My photographs don't go below the surface. They don't go below anything. They're readings of the surface. I have great faith in surfaces. A good one is full of clues. But whenever I become absorbed in the beauty of a face, in the excellence of a single feature, I feel I've lost what's really there been seduced by someone else's standard of beauty or by the sitter's own idea of the best in him. That's not usually the best. So each sitting becomes a contest.

Just advertising departments with legs and high heels.

All photographs are accurate. None of them is the truth.

Faces are the ledgers of our experience.

My parents put the New Yorker in my crib. I saw Vogue and Vanity Fair around the house before I could read.

One man's fantasy is another man's job.

People — running from unhappiness, hiding in power — are locked within their reputations, ambitions, beliefs.