When I see a powerful photograph my first question is How was the photographer capable of producing it -- what was his (her) relationship to the subject? There is always more than meets the eye; always some special chemistry taking place; like love, a feeling is being expressed.

Riding my bike west on Diversey Street one afternoon I spotted a derelict lying half out into the gutter, rush hour traffic rushing within inches of his limp body. Crossing the street haphazardly, I ended up crashing my bike and rolling into the very same gutter, our heads ending up within inches of one another. In so doing, I had defined a new intersection, a place where two lives crossed. The eternal proximity awakens.

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."

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 whizzed by without noticing us, yet our relationship was evident for anyone to see. "My name is Arthur," he offered his hand to me, "but you can call me Art."