Flowers construct the most charming geometries: circles like the sun, ovals, cones, curlicues and a variety of triangular eccentricities, which when viewed with the eye of a magnifying glass seem a Lilliputian frieze of psychedelic silhouettes.

We live in a culture where the one who shouts the loudest gets the most attention. It's not in the vulgar, it's not in the shock that one finds art. And it's not the excessively beautiful. It's in between; it's in nuance.

Taking photographs and writing is my way of saying I was here, I saw this, I felt this, I heard this.

If I indulge myself and surrender to memory, I can still feel the knot of excitement that gripped me as I turned the corner into Rue Mimosas, looking for the house of Rene Magritte. It was August, 1965. I was 33 years old and about to meet the man whose profound and witty surrealist paintings had contradicted my assumptions about photography.

I'm a terrible punster. And I love to rhyme. I just can't help myself.

I believe in the imagination. What I cannot see is infinitely more important than what I can see.

I think photographers are too polite. There is not enough anger in photography; it's pretty much trivialized.