for something odd, and in my book ‘odd’ means ‘funny’. Anyone can do ‘woe is me’ drama; ‘funny’ is much harder.

Of all the noble breeds God has placed on this earth, few can match the qualities of the wolfhound. Standing proud to a man’s waist, the animal has large reserves of dignity and decency, last encountered in the White House during the presidency of a certain B movie film actor. Add a magnificent skull, a discreet grey coat and the flowing movement of a ballerina, and you have a special animal indeed. And, boy, do those wolfhound chaps have a sense of humor or what? This character was bored of standing around while others ahead in the line were being subjected to all sorts of indignities and gropes. That’s the judging process for you.

So he did what any rational being would, in the circumstances. He cocked an eye this way and that. Just curious. Only snag was, the owner’s Harris Tweeds were in the way, so he had to give the jacket’s flap a good shove to get it out of out of the way, allowing him to grab a clandestine glimpse at the lady of his desire.

Lucky? Nah, you make your luck.

Look what that sly devil Max was up against.

Can you say perfection in gear choice? Leica M3, 90mm Elmar lens, TriX.

I couldn’t afford the faster Elmarit or the exotic Summicron, so I simply underexposed by one stop and cooked the film a couple of minutes longer in the developer. F/4 was never faster! I doubt the shutter was any shorter than 1/30th, as the blurred negative suggests. And to hell with the grain.

Anyway, when Max (he has to have been named Max, don’t you think?) decided to poke about with his gorgeous snout just so, all that was left for me to do was press the button. The lady’s amply filled tweed skirt was just the icing on the cake.

Dear sweet Max. I love you to this day.

Woof!

For a daily snap be sure to visit my photoblog Snap!