In that last century, in which I spent 58 years of my life, movies represented an escape. I went to see Pillow Talk knowing I would have a pleasant time. I respected the likes of Gregory Peck, Humphrey Bogart, and Joseph Cotten. I adored Gene Tierney and Lauren Bacall.

In 1959 I saw Raintree County and my eyes were all on Eva Marie Saint. Some say I married my Rosemary in 1968 because she resembled Marie Saint. I was not interested in Elizabeth Taylor’s violet eyes. While as a teenager, when my interest in girls began, I was yet to feel the boredom of the constant-on-red-carpet cleavage of this century.

I am unable to understand why social media wants to kill our dreams by showing us portraits of movie stars over 80. I want to dream that they never age.

And so when I had my opportunity to photograph Audrey Hepburn (the Audrey Hepburn of Roman Holiday) I was shocked at her appearance. In the methodology of this century I could have gotten really close and shot a dramatic portrait. I could not do it. I could not wake up from my dream of Hepburn sitting behind Gregory Peck in a Vespa.

I switched to a long lens on my Mamiya RB-67 and photographed her from afar.

The portraits, I thought were my most monumental failure of my career as a portrait photographer.

I did communicate with Hepburn. I was warned by writer John Lekich not to ask her about her former husband Mel Ferrer (the delicious villain in Scaramouche). She frowned when I asked her. She was very tall so I asked her if she had ever appeared with a much shorted leading man. She cited Humphrey Bogart. When I asked her about that Roman Holiday Vespa and if she was afraid she told me,"Gregory Peck was in complete control."

I have come to reconsider my portrait session with Hepburn.

I remember having to photograph a boxing match in which a young boxer was devastating an older one. The trainer threw in the towel. The young boxer noticed that his opponent had no seen it so he kept pummelling him. The Vancouver Sun photographer beside me kept shooting. I was much too shocked and I refrained.

Thus our personal principles must in some way trump our photographic obligations to a magazine.

When I photographed George Plimpton, the kind author told me a story to break the ice. He said that Life photographer Gordon Parks and he were assigned to cover a boxing match involving Muhhamad Ali. Ali lost and he was passed out on a slab table. Parks said, “I cannot photograph him like this.” And he didn’t.

George Plimpton & Gordon Parks