Because my Dad died in 1975 at thirty-three when I was five years old, I never really knew him. I would ask family members and friends for their memories of him and they would recall a promising young architect who liked skiing, wood and canvas canoes, Porsches, airplanes, and classical music. He and my mother converted a fire-gutted barn in Wallingford, Connecticut into a modern and stylish home that was featured in several newspaper and magazine articles. He was also a serious amateur photographer who studied with Walker Evans at Yale in the Sixties. My Dad left behind wooden boxes full of carefully printed black and white prints of architectural details, landscapes and portraits. Through his photography, I came to know my Dad.