outside in the corridor. Clee shook off his thoughts about Capa and left the room to see if anything was wrong.
“Hey, guys, what’s going on?” he asked, going toward JeanClaude, who was talking excitedly, and Michel Bellond, a partner in the agency and a photographer of talent and courage.
“Rien,” Michel said, and winked at Clee.
“He is right, it is nothing, really,” JeanClaude said and grinned.
“We were just discussing the merits of various restaurants, trying to decide where to have the dinner for Steve,” he explained, referring to another partner in Image.
“Let’s hear the choices,” Clee said. “Perhaps I’ll cast the deciding vote.”
When Clee finally left the Image offices on the rue de Bern, it was drawing close to dusk, that time of day when the sky has changed to twilight colors but has not yet turned black.
He lifted his head as he walked toward the Champs-Elysees and looked up at the sky. Tonight it was a deep blue, almost peacock in intensity, and it had a soft incandescent glow to it, as if subtly illuminated from behind.
Magic hour, he said to himself, using the movie term that best described this time of day, which movie directors and cinematographers loved with such passion because it was especially effective on film.
When he reached the Champs-Elysees he stopped and gazed up that long, wide boulevard, his eyes focusing on the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. The tricolor, the French national flag, was
suspended inside the arch from the top, and ingeniously illuminated with spotlights. It was blowing through the arch in the wind and looked unusually dramatic at this moment. Clee thought the arch was the most moving and magnificent sight he had seen in a very long time, but then the whole of Paris was particularly glorious right now. A large number of the impressive, ancient buildings had recently been carefully cleaned for the bicentennial celebrations taking place this year.
Turning left, Clee strolled down the Champs-Elysees, enjoying the walk after being cooped up in the office all day, he generally felt somewhat constrained when he was not out on assignment. But, whatever the circumstance, he enjoyed walking in Paris more than any other place in the world.
This was his city. He had first come here when he was eighteen and had fallen in love with it. At first sight. He had wanted to come to Paris because of Capa, who for so many years had lived in the French capital, where he had founded Magnum, his photo agency, in 1947 with “Chim” Seymour and Henri CartierBresson. Capa had been his hero since he was fifteen and growing up in New York. That year, 1965, he had read an article about the late photographer in a photography magazine, and ever after he had searched for anything and everything that had been written about Capa.
Clee had first started taking pictures when he was nine years old, using an inexpensive camera his parents had given him for his birthday.
Even when he was a child his pictures had been so extraordinary everyone had been amazed at his talent. His mother and father, and sisters Joan and Kelly, were his willing victims, and had allowed themselves to be photographed day and night doing every conceivable thing, and were his models on special family occasions.
Naturally gifted, sensitive, intelligent, and with an exacting eye, he was completely self-taught. Photography had been his passion, his whole life, when he was a teenager, nothing had changed much in subsequent years.
It was in 1968 that Clee had discovered Paris for himself, and instantly fallen under its seductive spell. That summer he had made up his mind that he was going to live there one day, and he had returned to New York determined to become a great photographer. He wanted to be another Robert Capa if that was humanly possible.
At the time Clee had been working in the darkroom of a portrait photographer in Manhattan, and he had stayed on for only another year.
Through a connection of
“Hey, guys, what’s going on?” he asked, going toward JeanClaude, who was talking excitedly, and Michel Bellond, a partner in the agency and a photographer of talent and courage.
“Rien,” Michel said, and winked at Clee.
“He is right, it is nothing, really,” JeanClaude said and grinned.
“We were just discussing the merits of various restaurants, trying to decide where to have the dinner for Steve,” he explained, referring to another partner in Image.
“Let’s hear the choices,” Clee said. “Perhaps I’ll cast the deciding vote.”
When Clee finally left the Image offices on the rue de Bern, it was drawing close to dusk, that time of day when the sky has changed to twilight colors but has not yet turned black.
He lifted his head as he walked toward the Champs-Elysees and looked up at the sky. Tonight it was a deep blue, almost peacock in intensity, and it had a soft incandescent glow to it, as if subtly illuminated from behind.
Magic hour, he said to himself, using the movie term that best described this time of day, which movie directors and cinematographers loved with such passion because it was especially effective on film.
When he reached the Champs-Elysees he stopped and gazed up that long, wide boulevard, his eyes focusing on the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. The tricolor, the French national flag, was
suspended inside the arch from the top, and ingeniously illuminated with spotlights. It was blowing through the arch in the wind and looked unusually dramatic at this moment. Clee thought the arch was the most moving and magnificent sight he had seen in a very long time, but then the whole of Paris was particularly glorious right now. A large number of the impressive, ancient buildings had recently been carefully cleaned for the bicentennial celebrations taking place this year.
Turning left, Clee strolled down the Champs-Elysees, enjoying the walk after being cooped up in the office all day, he generally felt somewhat constrained when he was not out on assignment. But, whatever the circumstance, he enjoyed walking in Paris more than any other place in the world.
This was his city. He had first come here when he was eighteen and had fallen in love with it. At first sight. He had wanted to come to Paris because of Capa, who for so many years had lived in the French capital, where he had founded Magnum, his photo agency, in 1947 with “Chim” Seymour and Henri CartierBresson. Capa had been his hero since he was fifteen and growing up in New York. That year, 1965, he had read an article about the late photographer in a photography magazine, and ever after he had searched for anything and everything that had been written about Capa.
Clee had first started taking pictures when he was nine years old, using an inexpensive camera his parents had given him for his birthday.
Even when he was a child his pictures had been so extraordinary everyone had been amazed at his talent. His mother and father, and sisters Joan and Kelly, were his willing victims, and had allowed themselves to be photographed day and night doing every conceivable thing, and were his models on special family occasions.
Naturally gifted, sensitive, intelligent, and with an exacting eye, he was completely self-taught. Photography had been his passion, his whole life, when he was a teenager, nothing had changed much in subsequent years.
It was in 1968 that Clee had discovered Paris for himself, and instantly fallen under its seductive spell. That summer he had made up his mind that he was going to live there one day, and he had returned to New York determined to become a great photographer. He wanted to be another Robert Capa if that was humanly possible.
At the time Clee had been working in the darkroom of a portrait photographer in Manhattan, and he had stayed on for only another year.
Through a connection of
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