Born in 1948, I am a son of the Twentieth Century. I came of age in a small town situated on the buckle of the Bible Belt of Texas, twenty-eight miles west of Fort Worth–leaving the day after graduating from high school, vowing never to return.
I attended university in San Antonio and, in spite of my professors’ best efforts, drifted through most of my classes for the most part uninspired and unaware. In May of 1970, after taking a degree in history, I began work as a management trainee with Southwestern Bell Telephone.
Within six months, I would abandon this position to ramble across the United States and Europe in search of the writer's life. A year and a half later, I returned to San Antonio, more experienced certainly, yet no better at writing than when I had left. There I chanced to meet a photographer a few years older than I, teaching at an art school. He had a National Endowment for the Arts grant in his hip pocket, rock and roll in his soul, and whiskey flowing in his veins. For better or worse, he would transform the way I saw the world and my place in it. I became his darkroom assistant and a convert to photography virtually overnight. And, in one way or another, I have remained in thrall to the medium and its history and practitioners ever since.