THE PHOTOGRAPH NOT TAKEN:
The Night John Lennon Died

In the late 1970s and early ’80s, I lived in New York City with my first wife at the Majestic, 115 Central Park West, Apt. 12G. Our apartment was on the 12th floor with windows running along 72nd Street. The view was commanding: a huge slice of Central Park and the entire southern facade of the Dakota, immortalized by Roman Polanski’s movie Rosemary’s Baby. The brownstone facings and contrasting yellow brick with chimneys, finials, gables, and balconies, and the medallion of the proud Dakota chief — all framed by the glorious New York sky — were our daily bread.

(...)I focused on John's face, the face of a dying man. Then I said to myself, "This isn't my work. Whoever is there deserves a final moment of privacy."

When I tell people: “I was there when John was shot,” they invariably ask: “Did you have a camera?” “Yes, I did,” I respond. “So, where is the photo?” “I didn’t take one. I painted a picture.”