his father’s, he had managed to get a job on the New Xork Post as a junior photographer. Very rapidly he had made a name for himself on the paper, and he had never looked back.
During this period he had taken himself off to night school several evenings a week to study French, which he knew was an absolute necessity if he was ever to achieve his ambition and live in Paris. By the time he was twenty-one he was fluent in the language. He was also a far better photographer than some of the most seasoned veterans in the news business.
A staff job on The New rork Tines followed in 1971, but when he was twenty-three Clee left the paper. He had decided to become a roving photojournalist covering Europe, and worked as a freelancer for a number of American and English magazines.
Naturally, he had chosen to base himself in Paris, and two years later, when he was twenty-five, he had started Image. Banding together with two other photographers, he had hired three darkroom assistants, a secretary and JeanClaude, who managed the agency. Michel Bellond, a Frenchman, and Steve Carvelli, an American of Italian descent, were his partners. Less than a year after Image had been founded, Peter Naylor from London be
came the fourth and last photographer to join the group as a partner.
Right from the outset, Image had been successful, quickly garnering big international assignments, commanding high fees for the star photographers and soon winning a clutch of awards. After fourteen years it was still going strong with the four original partners and several staff photographers, along with additional darkroom assistants and secretarial help. And it had become one of the most prestigious photo agencies in the world.
Clee was well aware that his family had been dismayed, even distressed, when he had become an expatriate and settled in Paris. At the time, he was regretful of this, but he had never had any intention of changing his life. It was his own to live the way he saw fit. In the early years his parents and sisters had come to visit him frequently, and whenever he had gone back to New York he had spent as much time with them as he could. And he still did, whenever he was there.
Despite the fact that he had defied his father and had not gone to college, choosing instead to plunge into the world of the working photographer, they had remained truly good friends.
Second-generation Irish, with an analytical mind, a golden tongue and the gift of gab, his father, Edward Donovan, had been a successful, well-known attorney in Manhattan, and highly respected in the field of criminal law. He had died unexpectedly of a heart attack in 1981, and Clee, like his mother and sisters, had felt the loss acutely. Ted Donovan had been very much a family man, a devoted husband and a loving father.
To Clee’s considerable relief, his mother had managed to cope with her grief rather well, and quite bravely, he thought, thanks in no small measure to his sisters’ offspring. Both Joan and Kelly were married, and between them they had three daughters and one son. Martha Donovan’s grandchildren had become her life, and she appeared to be at peace with herself these days.
Clee’s thoughts stayed with his mother as he hailed a passing cab, got in and gave the driver his address. He must call her this weekend and let her know he would be in New York in late July, tell her that they would be seeing each other soon. This would please her as much as it pleased him. They had remained close over the years, and he knew she worried about him a great deal, especially when he was in a combat zone. This was only one of the many reasons he stayed in constant touch with her wherever he was.
Within a short time the cab was turning into the rue Jacob in the sixth arrondissement, that charming part of Paris known as the Latin Quarter.
It was here that Clee lived in a fourth-floor apartment of a handsome old building.
Clee sat on the sofa in the living room, the lights dim,
During this period he had taken himself off to night school several evenings a week to study French, which he knew was an absolute necessity if he was ever to achieve his ambition and live in Paris. By the time he was twenty-one he was fluent in the language. He was also a far better photographer than some of the most seasoned veterans in the news business.
A staff job on The New rork Tines followed in 1971, but when he was twenty-three Clee left the paper. He had decided to become a roving photojournalist covering Europe, and worked as a freelancer for a number of American and English magazines.
Naturally, he had chosen to base himself in Paris, and two years later, when he was twenty-five, he had started Image. Banding together with two other photographers, he had hired three darkroom assistants, a secretary and JeanClaude, who managed the agency. Michel Bellond, a Frenchman, and Steve Carvelli, an American of Italian descent, were his partners. Less than a year after Image had been founded, Peter Naylor from London be
came the fourth and last photographer to join the group as a partner.
Right from the outset, Image had been successful, quickly garnering big international assignments, commanding high fees for the star photographers and soon winning a clutch of awards. After fourteen years it was still going strong with the four original partners and several staff photographers, along with additional darkroom assistants and secretarial help. And it had become one of the most prestigious photo agencies in the world.
Clee was well aware that his family had been dismayed, even distressed, when he had become an expatriate and settled in Paris. At the time, he was regretful of this, but he had never had any intention of changing his life. It was his own to live the way he saw fit. In the early years his parents and sisters had come to visit him frequently, and whenever he had gone back to New York he had spent as much time with them as he could. And he still did, whenever he was there.
Despite the fact that he had defied his father and had not gone to college, choosing instead to plunge into the world of the working photographer, they had remained truly good friends.
Second-generation Irish, with an analytical mind, a golden tongue and the gift of gab, his father, Edward Donovan, had been a successful, well-known attorney in Manhattan, and highly respected in the field of criminal law. He had died unexpectedly of a heart attack in 1981, and Clee, like his mother and sisters, had felt the loss acutely. Ted Donovan had been very much a family man, a devoted husband and a loving father.
To Clee’s considerable relief, his mother had managed to cope with her grief rather well, and quite bravely, he thought, thanks in no small measure to his sisters’ offspring. Both Joan and Kelly were married, and between them they had three daughters and one son. Martha Donovan’s grandchildren had become her life, and she appeared to be at peace with herself these days.
Clee’s thoughts stayed with his mother as he hailed a passing cab, got in and gave the driver his address. He must call her this weekend and let her know he would be in New York in late July, tell her that they would be seeing each other soon. This would please her as much as it pleased him. They had remained close over the years, and he knew she worried about him a great deal, especially when he was in a combat zone. This was only one of the many reasons he stayed in constant touch with her wherever he was.
Within a short time the cab was turning into the rue Jacob in the sixth arrondissement, that charming part of Paris known as the Latin Quarter.
It was here that Clee lived in a fourth-floor apartment of a handsome old building.
Clee sat on the sofa in the living room, the lights dim,
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