The following transcript is from a tape recording made by Professor Arnold Gassan of Ohio University at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City in October, 1969. The dialogue took place between Professor Gassan, his students and the photographer Duane Michals.

CONVERSATIONS WITH DUANE MICHALS

Michals: If you haven't any experience in photography, as far as I'm concerned, what is important is that it happens out of your own experiences. And, unless you're some kind of a bloody genius, you know, you wouldn't be here [as a student]. You know what I mean (laughter). So it just takes a lot of living before you have something to do with your photographs, other than photographing water with petals and things like that. There's a great deal to be said for getting older (laughter). So don't worry about anything, just let everything happen to you; I mean, all the good and bad things. But use everything that happens to you—every single thing, even if you don't know today what you're going to do with it. It may come out five years from now. So nothing is lost, and just be very patient, but let everything happen to you.

Anyway, the series are my big concern, a thing that I'm most involved in. Again, I wouldn't have conceived of these five years ago. Five years ago I would have done something else and five years before that I wouldn't have conceived of that. So like five years from now you all may be doing something that you can't even imagine— something beyond your wildest dreams. So again, you know, just keep yourself completely open and try everything. You know; make lots of mistakes.

A lot of young people come by . . . well not a lot, maybe once a month somebody calls me up, some student wants to come over. And the trouble is that I don't see any mistakes; I don't see any outrageous mistakes. I see very nice photographs in a number of predictable styles but I don't see somebody doing something really way out, and ridiculous and done "all wrong." At least then you feel that there's a mind operating, you know, and maybe wrong now but next year it may be right. So don't be afraid to do ridiculous things; and, try anything that comes to your mind.

All these series things I'm doing—I don't even know what they're all about, they just occur to me. And because they occur to me that's about enough reason for me to try to do something with it. And sometimes I look back on something I did two years ago and I see something in it I never had thought of, or something that seems very simple ends up more complicated than I realized. So there's a whole thing in your mind going on, that you're not aware of. But let it happen to you; don't be uptight about anything; just be very loose.

Anyway, I've done about 20 of these at this point. They're all done on various subjects of things that have occurred to me or ideas that have moved me; I don't know why I'm always pleased when people respond to them because that means that out of my, you know, personal thing somebody is also grooving in that same direction. Anyway, I've also taken to titling them, which a lot of photographers are very much against and I have been too, but the reason I titled them is because I have a very specific idea in mind. I don't care if anyone else digs that idea, that's their business; whatever you get is your own business. But, I wanted you to know what my idea was.

I don't know the best way to do this . . . Tell you what, I'll put them around the table and you can all walk by and look at them. And try not to take the whole thing in at one glance. The titles are on the top of them. They're all very specifically worked out; there's very little action, but generally you would just . . .

Gassan: Matter of fact you're functioning more as a director than a photographer.

Michals: Yes, you're essentially taking the picture, but a great deal of "making people perform for you" becomes involved.

Gassan: I mean you're working as a director's cameraman, almost with a stand camera.

Michals: People always ask if I'm interested in making movies, and I'm not at all. I consider this kind of thing as still photography. I mean like I couldn't do this in a movie, like this is really I think is more Haiku where in an instant you suggest something happening between two people. To expand it to 10 minutes would destroy it. This is really all it is, you know, I won't make any more out of it. And I don't do it in single images because this device permits me to show an idea fuller than, more fully than if I would do it in one image. If I could do it in one image or fewer pictures, I would do it in fewer pictures.

Gassan: You have more control over this then you would . . .

Michals: More nuance in terms of—but I like the idea that, you know, it's very sparse, down to this, (you know) like the minimum number of photographs suggests the idea, (tape unclear) . . .

Gassan: Do you mount them all together, on one board, when you show them?

Michals: Well I had a show last year and they were mounted like in a story board one after another. But I won't do that any more because . . . I like it better to see one picture, than to have space and see the other picture. Because, your eye tends to take in the whole thing at once and zoom to the last one. Doubleday is doing the book on them and there will be one picture on each page so that, you know, each . . .'

Student: You mean the show was like the Camera presentation where you . . . ?

Michals: Yes. I won't do that ever again. Except it's such a drag to mount these, to organize for a show. It's just ... I'm very lazy and the whole idea of printing all these things . . .

Student: Would you print it on one piece of paper or would you print the sequence as separate images?

Michals: Well now they will be separately shown. They're all separate images. But I usually run people through these two or three times and then piece them together, you know, like the fourth one here. The person understands then what I'm talking about, but at first it's very difficult to tell somebody what I want to do.

Gassan: Have you ever tried to do like Peter Kubelka, the film maker? Which is to print the films twice, then show them twice in an exhibit, so the person has to go through it and view them twice.

Michals: No, no. Sounds like a lot of work! Do you have any questions about any of the ideas?

Student: You said each shot was preconceived. The whole thing was, and then you went out and shot it or did you shoot some and then had to go back . . .

Michals: The Kiss I had to redo twice because the first girl I had was very nervous about it. It was more like a peck on the cheek than an embrace—so I had to dig up another girl. That's the only one I've ever redone. I don't like to redo things. What I like about photography is a certain spontaneity in when you see something and "go" with it; and I don't like to work things over, you know. I have a number of ideas which I haven't been able to do just because I haven't been able to get the people and .. . the situation. They're sitting in my head but I haven't been able to get them down on film yet. These social landscape photographers up till now operate too much with their eyes. You know, like they've always got things like textures or fascinated by little psychodramas found on the street, two old ladies gossiping—you know, all those traditional things. I think photographers should work more with their heads.

Photographers should not be 90% eyes and 10% brain, I think they should be 90% brain and 10% eyes. And I think that my big complaint is in most photographers today . . . don't know what they're doing. I mean they're so hung up on photographing like Ansel [Adams] or photographing like [Robert] Frank or doing social documenting. I mean you can do Harry Callahans; they just fall into categories; you can just see them. I don't "see" anybody; when you look at a lot of students work . . . you look at their pictures and you see a lot of them, and they all end up being other people's work, but I don't see the student in them. I mean I don't sense their life in them, like you know I can sense Robert Frank's work and every body else's but I don't sense you. I don't. And that's the beautiful thing, to look at somebody's work and know that nobody else in the whole world would have done that particular thing.

Robert Frank's my favorite photographer and I remember the first time I saw "The Americans" . . . it just completely knocked me out. I didn't take photographs then and he impressed on my mind such fantastic poetry that although I don't work like him at all I still remember the tremendous impact he made on me. Nobody else would have done that, or like Diane Arbus, the same way, it's just a fantastic point of view. The only thing that's different between any of us is ourselves—not the equipment, not the film or the paper—all of that's negligible. What we really have to offer . . . I have to offer myself and you have to offer yourself. What you have to do is find out who you are; or what you have inside of you to offer. And that's really where the beauty is in photography. Not so you make passport pictures of people's faces. I don't care what they look like. I'd much rather see a portrait suggest something about somebody without actually showing what they look like, you know?

Student: But all this . . . thinking . . . about the picture . . . I don't know, it just sort of takes away from it.

Michals: Why does it have to be spontaneous? When I say that I meant I like the directness of being able to do . . . I rolled these through the camera in less than an hour, moving very quickly and responding like that. Ah, you see you're operating under the point of view we've been functioning under the last 20 years and that's the Robert Frank, [Henri] Cartier-Bresson point of view. The reality or the truth of the street. "Something really is valid only when you catch the instant that the thing happens in front of your eyes," you know. You get locked under a question of "reality." That's one kind of reality, there, but you know reality is really a fantastic problem. I mean you really get into this with photography. My pictures are as valid, or may be even more valid, in their contrivedness; they have their own reality. It's two different points of view. But all I'm saying is that people should start considering this point of view as being as valid as the "truth of the street.''

Student: I'm sure you're familiar with [Julia Margaret] Cameron, Julia Cameron? (Michals: Yes.) We had a discussion in class about her work and I think your pictures are very much like hers. We have just seen some slides on her in Art History—the first time I'd seen any of her work (and every time I open my mouth I show my ignorance). But to me that's the difference. . . . That is that this is different because you have an idea, a preconceived idea. To me this is good because like if I go out and shoot and I'm looking for one thing, or I have these hundreds of things running through my head, and any one of them will do if I can just capture somewhere this scene. And this will be my expression of it. But I'm a victim of circumstances because I . . .

Michals: You have to wait for it to happen.

Student: Yeah, that's right, that's right. Where as in this difference, the different things like what you're doing here and I think are like the work that she did (of course its own period). But the idea is beautiful to me.

Michals: Also photographers are always cast as spectators. They're always walking down the street responding to something they see on the street. They never make things happen themselves. Well, what I'm doing is really creating my own private world and making my own thing happen. I'm not relying on that accidental event. And to me that's a more beautiful direction to go into.

Student: You don't think these photographers walking down the street aren't making things happen? This is something that I've been . . .

Michals: Oh yeah, but still, the fact that you were there to respond to something—that's not enough. Also, when you look at it, it all depends on what you want out of your photographs. If you look at a photograph and you think, "My isn't that a beautiful photograph," and you go on to the next one. Or "Isn't that nice light?" so what! I mean what does it do to you or what's the real value in the long run? What do you walk away from it with? I mean I'd much rather show you a photograph that makes demands on you, that you might become involved in on your own terms or perplexed by. Or I'd much rather suggest something that explains something. I think that, so you see a picturesque picture of a lady standing on a corner with a grumpy face wrapped up in an American flag . . . well that's an interesting photograph; but two minutes later it's not an interesting photograph. Ah, where are all those private head images that are all sitting here at the table? You know, everybody's waiting for something outside to happen for them to record. You know, what's going on inside of you? Why are you ignoring yourself?

Student: Let me ask you this. If you feel that way, I am curious as to why you give titles to your pictures? In other words, you understand why I said that because of what you just said? In other words, you said you wanted to suggest not to explain.

Michals: Yeah, I'm not explaining. All I'm saying is "The Human Condition," there's nothing more ambiguous than a title like that.

Student: I mean like the "Fallen Angel," I mean to me I could see that in the photograph without too much time.

Michals: Well, you see, I'm crossing the line again. A lot of photographers have an automatic response. They break out into a rash the minute you suggest, like you're not pure anymore, or something, when you start doing something like this. Why can't you expand the idea of photography ... to involve a literary concept? Why do you keep restricting yourself, why don't you open yourself up?

Student: Is it an extension or is it just another crutch?

Michals: Well I don't think of it as a crutch, I think of it as a flowing out—an expanding. I don't thing of it as a leaning on.

Student: Ultimately it depends on whether it works or not.

Michals: Yes, I said they're completely mine. I don't care if anybody pays any attention to them. I'm having the conceit of telling you what I had in mind. Whatever you get out of it's your own business. But ah, it's myself telling myself, telling you about me, my idea.

Student: I'm interested in this series, the one with the movement blurred. And to me ... a little while ago I didn't like that at all, in any of my photographs. Yet it's so effective as far as producing a sense of time; and I was just trying to imagine though as if they weren't blurred, you know?

Michals: I think photographers should use what a camera can do, like a painter uses what the paint can do. I mean cameras can blur, you can double expose, you can do all sorts of things technically with the camera. People don't use that on purpose, you know what I mean? And I think you should use all the things that people consider as mistakes or the negative aspects of the camera. I think you should keep yourself open and work with blur—you can do many beautiful things. Outside Ernest Haas, that sort of thing, but using it, not accidentally the way he did. Using it for your own means, to suggest a vague impression of an event. So I think people should use the camera as a machine. I hate cameras myself—I don't really like cameras. I'm not a camera buff; I'm not interested in cameras. I always feel like a writer "hung up" on his typewriter. The camera is just . . . like you should know your camera thoroughly and then you should forget about it completely. And it should not be a thing between you and the person or what you're doing.

Gassan: What about this thing you said about Ernest Haas? about his use of blur?

Michals: Well, when Haas does those beautiful blur things, like at sports events, he can't control what the guy is going to do; he's at the mercy of the event. Whereas, these things here are contrived ideas; I'm controlling each gesture to . . .

Gassan: To give value to the conscious?

Michals: Yes. This is much more conscious than Haas. Haas is the spectator, hoping to catch something . . . because you just can't make the man slow down for you in the middle of a sports event. Where, in this one (The Kiss) I had the people run through it a number of times, to control the blur. Sometimes it blurred too much, and sometimes . . . Anyway, what I'm saying is that you should use the camera for all sorts of things. What is it except an instrument? Take double-exposure. I first came across double exposures by accident. I was very thrilled by it. Then I did a portrait of Magritte in front of one of his canvases, which I felt was very successful. A conscious use of double-exposure.

Student: I can see you sometimes coming out with double-exposure and seeing that it is good. But, it's harder to think ahead, and try to think of two images that go together!

Michals: Well, of course that's part of the problem! If it were easier than that there wouldn't be any problem! You have to work at it. I'm 37 years old. I've been working on these for three years trying to make them work. Before that I was doing documentary things, documenting empty rooms. I like empty rooms very much.

Gassan: I was thinking about something else in your work: there's a real change in the way you are seeing, a change from your earlier work. That was almost always, formally speaking, totally centered.

Michals: I still function that way. Basically I still see things that way. I didn't start taking pictures until I was 26, and went to Russia. I borrowed someone's camera and I didn't know anything about it. Not even what kind of film to take. I borrowed a light meter. Everything. I learned how to say in Russian "may I take your picture?" But I worked out of having been taught to stand there and take a picture. I learned to function that way. And, basically, that's the way I see things.

Michals: It's using everything that happens to you. I'm more inspired by painters than I am by photographers. Like Magritte and de Chirico, and Balthus.

Student: Why these?

Michals: Because they function philosophically in areas I'm interested in. Magritte, for example, deals in mystery, which I am much interested in. As I get older and older everything makes less and less sense. I'm a kind of walking miracle, for example, and it's really beautiful to know that. I don't know any photographer who does that. Well, [Bill] Brandt. Brandt does that, has that; but not that much. All I'm trying to say is that you must stay very loose, and use yourself. It's almost bad, going to photography school. At first I used to think (never having gone to a photography school) "how great because you're given all these people. You're given Cameron and you are given [Eugene] Atget." Now I think "how terrible." Because, you are given them too young in your life. You are crowded in with all these images. Sometimes I wish I had never seen a photograph, that I could forget them. Sometimes it's better to try to forget everything you've ever seen, to just do what you've felt like doing. Or not doing anything.

Student: The hard thing young people seem to have to do is to free themselves from the things they've seen, and from what they think they should be doing.

Michals: It's harder to do when you are older.

Student: Oh, really? I thought it would be easier.

Michals. Once you get in your thirties, most people start solidifying, don't you think? Right now, it's the most beautiful time. Because you can afford to make terrible mistakes.

Student: Can't you afford to later?

Michals: You can, but most people don't, they get terribly afraid they are going to get put down. I'm just beginning to open up, myself.

Gassan: There's two kinds of closing down, too. There's the blocking of the mind, and there's the continuing on the line on which you have begun. . . .

Student: I'm thinking of people of my own age getting narrow.

Michals: I hate to hear that. I think of people your age being more open. There goes another illusion!

Gassan: This is one reason for this class. Because so many of my graduates were closed and tight, but thought they were at the boundaries of what was possible.

Michals: The most beautiful thing is to stay as naive and childlike as possible. It's impossible, of course, because once you become aware of it, you blow it. I think of [Constantin] Brancusi, who was such an incredible personality, who always maintained ... I think all great artists have this kind of thing about them. It's not something you can instill; it's just there.

Student: It seems to me that if you have someone else's view, you can move faster.

Michals: There's nothing wrong with seeing other work. There'll be a time when everyone is making pictures like Atget, or Robert Frank. That's all right, as long as they keep moving! Or, take from it and bring something of their own.

Student: I feel like starting all over again, after seeing all this work.

Michals: It's alright to look at other people's work. But take from it whatever you need, but lean on your own intuition.

Student: But you can get so involved in the thinking about the pictures, you never get the pictures made.

Michals: "I've had that problem. There are a couple of ideas I have, and I've had problems getting the people together, or something hasn't worked out; eventually you begin to think you've made the picture, and you have not even done it yet.
Student: Do you feel a great sense of satisfaction when you have done one of these things?

Michals: Enormous. Because I'm learning about myself from what I'm doing too. I thought I knew myself, but every year I discover more. I am really learning a lot about the things that interest me.

Gassan: On a mechanical level, I am curious . . . when I see a set of eight prints like this, how much work does it entail?

Michals: I can do it in about three or four rolls. Sometimes there's more trouble. Then I go through them and pick out the ones I think work. This one I spent two days printing, and it was a big pain. But, it's not that awful.

Student: What if you didn't know, but that other people were doing it too, and you went on like that, and then found out you were doing the thing that everyone else had done . . . only they had done it better!

Michals: We've all done something someone else has done. When you start doing nudes someone says "oh everyone has done nudes." But I haven't done nudes! Whatever you want to do, you have to do. If you want to do Atget kind of things, fine. But the point is that if someone else did it better ... so what. That's no reason for you to stop. But, I can be disappointed at 19 or 20 . . . big deal. It's not important. So be disappointed, and go on from there.

Student: There's a big question in my mind. I think my photographs are shaped by my impressions of other people's photographs, along the lines of what you're saying.

Student: In other words, I'm just regurgitating what I've seen. And the question comes up, do I have an art at all, AM I AN ARTIST WITH THE CAMERA?

Michals: That's all right.

Michals: I don't see how you can be—you must be about 20, 21 or so? how can you know anything at that age? I mean, like Bill Brandt ... he was in his thirties before he was sure. How can you be sure at that age, how can you know about yourself? How can you be sure you're an artist? I'm not sure I'm an artist. Work, and don't worry about things like that.

Student: Like she said, though, I could be totally wasting my time.

Michals: You'll know, if you are still taking the same dumb pictures over and over four years from now, you'll know, and go on to something else.

Student: But isn't that four years wasted?

Michals: No, nothing is lost. Everything is used in your life. It's not a problem. We tend to make problems that don't need to be made. I mean, there are enough problems.

Student: Will you talk about your ideas, on what these series mean?

Michals: O.K. I'm pretty much interested in the idea of death. And the afterdeath. It's not important at your age. But at 37 you are very much aware of life having a beginning and an end. And this thing that you are experiencing. When you are in your 20's you are immortal. It just doesn't enter your mind that it ends. Unless you are sitting in Viet Nam.

I am very much concerned with the philosophical idea of death. It becomes all very philosophical. But I think we are essentially spiritual creatures, and I think when you die (this is my idea) I think you literally walk away from the body. I think you leave the body like you leave a pair of shoes. So this series results.

A friend of mine was killed a couple of years ago. Murdered. And when someone you see on Wednesday, on Thursday doesn't exist, you know . . . It's not like your grandmother passing away! It makes you realize how fragile you are. So, the "Fallen Angel," for example has to do with . . . loss. Of something. Profound loss. Virginity, perhaps. Something which causes you to be profoundly changed.

This . . . the "Human Condition" (which comes from a title Magritte used a lot): I wanted to photograph somebody in a very mundane situation, like on the street. And then transport them, and suggest that they were more than somebody filling a hole in the ground. I don't even know that I even like people anymore, very much. Yet I feel that people are miracles, quite beautiful, and . . . bitter-sweet. I just wanted to suggest that we are more than we appear to be.

Gassan: Are you trying to limit the meanings?

Michals: No, all I ask is that ... all I hope is that somebody would get something from it or that you would walk away from it at least remembering it.

Student: Last night I was talking with someone about this sort of problem . . . death. And I said that I thought that this life was sort of preparation for what follows after.

Michals: I don't think it's a preparation, I think ... I'm a big here-and-nower. I mean, I think we are spiritual, but we are also animals, and that we should indulge all our senses; that we should eat a lot and do a lot of everything. We should get a great joy out of being alive; and that means feeling all the 'bad' things as well as the 'good' things. We should completely experience ourselves. Whitman comes to mind. He had the right idea. It's not to be worried about the fact that you are not awake! I think it takes ... I think it's a very exciting prospect.

"The Kiss" I like. I think it's fascinating. I have, as I said, a pre-occupation with rooms. And, sometimes you enter a room that you might not have been in for a long time; something very beautiful happened to you in that room. And if you stand there for a moment, it reminds you of that, just for an instant. And that's what "The Kiss" is based on: the memory a room can contain for you.

Student: When we are in school we are . . . forced into thinking "what's going to be good in the critique."

Michals: You have to remember that you're always talking about the pictures from the point of view of being in school. But, you are not going to be in school all your life! And what you think about being an artist, being a serious photographer: it's just there. It'll take care of itself.

Nobody tells me to do these things. I have to do these things, because I have a need to do them, and because they are a natural response. In school you are working in a situation where you are solving problems and . . . learning. School isn't the end; it's such a minor part of your life!

Student: What if your pictures don't work, for a lot of people, but you feel really strong about them? I mean, just listening to you, I wonder . . . how do you feel then?

Michals: I don't care. I know you'd like to have everyone flip out and whistle when they see your pictures. But if they don't . . . that's O.K. Because, to me they work.
Student: You're in a nice position, too, because you are established. I'm a student, and when one is trying to establish oneself.. .

Michals: What do you mean, establish?

Student: Ah, discover a more . . . comfortable atmosphere . . . being exposed, and doing work that has brought acclaim.

Student: I don't think that's what you should be striving for!

Michals: You can't be concerned about that. You'd like it to be that way. If even my mother doesn't like it, that's pretty bad! But even that has to be faced, and I don't really care. Because, I know, and that's a luxury that only comes with time. It doesn't happen. I didn't involve myself in photography until I was nearly 29. So it's eight years. Anyway, it just takes care of itself in time.

Gassan: One reason I had the seminar read the Costenada "Teachings of Don Juan" was that he says there are as many ways as there are hearts; and you must find a way that accords with your heart.

Michals: You know what you should do, really? You should start working those closest to you, with your own family. When I go home ... I take pictures all the time. I drag in everyone and they do everything with them. (They won't strip, but that's O.K.) But you are at such a beautiful point in your life: anything is possible. Like in ten years from now it'll be 50% less possible, and ten years after that . . .

Student: Don't scare us like that!

Gassan: You put yourself in an interesting position with these pictures. You are at least 50% verbal here. Syl Labrot talked once about 'as soon as you tie yourself to the word you are making an illustration, and limiting the possibilities of the picture.'

Michals: I feel that these are illustrations. In Camera I said "I illustrate myself." I think of these as illustrations. There's nothing wrong with that. That's why photographers are always making limits: like it's "not pure" if it didn't happen on the street. And you shouldn't do this, and you shouldn't talk about that. I write about them, but these happen to be very verbal things; they are more complicated pictures than my Aunt Sady looking cute. There are more complicated ideas. We are talking about them because we are in a talking situation. Normally I don't talk about them!

Student: When you say that photographers' supply limitations, don't you also make limitations?

Michals: Yes, but these are my own limitations.

Gassan: You mean, you're not imposing these limitations on other photographers.

Michals: I think I'd like to see as many styles of photographs here as there are people sitting in this room. Unfortunately, photography is a very difficult medium, because it is so easy. That makes it so very difficult. It is deceptively simple looking. It's really incredibly hard. I mean . . . most photographers bore the hell out of me. Because there is nothing happening with them. They are just showing me versions of everything I've seen before. There aren't that many people, who . . . intrigue me, or make demands on me, or who I feel make me . . . like I like Diane Arbus and Robert Frank very much. I don't know too many other people. . . .

Student: This may sound ridiculous, but ... do you teach? How do you make your living?

Michals: I work as a professional photographer. I work for magazines. Esquire, different magazines.

Student: What kind of photography?

Michals: Mostly portraits. I do a lot of work. I'm busy. But, you know, its' a great luxury in having money from doing jobs that permits me to do everything else.

Student: Do you think that there is a definite line between this work and the work you are doing for magazines?

Michals: There's no commercial market for this . . . I like to do portraits. That's what I do well, but no one would hire me to do a beer ad. I can't do beer ads, but they hire me to do portraits. I do what I can do. I don't consider myself a business. I don't have an agent . . . And I get paid fairly well. And that gives me the luxury of doing my own work. It keeps me from starving. You know, people kind of think of the pure artist living in starvation . . . but it's nicer, you can work more comfortably, when you can work without worrying about buying the film.

Student: So many photographers say they don't want to contaminate their art.

Michals: I once shared a plane ride with a well-known photographer whom I know comes from a well-to-do family, who said "how can you possibly do jobs for money?" Well, I have to eat! It's a fabulous thing to take pictures and be paid for it. I'd probably do it for free. I have the best deal in the world. I don't know anyone else who has a better situation. I could double my income if I wanted to, but I don't really care to. I am not financially ambitious. It's beautiful. I hope that you all can work out something like that. Try to find work that is close to your natural ambitions. I'd take pictures for nothing, and the fact is that people pay me to do it!

Student: Do you have any idea how to get started?

Michals: I don't have any idea, so don't ask me how it works. I think it's mostly personality. . . . With those last words ... of wisdom ... I'm going to pack up my tent and . . .