When I see a powerful photograph my first question is “How was the photographer capable of seeing it -- what was his (her) relationship to the subject?” There is always more than meets the eye; always some special chemistry taking place. Photography is like love; a feeling is being expressed and communicated. Someone hands you a picture of themselves – hopefully the best they have to offer -- and hopefully you are going to hand it back to them with its full compliment intact.

Riding my bike west on Diversey Street one afternoon I spotted a derelict lying half in the gutter, half in the street, rush hour traffic rushing within inches of his limp body. (Now how do I know he was a derelict?  Because I’d past that way myself years earlier: drunk, negligent, angry, unsatisfied.) Deciding to come to his aid, I crossed the street, weaving haphazardly in and out of the onrushing traffic. As a result, I ended up crashing my bike and rolling into the very same gutter, our heads dangling within inches of one another.

In so doing, I had defined a new intersection. It was a place where our two lives crossed, reawakening an eternal proximity.

Up righting myself I could see clearly the dried blood smears on his face. I could almost taste the stale wine on his breath. But I was hardly prepared when he gently looked over at me, barely focusing through glazed eyes, and spoke my name: "Burkhart!"

I was surprised that he knew me, but in what capacity I did not know. As our blood momentarily mingled on the sidewalk, I spoke, as gently as he: "Man, you've got to get out of the street. These maniacs will run you over."

Momentarily ignoring my plea he raised himself onto an elbow and replied: "I know you, man. You're Burkhart. You're a photographer. Everybody knows you! I met you one day when wheelchair Johnny brought me over to your studio." The words proceeded from his lips as casually as if we had just been introduced at an art opening over a glass of red wine; transcendentally we conversed as two children with no sense of time to consume us.

Oblivious to our surroundings, traffic continued to whizz by without noticing us. Yet our relationship was as concrete as the pavement which supported us, evident for anyone to see: "My name is Arthur," he offered his hand to me, "but you can call me Art."

Ah, the permission to just be. Awareness. Art.