I don’t shoot portraits – A one shot story

For most of my life as a photographer, I avoided portraits—especially of people I didn’t know. The idea of intruding, of asking permission to study someone closely, always felt uncomfortable. I admired photographers who could do it with ease. My mentor Bruce Dale, a National Geographic staff photographer for decades, could walk up to anyone and ask for their portrait without hesitation. Street portrait photographers like UK YouTuber and award winning photographer, Paul Reid still leave me in awe. I knew I didn’t have that instinct, after fifty years behind the lens I know it’s a skill I still need to work on. And yet, the photograph that stands out amongst all those I ever made is a portrait.

I met Bob Gilka during a workshop run by Bruce Dale. Bruce had invited the legendary director of photography at National Geographic to conduct portfolio reviews. For those of us who grew up reading the magazine, Bob was more than an editor. He was a mythic figure—the unseen hand behind some of the most influential photography of the twentieth century.

We knew his standards were exacting. In one of the first review sessions, we sat like schoolchildren in a darkened room while our daily selects were projected onto a screen. At one point, Bob—physically imposing and utterly direct—looked at an image and said, “I’m not sure why the photographer even bothered to press the shutter button on that one.” It wasn’t mine, thankfully. But the message was clear: Bob’s standards didn’t bend for anyone. Amateur or professional, the work either mattered—or it didn’t.

Over time, the myth gave way to something more human. Beyond the workshops, I developed a friendship with Bob and his wife, Janet. Our time together was brief but meaningful, and I came to value it deeply. Bob was rigorous, but he was also generous, thoughtful, and fully engaged with the act of seeing.

The portrait that would become my favorite image of all time was never planned. It was made during another slide review session. Bob was hunched over a light table, loupe in hand, his glasses pushed up onto his forehead. I was sitting across from him with the other attendees, waiting for his critique. What caught my attention was the composition: the natural framing of his posture, the reflected light across his face, the intensity of his concentration.

I had my Nikon F4s with me, fitted—if memory serves—with a 105mm Nikkor, one of my favorite lenses. I was shooting slide film, likely Velvia 100. The slow film forced me wide open, at a shutter speed that left no room for error. I raised the camera and made a few frames. Bob never noticed.

When the slides came back from processing, I knew immediately I had the image.

I made a print and sent it to Bob. His response validated my entire existence as a photographer. He wrote back to say it was the best portrait anyone had ever taken of him. A couple of years later, when I visited Bob and Janet at their home on the coast of Maine, I found the photograph hanging on the wall of their kitchen.

Out of hundreds of thousands of images I’ve made, this one endures—not because I set out to make a portrait, but because it captured a moment of absolute truth. of a master, still leaning into the light, still striving to see.

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