As a child and teen, I would pore over the pages of Time, Life, and National Geographic magazines, captivated by the images and dreaming of places far beyond my hometown of Hamilton, Canada, a bustling steel town. In 1973, I found myself on the shore of Lake Ontario during a trip to Queen’s University in Kingston, contemplating my future as I entered my final year of high school. My passion for science was clear, with beakers, test tubes, and rockets filling my daydreams. Yet, art had always held a special place in my heart. High school had introduced me to the Great Masters in both painting and photography. While I had been snapping shots with a Kodak Instamatic 110 during family travels, a school friend from Hong Kong lent me his Nikon F camera. Inspired by the magazine images and my studies, I began assembling a photography portfolio for art school.

The dilemma was real as I sat by the lake: should I pursue art college or university for science? My interest in pure sciences had waned, making engineering the next viable option. Ultimately, I chose engineering, reasoning that I could always pursue photography as an engineer, but not vice versa. This choice proved wise, as my engineering career opened doors to photographic opportunities that might have otherwise remained closed.

Four years later, I graduated with a degree in civil engineering, specializing in roads, piles of dirt, and concrete. Despite numerous job opportunities, none piqued my interest, so I applied to graduate school. Throughout university, I devoured photographic magazines but lacked the time and money to practice photography. With my first paycheck from a summer job, I bought the latest Nikon EL2 camera used in the images presented here. I was also fortunate to have access to a darkroom in my student co-op building, allowing me to process my film and B&W prints.

One of my earliest shots that summer was of a farmer holding a stubby beer bottle at my girlfriend’s grandmother’s farm, a photo that remains my all-time favorite and still hangs in my living room. That summer, I roamed town with my camera, capturing whatever caught my eye. Without social media and only a few friends to showcase my work, magazines and newspapers were my main influence.

Returning to Hamilton for biomedical engineering graduate studies, I overcame my introverted self and boldly walked into the McMaster university student newspaper on my first day, announcing my desire to be a staff photographer. They accepted me, and I dedicated 30-40 hours a week on top of my studies to shooting and layout work. While most others focused on student issues, I sought broader stories, photographing visiting scholars and renowned figures like Sir Edmund Hillary, the first person to climb Mount Everest. I captured him windswept on the side of the Hamilton ‘Mountain,’ a 300-foot escarpment. Coincidentally, he frequently visited my research group, which studied exercise and breathing at high altitudes.

That year, I learned to become invisible while shooting and never hesitating to capture a moment. Deadlines were always looming, pushing me to create timely images. Listening to a presentation by Robert Frank, I learned to always be shooting whether I had a camera or not. My confidence as a photographer grew, and I often thought back to the magazines of my childhood, now dreaming of shooting myself for Time, Life, and National Geographic and eventually winning a Pulitzer. While I have yet to achieve these goals, my engineering career has afforded me opportunities to engage in activities worthy of those magazines, allowing me to travel widely and photograph during business trips.

After a year, I moved to Toronto to complete my graduate studies and began working at a children's rehabilitation hospital, a place where I would spend the next 30 years of my career. That first summer, I roamed the streets, capturing everyday moments to document life as I saw it. Experiencing a large city for the first time, street photography felt natural to me. Without the influence of social media and its trends or specialized techniques, my approach remained organic and instinctive. Often, I would sit with strangers and chat before photographing them.

Our hospital's world-renowned status brought many notable figures, providing unique photographic opportunities. I vividly remember photographing the Queen Mother, standing directly in front of her while press photographers, confined behind barricades, yelled at me to move out of their shots.

Drawing from my previous experience, I joined an independent student newspaper at the University of Toronto. I continued my focus on covering events beyond the university, immersing myself in the many protests that were occurring at the time. I learned invaluable lessons from professional news photographers, who taught me how to navigate the chaos and get close in sometimes volatile situations. They also showed me how to collaborate with police to corral protesters for tighter shots or gain access to restricted areas for high shots. And I soon found myself competing with them.

I gained access to photograph notable figures and began documenting stories of my own. In 1980, I had the extraordinary opportunity to photograph the 16th Karmapa, the spiritual leader of the Karma Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, who was traveling with the Dalai Lama to Toronto. However, the challenge was that I could only photograph him if I could find him—somewhere on a farm in a neighboring area of Toronto, with no further details.

Determined, I managed to locate him. Along with my editor and a Tibetan translator, we interviewed him, shared Tibetan tea (which was very salty) with cookies and set up my equipment for the shoot. The remote strobe lighting fascinated both him and his traveling monks, as they had never seen such technology before. During the session, I asked to see his prayer beads. As he reached for them, I captured a candid moment, and he broke out laughing. The entire shoot lasted under five minutes, but its impact was profound. Afterward, the Karmapa stood up, shook my hand, and simply said, “See you.” For me, it felt almost like shaking hands with a divine figure.

At the hospital, I was deeply involved in developing communication technology for children who were non-speaking. They utilized a system called Blissymbols, invented by Charles Bliss after World War II as an international symbolic communication method. While his system never gained widespread public adoption, it became quite renowned at our hospital.

During one of his visits from Australia to Canada, I managed to locate him in a run-down hotel in downtown Toronto. I spent the weekend interviewing and photographing him, building a rapport as he discovered we shared an engineering background and Jewish heritage. Charles Bliss grew to like me and entrusted me with fulfilling his legacy of helping mankind, a precursor to my lifelong dedication to assistive technology.

After completing my Master’s, I was able to return to my original plan by taking a few courses in photography and design at the Ontario College of Art to further hone my skills.

My work, personal life, and photography were always intertwined, creating opportunities that were profoundly meaningful to me. Reflecting now, amidst the constant barrage of images on social media, I am grateful for the way I was able to develop my own style as a photographer without the pressure to conform to the latest trends and techniques. I simply photographed what I saw and felt, allowing my unique perspective to shine through. The early lessons have stayed with me, and I still photograph on the street, always aiming to tell a compelling story.