Duane Michals once said something that I recall when I view nearly any photograph: Photographers never photograph what they can’t see, and of course the most important things are what you can’t see. It’s what you feel. What you feel is much more important than what you can see. And so that is why I had to write—why I had to find other ways of expressing myself.”

To see a photograph not as a captured image of what is or what was… but as a portal, an entryway into what cannot be seen, what is magical, what is beyond, what is felt. The photos of Duane Michals are always journeys. Oftentimes we meet him. Sometimes we encounter ourselves. The mirrors, the double exposures, the symmetry, and the play of image/text… all an invitation from Baudelaire: Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.

This summer, the Palais Garnier in Paris revived The Seasons’ Canon—a stunning ballet by Canadian choreographer, Crystal Pite. The Seasons is based on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, “recomposed” by Max Richter.

I’m fascinated by the way the individual appears in a crowd—at once isolated and easily discerned, yet part of a synchronized whole. The work is sensual, yet draws on Pite’s themes death, consciousness, and emerging from trauma. As with the passage of time and the change of seasons, there is a transformation of self… into the light.

The photographer Duane Michals passed away on June 9, 2026, at the age of 94. Of his many books, I most cherish his Questions Without Answers—mostly because when we got together in New York City, he would ask me some of these questions, and with each attempted answer, Duane would do something crazy like place a wine glass on his head.

You nearly died on Bloomsday! (A toast to Ulysses, my friend)

What about the etymological powerhouse family of words stemming from the root deru —

betroth; Dante; dendrite; dendro-; dendrochronology; dour; Druid; drupe; dryad; dura mater; durable; durance; duration; duress; during; durum; endure; hamadryad; indurate; obdurate; perdurable; philodendron; rhododendron; shelter; tar; tray; tree; trim; troth; trough; trow; truce; true; trust; truth; tryst.*

INSTANT STORY: We can go from tryst to betroth to trust to endurance to duration to obdurate to truce … a nice Dantean marriage unfolding, right under the shelter of the philodendrons and some druid-filled trees.

All with the added bonus of the word dendrochronology — just saying that word is enough to excite any libido in these slow covid times.

In all seriousness though: duration – tree – truth – trust all related? These are big-girl words upon which much of civilization is built. Troubling to witness so many people out with sledgehammers and chainsaws.

* I popped all these terms into google, and this image of Arch Druid, Roshtand The Green appeared. Awesome. More on the root at etymonline — an indispensible resource for word lovers.

Hawk · desire flight grasp
Red · wound blood scar
Eye · vision dream wisdom
Heart · fire passion love

I have a friend named Kace who adores the Cyrillic letter ж.

Kace writes many letters to me, and early on in our correspondence, he ended each letter very simply: Love, Kace.

Over time though, this became Love, K which evolved into LK, but as he began to write LK very quickly, this eventually morphed into the shape of the magnificent Cyrillic letter ж which (as I said above) he absolutely loves.

For those interested, it is pronounced “zh” as in Zhivago.

Kace loves how it resembles a sword and shield or, more sublimely, a lovely little butterfly that takes flight from writer to reader. And thus, now, each of his letters ends with a

ж

—shorthand for—
Love Kace

I am a huge lover of hawks, and this little guy caught my eye right away — a creation of Rosemary Mosco, who is a science educator and cartoonist.

birdandmoon.com and on instagram: @rosemarymosco

DJ and Producer Chaim — the “Drums Marrakech” single. Tribal Rhythms, Middle Eastern vibes.

A ritual call to join — the sensations I feel at the beginning of certain dreams. Circular hypnosis.

As soon as I arrived in Huanchaco, Peru, I knew I was going to be transformed into some sort of demonic Hiroshi Sugimoto, for the daily Pacific sunsets were so stunning, I simply had to photograph each one, multiple times, each day.

Sunsets, like the sea I suppose, have a kind of quietude or redundancy or even boredom about them. I mean, really. How many sunsets can you witness in a lifetime? But when your soul-strings are plucked by the sound of the surf, when people dance on the beach, when the fresh food is served, then each sunset is a miniature glimpse of the divine.

Hence: The daily photo ritual.

Humbly nestled on the Pacific coastline of Peru, just north of Trujillo, Huanchaco is a lovely friend… a small surfer town without much going on except a continual surf, delicious food, and incredibly warm people. If a town can be a friend, Huanchaco is a best friend.

Home to ceviche and surfing, both dating back thousands of years, with surfing having got its start with the original reed boats which are still so popular, Huanchaco actually possesses a secret violence. The undertow is brutal and the tides strong. One enjoys the beach and its wonders with a kind of silent awe.