"A Liberal Education" etc.

Two of the three leads in my play "A Liberal Education." Larry Evans, as Nick, the journalist who becomes sexually enmeshed with a right-wing fundraiser loosely based on Terry Dolan, would stand on his head if we asked him to, but he wasn't quite experienced enough an actor to tackle the demands of the role. David Klionsky, as his somewhat nelly best friend (also called David) was far more assured if occasionally over the top. David is the play's ethical fulcrum, and the actor played the character's big emotional monologue beautifully. It was, for me anyway, the production's most hair-raising moment.

Larry and his bete noir in the play, Michael Kelly, played with astonishing fury and terrifyingly mercurial electricity by Scott Cherryholmes. If we could have grafted Scotty's talent onto Larry's body, he would have made a superb Nick.

David and Nick's friends, the Lesbian couple Jo and Sheree, played in this production by two of the best actors with whom it's ever been my privilege to work. Deborah Lederer and Jan Doub Morgan were everything I'd wanted in the roles and much, much more. If David is the play's moral compass, Jo and Sheree are its beating heart. Deborah and Jan were both charming and deeply emotional. They almost made me wish I'd centered the play on them instead of Nick. Perhaps in a sequel?

Stephen Sondheim, as seen through the lens of the great Karsh. I began writing to the composer-lyricist when I was 15 years old. I met him only once, at 18, and was given his house seats for "Sweeney Todd," and an introduction afterward to Angela Lansbury. A truck could have hit me that night and I'd have died a very happy young man.

The photo I took of Sondheim in his Turtle Bay home in December '79. A true photophobe, he agreed to be snapped on the condition that I go out onto the terrace and come back in after a few minutes, to "take him by surprise." The friend with whom I spent the afternoon in Sondheim's company later told me that the composer tensed up the moment he heard me coming back. Uneasy before the camera myself, I vowed that day never to put anyone through that again.

The man who comes closest to being my God. When Ken Burns' documentary "Jazz" aired on PBS, every time Louis Armstrong was shown or discussed, I found myself weeping. Not merely the virtual progenitor of this great African-American art form, Louis (and please do not refer to him as "Louie") was as beloved as he was venerated. In his magical hands the horn was as rich and varied in tone and expression as Sinatra's voice or Nureyev's body. When he died, Duke Ellington eulogized him best: "He was born poor, died rich, and never hurt another person along the way." Amen.