Fine art photography

On Center Gallery

Thank you to On Center Gallery in Provincetown, MA for asking me to take over their social feeds for the week. I am honored.

The selections featured on Instagram @oncentergallery come from collections and projects that are ongoing, my travels and my ordinary life.  Many of you know that each year I select a project and this year's project has centered on the elusiveness of time, evanescent, vanishing like vapor before us along a trail from instant to infinite. Two thousand and eighteen was a threshold year for me in many ways, and as I crossed a Rubicon of my own making, I did so with the certainty that if I am to make myself available to the goodness the universe has to offer, I must make conscious choices about how I spend my time. The featured photo of me was taken by the incomparable Sam Abell who has inspired and guided me,  in company with others, in my photographic journey.  I love this photo for the memory of our time together.  Photography is one of the greatest gifts I ever received, and it has changed everything in my life, from my awareness and how I see things, to how I value the moments in my life.  The lexicon of photography has become my internal language.  It reflects the poles of my mind (black and white) and the search for the shades in between (grayscale).  The bokeh of my landscape as I journey to areas where I have little depth.  Me, exposed, navigating a curious life, finding my focal points.  It is a language that transcends my photographic life.  It is merely the language of life.  

Time Slipping by

What would she say, this mirage of my younger self,  to my older self,  as she rushed by peering at our future selves in the garden lunching so contentedly?  

She,  such a confident stride of swagger and purpose, her movement focused on speed, a rose-colored flash of brisk pace from one end of the gallery to the other, checking this museum off the endless list of must-sees, to do's, can't misses.    Would she even notice the couple tucked in the small break in the trees, sitting together on that small patio in the garden surrounded by red lanterns, leisurely lunching?  Would she even see it? 

Would she have used the photographer's eye, sizing up the composition and arrangement of color and movement, patiently waiting for the breeze to blow the leaves just so?

Or would her mind be fixed on the mental list that always ran in her head of calendars and meetings, shoulds and shouldn't 's?  Would she even notice that time is slipping preciously, irreplaceably by?  

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I tugged at the door again as the doorman slowly and politely pushed the adjacent side open, and the sounds of the dinner rush swallowed me. I heard faint music, the rustle of clothes swiping at floor length white tablecloths, menus shuffling from one set of hands to another, and paper on paper. The scene that was playing out was all too familiar to me from my years of being a regular in the location down the street from where we lived in Dallas. I had been to so many dinners from that first introduction from Mark and Steve, but I have never been to this one, the first one in New York. I asked myself, "What was it we ate, creatures of habit that we were?" Are! A warmth comes over me, and I know you would have thought the same thing at precisely the same time. Was it the chicken paillard? Or maybe it was the branzino? No, it was definitely the paillard. You never really did care for Branzino the way I do. I used to order it at business dinners back in the day, especially in Italy, but not you, even when it was prepared with that thick white crust of salt. Yes, it was definitely the paillard. How many dinners like this had I been to throughout my career? I'd been to many, too many to count, and only now, in hindsight, do I wish I had taken the time to somehow record them in some way, the bottles of wine, the main course, the companions. Funny, that the only one that has really stayed with me is the one in Sicily, at a farm during a factory visit, not remotely one of the world-class restaurants of the star-rated kind. No, this was on a farm, and it was extraordinary, but you weren't with me, so it doesn't resonate with the same nostalgia that this evening does. You would have loved it, though, the mother making everything from scratch and all the ingredients coming from the fields just outside her kitchen door, that sweltering kitchen, with the wood-fired oven baking fresh bread in the heat of the late spring afternoon while pasta dried on racks placed carefully on every open surface. My mind is racing with all these thoughts as the lovely young woman walks us to our table. I am comforted by these remembrances of us, of you, this restaurant, and nights of quiet conversation, especially at this dinner of command performance when suddenly reality invades and reminds me that my presence at this moment is required, so I put my memories aside.

Conversation flows smoothly on this, our first, dinner together. My dining companion and I frequently share near misses through the years, and the happenstance of that becomes the foundation of the evening's dialogue. Each sentence beginning with questions of 'did you know,' or 'where were you when' as glasses of rosé flow from the bottle in the ice bucket tucked neatly behind the bar, despite my pleas to the Russian waitress to please stop topping my glass. The pale pink liquid was inducing an intimacy in the discussion, not borne of trust and time, and I am cautious of being too familiar with this person of whom I know so little. But it is lovely, and this place is so comfortable, and I am relaxed and freer than I would be otherwise.

That's when I see her sitting across the restaurant, tucked in the corner just to the left of the entrance. I ask myself rhetorically if she was there when I fumbled my way through the front door, acknowledging that she has represented for me fashion and elegance for as long as I can remember. Her, with the precision haircut that seems always to be the same length, never too short or too long, and I wonder how this could be achieved. I stood there with my mess of curls that seemed in one night to go from perfect to a bush of white, unruly and unkempt. She wore the dark glasses so characteristic of her, the meme, the iconic look. I was transfixed and lost my place in the conversation between her visage and the bottomless glass of rosé.

I could not remember a time when she wasn't on my horizon, in my peripheral vision, a consideration. Anna Wintour became the editor of Vogue Magazine in 1988, just as I was launching my life in NY and a fashion career, and here she was on this auspicious night having dinner across the room from me. Safe from notice, I stared at her small and elegant frame and her perfectly coiffed hair, her impeccable dress with the commanding statement necklace, and those shades, blacker than black.

I fantasized as the waitress placed the branzino in front of me and filled my glass with wine from the second bottle of rosé. I wondered whether or not Ms. Wintour would welcome my humble outpouring of respect and my acknowledgment of the contributions she made to my life from her perch in that pristine office. I thought of how I anticipated March and September, and especially September, when the issues hit the newsstands. I also pondered the time Tom Florio came to visit me in my tiny office to pitch me on advertising and bait me with promises of meeting her. Here she was, a mere 30 feet from where I was sitting.

I have never been much of a star chaser. I remember that lunch years ago when Deb went gaga over Heather Dubrow from the Housewives of Orange County, who was sitting outside on the patio having coffee with her plastic surgeon husband. I had no problem walking up to her and introducing myself and Deb, who barely spoke two words, but Anna Wintour was something altogether different. I realized I would never approach her. I would just sit there and stare, transfixed, mesmerized. She was so small, demure, for the warrior I imagined her to be. She was swallowed by the bay window and the table full of people, almost like being one of the caged animals at the zoo. Whether by design or otherwise, I was not the only person who had taken notice, when it suddenly dawned on me that her dress was like camouflage, a uniform, maybe an armor of sorts, refined and polished over 30 years to shield her opinions, her judgments. Those dark glasses protected eyes that have seen it all and done it all, and this led me to thoughts of Fashion Fatigue, the post-traumatic stress syndrome of the style-obsessed, and I smiled at my cleverness.

Not for one moment did it dilute my thrill, for in seeing her across the crowded restaurant, I was transported to the younger me, green and naive, attempting to bite the ruby red deliciousness of this city that called me as it was calling her. Our paths were different, but I'd like to think they were no more or less extraordinary, just different. While she was a significant influencer along my journey, the final destination suited me. I couldn't live in armor, wouldn't want to, and so I return to my branzino, and when I am done, she is gone.


Men at Play Show, On Center Gallery, Provincetown, MA

Opening reception Friday, July 6, 6:00-9:00 PM at On Center Gallery, 352 Commercial Street.  This show runs through July 16, 2018.  

Losing Face and Men at Play share the same theme of queer identity.  

Pritchard’s first visit to Provincetown was last July during Bear Week. She was here visiting friends and taking a photo workshop at the Fine Art’s Work Center with well-known photographer David Hilliard.   Pritchard immediately fell in love with Provincetown and the “be who you are” culture here.  Pritchard says “For me, the essence of the story and the week is that what we share is always greater than the differences that keep us apart.  The change in perspective from the latter to the former is what makes places like Provincetown so special.  How wonderful it would be if what bound us together was what we shared.  For one week a year, it does in Provincetown for this visiting throng.  Lovely really.”

Please email or visit to see more of the collection.

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