She leaned against a whitewashed wall—lips quivering—nostrils dilating—eyes heavy with the gloom of unspent rain clouds—I drew close to her—whispered something and kissed her—a tear rolled down her cheek—and then I captured forever the moment—let me see f.8—1/10 sec. K1 filter—panchromatic film—how brutally mechanical and calculated it sounds—yet how really spontaneous and genuine—for I have so overcome the mechanics of my camera that it functions responsive to my desires—my shutter coordinating with my brain is released in a way—as natural as I might move my arm—I am beginning to approach actual attainment in photography—that in my ego of two or three years ago I thought to have already reached—it will be necessary for me to destroy, to unlearn, and then rebuild upon the mistaken presumptuousness of my past—the moment of our mutual emotion was recorded on the silver—the release of those emotions followed—we passed from the glare of the sun on white walls into Tina’s darkened room—her olive skin and somber nipples were revealed beneath a black mantilla—I drew the lace aside— 

 He wanted head and hands and arms on a pillow—in many different positions. I was asked to move my hands in many different ways—also my head—and I had to turn this way and that. There were nudes that might have been of several different people—sitting—standing—even standing upon the radiator against the window—that was difficult—radiators don’t intend you to stand on top of them. (On being photographed by Alfred Stieglitz) 

 Were it not for the fact that photography permits me to seize and to possess the human body and face in more than a temporary manner, I should quickly have tired of this medium. 

 She bent over forward until her body was flat against her legs. I made a view of her swelling buttocks which tapered to the ankles like an inverted vase, her arms forming handles at the base. Of course it is a thing I can never show to a mixed crowd. I would be considered indecent. How sad when my only thought was the exquisite form. (On his 1928 photo of Fay Fuquay) 

 My work is, in fact, neutral. In fact, its very neutrality is one of the things that worries me about it sometimes. There’s sometimes not a lot of emotive passion in the work. Because I shoot long shutter speeds, people are necessarily very still, and the work is very, very plain and... neutral. That neutrality isn’t sexual by nature. My subjects are just there. So if you read sexuality into my pictures, beyond what’s inherent to a human being, then the work is acting as a Rorschach, and you’re evincing sexual immaturity or sexual malaise in your own life. I have to tell you, I am sometimes deeply suspicious of the sexual mental health of some of the people who point their wavering fingers at the morality, the art, of others. 

 For me, it’s not important whether [subjects] are naked, half-naked, or dressed. What I’m more interested in is how they present themselves: if someone is half-naked and having self-confidence or you have the feeling that she has or he has control of the situation. She likes to do it. Then I have nothing against it. But it’s true that society doesn’t talk about such issues. They just talk about whether there is a breast or not, but for me it’s more interesting how the power game of camera and object is shown. And if it’s a cool picture. 

 I’m in between an installation artist, video artist and photographer. And when you work with nude bodies, you’re immediately called a pornographer or a fashion photographer. 

 Experience has shown that the more fascinating the subject, the less observant the photographer.