Peter was a best-kept secret of downtown New York. He was not known in the wider world. He’s known much better now than when he was alive. Standing in front of Peter’s work is a moving experience; it changes the way you see. It’s very important to see Peter’s work in real life. I own about ten of Peter’s prints – my house is full of them.
His photographs of animals are some of my favourite pictures. They’re of specific animals, not a species; animals with a name. They are some of his most intimate pictures and have some of the greatest connection with their subject. The way he can see animals and the way they look back at him. They definitely knew they were being photographed. He photographed the same individual animals repeatedly, they look like they were in love with him. Peter had a deep knowledge of them, from growing up on a farm.
I recently discovered the most incredible picture [by Peter]. It’s my new favourite picture of all time: Person in Veil (Backstage, The Life & Times of Joseph Stalin, Brooklyn Academy of Music), 1973. It’s of a person completely wrapped in white fabric. It’s magical. It’s another level. No one else could take a picture like that, and have it completely unpretentious.
Peter was very quiet and seemed shy, but had a genius wit. I was living with Greer Lankton when she was photographed by him and she described it as being made love to. He was very seductive, as a person. He photographed people he was already intimate with, or that he wanted to be intimate with. His work is very tender.
Everyone was in love with Peter, including myself. He told me he wanted to photograph me and much to my regret it never happened. The only pictures of me are 35mm, from Cookie Mueller’s wedding when I was a blonde. We had so much fun photographing Cookie’s wedding and Greer Lankton’s wedding together. That was when he was trying to do my kind of work and I was trying to do his.
“Standing in front of Peter’s work is a moving experience; it changes the way you see” – Nan Goldin
Peter would buy a camera and spend days with it to decide whether it spoke to him or not, or if he could speak through it. And if it didn’t, he’d return it. He got me a job with the designer Diane B whom he shot for regularly. She ended up saying she wouldn’t print the pictures I took for her, she would rather print a blank page. She said all my friends in the pictures were “junkies”. And then all these people went on to become famous.
Peter was the definition of loyalty. In the early 80s, we were having a show together at this gallery downtown, and the gallerist dropped me because he said I made his gallery dirty when I had come in with my friends and we’d leaned against his white walls. He dropped me, and Peter dropped him!
He had a huge influence on me as a photographer. I love his work, to the degree that I love Brassai’s work, for instance. He loved my early black and white work. It was a mutual influence. But I couldn’t achieve that sensitivity to portraiture. That degree of intensity and silence in the same picture.
Text by Linda Rosenkrantz, writer and author of Peter Hujar’s Day
I met Peter in the 1950s, when we were both relatively young – and we stayed close for the rest of his life. I’ve found recorded in some of my period journals some of the things we would do together: museum and gallery openings, dinners in Chinatown, drinks at the Cedar Street Tavern, (later it was Max’s Kansas City) ice skating in Central Park with a small group that included Paul Thek, dancing at a place called The Dom, going to movies, among those specified – often shown at the Museum of Modern Art – Look Back in Anger, Open City, The Bicycle Thief, Les Amantes, Coq d’or, Rashomon, plus occasional theatrical and ballet performances.
I have been told that I was his most frequently photographed subject and, indeed, there is evidence of Hujar beautified visions of me in locales ranging from Central Park to Times Square in New York, from Woodstock to Fire Island, Florence to Rome to Sicily. Over time the circle widened to include me with my mother, my young sister, my husband and my daughter Chloe – the little girl in the iconic decisive moment picture bouncing a ball. And then there was the author photo for my first book Talk, the gift of covering my ‘engagement’ and wedding. Peter Hujar truly chronicled my life.
The Peter I knew was sweet and gentle, smart and witty, wry and sly and always encouraging, contemplating how to help straighten the sometimes skewed trajectory of my life. We actually lived together for a period of weeks when I was invited to the Florentine ‘villano’ he was sharing with his then partner Joseph Raffael (the person who had initially introduced us) – where we wrote and painted during the day and talked endlessly of matters high and low at night. Peter planted a garden and liked to sit doodling at the piano. It was here at Bellosguardo that Peter taught me to knit, and it was the one time that I saw any evidence of his famous temper tantrums (when he found some dirty dishes left in the sink).
Whenever he went off on a trip, Peter would always bring back a gift for me – coral from Poland, chunky turquoise from the American Southwest – on one occasion he said that his one piece of advice to me was for me to wear more jewellery. And at the end he left instructions for David Wojnarowicz to give me all his own hippy-days jewellery.
But among the greatest gifts Peter bestowed have come to me posthumously by way of the conversation we recorded in 1974 that became the book and film Peter Hujar’s Day, which have brought to the current era of my life such positive attention, a stay at Sundance, and a cadre of amazing new friends.
In a letter he once sent to me from Italy, Peter wrote, “You are my only real sweetheart.”
The Angels of Light – the troupe’s second show titled Birdie Follies. I have no idea how I wound up in this show as short as it was. I was cast as a Black Swan, inspired by a stay in Malaga, Spain where I saw my first one. I had a face applied with specific sequins etc, my eyes lined black as much as possible to replicate this exotic creature. My brief bodice was covered in black – all glittery and feathered – and my short tutu was a mass of gathered black tulle. I wore sheer black hose on my legs and my favourite … very large, flapping black rubber flippers on my feet. Truly, that was the closest resemblance, in my mind, to this Black Swan I had seen.
Peter Hujar, if you can fathom such, was cast as Mother Goose. We were to have a duet, which never happened, but he looked like no one had ever seen him before: quite tall, a bit dowdy, yet motherly in a bonnet and a huge hoop skirted dress. That dress was real from someplace and not homemade.
Five minutes before curtain, another trusted [sic] cast member and friend named Rocky Roads approached me and cajoled me into taking a speck of clear light pure LSD. Thinking nothing of it (although experiencing numerous drugs back in the day), I had a firm rule of never taking anything, not even a puff on a joint, while working on stage. In short, this swallow was so quick and the effect hit so quickly [that] I became totally paranoid. The idea of going on stage petrified me, Peter was cool, walking around saying, “Where is my Black Swan?” Instead I panicked, ran for the exit door, flip-flopped down some stairwell in giant West Beth, in fear of finding no unlocked door.
Finally outside and here began one of the most bizarre experiences in my life. Dressed as a flip-flopped, high-on-LSD Black Swan I somehow walked – which was so difficult in those god-damned flip-flops – from West Beth to 321 West 11th St, where an empty penthouse of my dearest Moroccan friend resided. By some miracle I had a key to the front door, and to the penthouse as well. I made it with very sore and aching feet, but I was safe at last, despite still being very high and cursing my dear friend Rocky Roads who gave me that itty-bitty speck of LSD.
My only regret in my long friendship with Peter is that we never had our duet.
Naturally I miss Peter massively. I pray he is at peace. He is still with me – I don’t mean photographically, but as I walk around my apartment here in Berlin, I feel his shadow, mentally and physically. I’ll walk from a room to another, cook something, very trivial actions, but most often when I turn I feel him behind me, or hear his voice. This is not an illusion or anything disturbing … My interpretation is simply that part of him, which I have always shared or experienced, is still with me. I don’t care if this sounds wonky. It’s my experience. Of course, my life is at times utterly void of guidance as he is not here in the physical. That is all I wish to say.
Text by John Douglas Millar, writer and authorof Peter Hujar’s upcoming biography
Peter Hujar is walking up Second Avenue toward his loft above the former Yiddish Theatre at 189. It’s around 4 o’clock on an overcast late November day. He is wearing a dark blue cashmere coat over a woollen sweater of the same shade, his customary Pendleton plaid shirt, blue jeans, and Converse. It’s not yet fully dusk, but there is a sense of urban anticipation in the thickening light, the skyscrapers of the financial district are lit, pink taillights glow more insistently on the avenue, a wind from the East River blows litter and street salt in gusts and gyres. Hujar, tall, gaunt but still handsome in middle age, a little hunched against the cold, his gait tightened by arthritis of the knees, stops on the pavement and turns up the collar of his coat, glances across the street, an interrogative point in each eye, and then continues walking.
Though Hujar must have made this walk thousands of times, this scene is of my imagination, it has no documentary source. I wake up each morning thinking of this man who I never knew, could not have known, and I go to bed doing the same. I gather materials. I present them. I make an argument, to the best of my ability, for who I think Peter Hujar was and why he is significant. I move his image, like an avatar, through historical frames and theoretical abstractions. I surround his image with information and testimony. I bear the unresolved love, grief and rage of his friends and acquaintances, and I try to form a literary object that can bear all this with the honesty and unmannered complexity of one of his photographs. And he remains somehow inscrutable, opaque. If writing is a product of grief and desire, if it emerges from our wanting to want, if we are always writing out of and into some kind of constitutive lack, then the name of that lack for me is Peter Hujar.
“Hujar’s photography suggests the need for a different vocabulary. I seek it” – John Douglas Millar
One of the particularities of writing Hujar’s biography is the relative lack of textual evidence available. He did not keep a journal, his temperament and his relative obscurity to the market meant he did not take part in many interviews. He was a fastidious keeper of correspondence, but letters he sent are sparse. One result is that I rely to a significant degree on the journals, letters, documents and recorded testimony of others; he is spoken in other’s voices. Of course, this is true in varying degrees of any biographical subject, but what strikes me is that his profoundly felt present absence at the centre of this constellation of memorial and document mirrors the way his photographic portraits register the same. He appears most fully in the quality of the other’s gaze. From within that fresh-eye-water-glint the questions bank: what kind of person could prompt a subject to unveil like this? Who could elicit this kind of gaze, so open, so seemingly trusting, so without guile or apparent performance, so loving and desperate for connection, and yet locked within the essential solitude of a mortal body? What verb might be appropriate for what Hujar was doing with his Rollieflex – taking, catching, shooting, making? Hujar’s photography suggests the need for a different vocabulary. I seek it. Perhaps though I cannot fully answer what Hujar’s life and work mean for me, because to do so would be to try to contain or define the affect and meaning of the image I began with, the affective kernel from which I write. Perhaps I must, for now, let another’s words do the work. Above my writing desk is posted the following quote from the German philosopher Hannah Arendt:
“This mere existence, that is, all that which is mysteriously given by birth and which includes the shape of our bodies and the talents of our minds, can be adequately dealt with only by the unpredictable hazards of friendship and sympathy, or by the great and incalculable grace of love, which says with Augustine, I want you to be, without being able to give any particular reason for such supreme and unsurpassable affirmation.”
Text by Gary Schneider, artist and photographic printer
Peter’s life and work have been part of my life and work since we met in 1977. He was my friend and mentor. I often assisted him when he photographed on the street and was also photographed by him over the ten years I knew him. I became a professional printer under his guidance. I printed for him in 1987, the last year of his life, and have been printing his work again since 2008.
Each time I make one of his prints, I must work out how he would want me to read the narrative of the image. The narrative was largely created by him in the darkroom. My job is to recreate the actual steps he took to make the print. He made photographs that fully embodied his ethics, placing absolute value in the singularity of another person, animal or thing. The empathy in all his photographs is what means the most to me. It is what influences me with my own portraits.
Peter believed that we choose our family based on life values. Through Peter I met David Wojnarowicz. David and I were the same age, 20 years Peter’s junior. We both found mentorship with Peter, who had wisdom that we were in awe of. David introduced Peter to his gallery, Gracie Mansion, for Peter’s 1986 exhibition, and David brought me to his next gallery, PPOW, just a few years after Peter died. We all three had rage. David put it into his activism through performance, writing and art-making. Peter and I would have terrible outbursts, painful to the people around us and to ourselves. I have worked hard since 1993 to control mine through behavioural therapy.
Peter was impressively observant of trends. One day he walked into our apartment and announced that this was the “year of the overcoat”. He had just bought ten vintage cashmere overcoats for a dollar each, and he sent us to that store immediately. (David inherited all of them.) Another time he announced, “Buy gold.” It was $40 an ounce and he was certain that it would become very valuable. Of course, this was ridiculous; none of us, especially him, had any spare money, but within a year it went to hundreds of dollars and now it’s $3,000 an ounce.
As a photographer he preached many things including:
“No two prints need to match but all need to function,” which is still my mantra.
“Always spend your money on your art, don’t compromise on equipment and materials – nothing else matters.” He learned that lesson through experience: when he was desperate for money, he pawned his beloved Leica and immediately returned to buy it back, but it was gone, sold.
“If an image is too popular, it must be flawed.”
I’m now 17 years older than Peter was when he died. I have been printing photography for almost as long as Peter lived. I’m planning on making his work and mine till I die or lose my mind or my eyes – whichever comes first.
This story features in the Summer/Autumn 2025 issue of Another Man, which is on sale internationally now. Order here.
in HTML format, including tags, to make it appealing and easy to read for Japanese-speaking readers aged 20 to 40 interested in fashion. Organize the content with appropriate headings and subheadings (h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6), translating all text, including headings, into Japanese. Retain any existing tags from
This story is taken from the Summer/Autumn 2025 issue of Another Man, which is on sale internationally now:
20Peter Hujar in Another Man Summer/Autumn 2025
Nan Goldin, artist, on Peter Hujar
Interview by Lucy Kumara Moore
Peter was a best-kept secret of downtown New York. He was not known in the wider world. He’s known much better now than when he was alive. Standing in front of Peter’s work is a moving experience; it changes the way you see. It’s very important to see Peter’s work in real life. I own about ten of Peter’s prints – my house is full of them.
His photographs of animals are some of my favourite pictures. They’re of specific animals, not a species; animals with a name. They are some of his most intimate pictures and have some of the greatest connection with their subject. The way he can see animals and the way they look back at him. They definitely knew they were being photographed. He photographed the same individual animals repeatedly, they look like they were in love with him. Peter had a deep knowledge of them, from growing up on a farm.
I recently discovered the most incredible picture [by Peter]. It’s my new favourite picture of all time: Person in Veil (Backstage, The Life & Times of Joseph Stalin, Brooklyn Academy of Music), 1973. It’s of a person completely wrapped in white fabric. It’s magical. It’s another level. No one else could take a picture like that, and have it completely unpretentious.
Peter was very quiet and seemed shy, but had a genius wit. I was living with Greer Lankton when she was photographed by him and she described it as being made love to. He was very seductive, as a person. He photographed people he was already intimate with, or that he wanted to be intimate with. His work is very tender.
Everyone was in love with Peter, including myself. He told me he wanted to photograph me and much to my regret it never happened. The only pictures of me are 35mm, from Cookie Mueller’s wedding when I was a blonde. We had so much fun photographing Cookie’s wedding and Greer Lankton’s wedding together. That was when he was trying to do my kind of work and I was trying to do his.
“Standing in front of Peter’s work is a moving experience; it changes the way you see” – Nan Goldin
Peter would buy a camera and spend days with it to decide whether it spoke to him or not, or if he could speak through it. And if it didn’t, he’d return it. He got me a job with the designer Diane B whom he shot for regularly. She ended up saying she wouldn’t print the pictures I took for her, she would rather print a blank page. She said all my friends in the pictures were “junkies”. And then all these people went on to become famous.
Peter was the definition of loyalty. In the early 80s, we were having a show together at this gallery downtown, and the gallerist dropped me because he said I made his gallery dirty when I had come in with my friends and we’d leaned against his white walls. He dropped me, and Peter dropped him!
He had a huge influence on me as a photographer. I love his work, to the degree that I love Brassai’s work, for instance. He loved my early black and white work. It was a mutual influence. But I couldn’t achieve that sensitivity to portraiture. That degree of intensity and silence in the same picture.
Text by Linda Rosenkrantz, writer and author of Peter Hujar’s Day
I met Peter in the 1950s, when we were both relatively young – and we stayed close for the rest of his life. I’ve found recorded in some of my period journals some of the things we would do together: museum and gallery openings, dinners in Chinatown, drinks at the Cedar Street Tavern, (later it was Max’s Kansas City) ice skating in Central Park with a small group that included Paul Thek, dancing at a place called The Dom, going to movies, among those specified – often shown at the Museum of Modern Art – Look Back in Anger, Open City, The Bicycle Thief, Les Amantes, Coq d’or, Rashomon, plus occasional theatrical and ballet performances.
I have been told that I was his most frequently photographed subject and, indeed, there is evidence of Hujar beautified visions of me in locales ranging from Central Park to Times Square in New York, from Woodstock to Fire Island, Florence to Rome to Sicily. Over time the circle widened to include me with my mother, my young sister, my husband and my daughter Chloe – the little girl in the iconic decisive moment picture bouncing a ball. And then there was the author photo for my first book Talk, the gift of covering my ‘engagement’ and wedding. Peter Hujar truly chronicled my life.
The Peter I knew was sweet and gentle, smart and witty, wry and sly and always encouraging, contemplating how to help straighten the sometimes skewed trajectory of my life. We actually lived together for a period of weeks when I was invited to the Florentine ‘villano’ he was sharing with his then partner Joseph Raffael (the person who had initially introduced us) – where we wrote and painted during the day and talked endlessly of matters high and low at night. Peter planted a garden and liked to sit doodling at the piano. It was here at Bellosguardo that Peter taught me to knit, and it was the one time that I saw any evidence of his famous temper tantrums (when he found some dirty dishes left in the sink).
Whenever he went off on a trip, Peter would always bring back a gift for me – coral from Poland, chunky turquoise from the American Southwest – on one occasion he said that his one piece of advice to me was for me to wear more jewellery. And at the end he left instructions for David Wojnarowicz to give me all his own hippy-days jewellery.
But among the greatest gifts Peter bestowed have come to me posthumously by way of the conversation we recorded in 1974 that became the book and film Peter Hujar’s Day, which have brought to the current era of my life such positive attention, a stay at Sundance, and a cadre of amazing new friends.
In a letter he once sent to me from Italy, Peter wrote, “You are my only real sweetheart.”
The Angels of Light – the troupe’s second show titled Birdie Follies. I have no idea how I wound up in this show as short as it was. I was cast as a Black Swan, inspired by a stay in Malaga, Spain where I saw my first one. I had a face applied with specific sequins etc, my eyes lined black as much as possible to replicate this exotic creature. My brief bodice was covered in black – all glittery and feathered – and my short tutu was a mass of gathered black tulle. I wore sheer black hose on my legs and my favourite … very large, flapping black rubber flippers on my feet. Truly, that was the closest resemblance, in my mind, to this Black Swan I had seen.
Peter Hujar, if you can fathom such, was cast as Mother Goose. We were to have a duet, which never happened, but he looked like no one had ever seen him before: quite tall, a bit dowdy, yet motherly in a bonnet and a huge hoop skirted dress. That dress was real from someplace and not homemade.
Five minutes before curtain, another trusted [sic] cast member and friend named Rocky Roads approached me and cajoled me into taking a speck of clear light pure LSD. Thinking nothing of it (although experiencing numerous drugs back in the day), I had a firm rule of never taking anything, not even a puff on a joint, while working on stage. In short, this swallow was so quick and the effect hit so quickly [that] I became totally paranoid. The idea of going on stage petrified me, Peter was cool, walking around saying, “Where is my Black Swan?” Instead I panicked, ran for the exit door, flip-flopped down some stairwell in giant West Beth, in fear of finding no unlocked door.
Finally outside and here began one of the most bizarre experiences in my life. Dressed as a flip-flopped, high-on-LSD Black Swan I somehow walked – which was so difficult in those god-damned flip-flops – from West Beth to 321 West 11th St, where an empty penthouse of my dearest Moroccan friend resided. By some miracle I had a key to the front door, and to the penthouse as well. I made it with very sore and aching feet, but I was safe at last, despite still being very high and cursing my dear friend Rocky Roads who gave me that itty-bitty speck of LSD.
My only regret in my long friendship with Peter is that we never had our duet.
Naturally I miss Peter massively. I pray he is at peace. He is still with me – I don’t mean photographically, but as I walk around my apartment here in Berlin, I feel his shadow, mentally and physically. I’ll walk from a room to another, cook something, very trivial actions, but most often when I turn I feel him behind me, or hear his voice. This is not an illusion or anything disturbing … My interpretation is simply that part of him, which I have always shared or experienced, is still with me. I don’t care if this sounds wonky. It’s my experience. Of course, my life is at times utterly void of guidance as he is not here in the physical. That is all I wish to say.
Text by John Douglas Millar, writer and authorof Peter Hujar’s upcoming biography
Peter Hujar is walking up Second Avenue toward his loft above the former Yiddish Theatre at 189. It’s around 4 o’clock on an overcast late November day. He is wearing a dark blue cashmere coat over a woollen sweater of the same shade, his customary Pendleton plaid shirt, blue jeans, and Converse. It’s not yet fully dusk, but there is a sense of urban anticipation in the thickening light, the skyscrapers of the financial district are lit, pink taillights glow more insistently on the avenue, a wind from the East River blows litter and street salt in gusts and gyres. Hujar, tall, gaunt but still handsome in middle age, a little hunched against the cold, his gait tightened by arthritis of the knees, stops on the pavement and turns up the collar of his coat, glances across the street, an interrogative point in each eye, and then continues walking.
Though Hujar must have made this walk thousands of times, this scene is of my imagination, it has no documentary source. I wake up each morning thinking of this man who I never knew, could not have known, and I go to bed doing the same. I gather materials. I present them. I make an argument, to the best of my ability, for who I think Peter Hujar was and why he is significant. I move his image, like an avatar, through historical frames and theoretical abstractions. I surround his image with information and testimony. I bear the unresolved love, grief and rage of his friends and acquaintances, and I try to form a literary object that can bear all this with the honesty and unmannered complexity of one of his photographs. And he remains somehow inscrutable, opaque. If writing is a product of grief and desire, if it emerges from our wanting to want, if we are always writing out of and into some kind of constitutive lack, then the name of that lack for me is Peter Hujar.
“Hujar’s photography suggests the need for a different vocabulary. I seek it” – John Douglas Millar
One of the particularities of writing Hujar’s biography is the relative lack of textual evidence available. He did not keep a journal, his temperament and his relative obscurity to the market meant he did not take part in many interviews. He was a fastidious keeper of correspondence, but letters he sent are sparse. One result is that I rely to a significant degree on the journals, letters, documents and recorded testimony of others; he is spoken in other’s voices. Of course, this is true in varying degrees of any biographical subject, but what strikes me is that his profoundly felt present absence at the centre of this constellation of memorial and document mirrors the way his photographic portraits register the same. He appears most fully in the quality of the other’s gaze. From within that fresh-eye-water-glint the questions bank: what kind of person could prompt a subject to unveil like this? Who could elicit this kind of gaze, so open, so seemingly trusting, so without guile or apparent performance, so loving and desperate for connection, and yet locked within the essential solitude of a mortal body? What verb might be appropriate for what Hujar was doing with his Rollieflex – taking, catching, shooting, making? Hujar’s photography suggests the need for a different vocabulary. I seek it. Perhaps though I cannot fully answer what Hujar’s life and work mean for me, because to do so would be to try to contain or define the affect and meaning of the image I began with, the affective kernel from which I write. Perhaps I must, for now, let another’s words do the work. Above my writing desk is posted the following quote from the German philosopher Hannah Arendt:
“This mere existence, that is, all that which is mysteriously given by birth and which includes the shape of our bodies and the talents of our minds, can be adequately dealt with only by the unpredictable hazards of friendship and sympathy, or by the great and incalculable grace of love, which says with Augustine, I want you to be, without being able to give any particular reason for such supreme and unsurpassable affirmation.”
Text by Gary Schneider, artist and photographic printer
Peter’s life and work have been part of my life and work since we met in 1977. He was my friend and mentor. I often assisted him when he photographed on the street and was also photographed by him over the ten years I knew him. I became a professional printer under his guidance. I printed for him in 1987, the last year of his life, and have been printing his work again since 2008.
Each time I make one of his prints, I must work out how he would want me to read the narrative of the image. The narrative was largely created by him in the darkroom. My job is to recreate the actual steps he took to make the print. He made photographs that fully embodied his ethics, placing absolute value in the singularity of another person, animal or thing. The empathy in all his photographs is what means the most to me. It is what influences me with my own portraits.
Peter believed that we choose our family based on life values. Through Peter I met David Wojnarowicz. David and I were the same age, 20 years Peter’s junior. We both found mentorship with Peter, who had wisdom that we were in awe of. David introduced Peter to his gallery, Gracie Mansion, for Peter’s 1986 exhibition, and David brought me to his next gallery, PPOW, just a few years after Peter died. We all three had rage. David put it into his activism through performance, writing and art-making. Peter and I would have terrible outbursts, painful to the people around us and to ourselves. I have worked hard since 1993 to control mine through behavioural therapy.
Peter was impressively observant of trends. One day he walked into our apartment and announced that this was the “year of the overcoat”. He had just bought ten vintage cashmere overcoats for a dollar each, and he sent us to that store immediately. (David inherited all of them.) Another time he announced, “Buy gold.” It was $40 an ounce and he was certain that it would become very valuable. Of course, this was ridiculous; none of us, especially him, had any spare money, but within a year it went to hundreds of dollars and now it’s $3,000 an ounce.
As a photographer he preached many things including:
“No two prints need to match but all need to function,” which is still my mantra.
“Always spend your money on your art, don’t compromise on equipment and materials – nothing else matters.” He learned that lesson through experience: when he was desperate for money, he pawned his beloved Leica and immediately returned to buy it back, but it was gone, sold.
“If an image is too popular, it must be flawed.”
I’m now 17 years older than Peter was when he died. I have been printing photography for almost as long as Peter lived. I’m planning on making his work and mine till I die or lose my mind or my eyes – whichever comes first.
This story features in the Summer/Autumn 2025 issue of Another Man, which is on sale internationally now. Order here.
and integrate them seamlessly into the new content without adding new tags. Ensure the new content is fashion-related, written entirely in Japanese, and approximately 1500 words. Conclude with a “結論” section and a well-formatted “よくある質問” section. Avoid including an introduction or a note explaining the process.
