The Last Snap

Was I deluded? I wanted to be America's answer to Henri Cartier-Bresson and back then I was never without my Hasselblad.

I remember the scene as if it was yesterday. Sweltering heat. Downtown Manhattan. And of course the noise. It was Labor day and that's why Jean was off work and had agreed to be my model. I'd wanted to create an iconic image, one that would rival the Times Square 'Kiss'. You know the one – where the sailor is kissing the girl in a white dress.

We had tried every conceivable pose. I made Jean blow smoke rings, had her looking wistfully across the Hudson, there was one with her feeding pigeons, another with her reflected in a shop window and I recall one particular close-up which showed her perfect complexion. There was even a shot with her standing over an air vent with her dress billowing up. She saw that the next day on the contact sheet and made me promise never to make a print. Shame.

By early afternoon, Jean's enthusiasm had evaporated. I can't remember now what she'd said. Or what I'd said. But anyway, she spun round on her high heels and headed back to her apartment in a real huff. I don't know whether she was crying or her face was contorted in rage. Either way, she certainly drew attention to herself.

I should have gone after her. But do you know what, I just looked into the viewfinder and clicked the shutter.

I couldn't wait to show Jean the images, but when I called her that evening she hung up on me. She also hung up the next morning, but I guess curiosity got the better of her and she called me back and came over to see the contacts. I'd also made an enlarged print of the final shot, which I had cropped from the medium format square shape into a landscape format. Her words echo down the decades.

'That's no kind of photograph, Hank. You can't even see my face.'

'But it's artistic.'

'Photographs can't be art! They're just snaps. Can you imagine anyone looking at that photograph 50 or 60 years from now? Will they be studying the composition? Will they be looking deep into the image? I don't think so!'

I never saw Jean again. And I never took another photograph.