“He can wear an ascot without appearing pretentious. He proclaims himself to be a closet optimist. He believes Modernism took a wrong turn at a wrong time. He thinks Freud saved his life. He graduated Yale. He lives in a wooded enclave in Snedens Landing, just close enough to Manhattan to meet an editor for lunch at a moments notice, but far enough away to mollify his distain for city living. He loves books. Paper. And printed matter. He wrestles with Big Ideas and references Wittgenstein and Plato as if he saw them just yesterday. He’s tweedy. Proud. Not loud. He’s a perfectionist. Workaholic.”
We’re talking about Rodney Smith, a simple man in a very complicated world, in which is so hard to remain human. We’re talking about a photographer, but not a simple one. Here is the proof:
