Judging by the reviews, it has been a pleasure for many, but for me it was a tear-jerking struggle to get through photographer Fred Baldwin's endless autobiography. Almost 700 pages, nothing less could do it, and if it's Baldwin's images you are fascinated by, then it's not Dear Mr. Picasso. An illustrated love affair with freedom one must seize.

Without being able to count, it seems to me that the number of photos is unreasonably exceeded by, for example, the number of descriptions of Baldwin's encounters with "girls" that he found, more or less, interesting and beautiful.

Baldwin is – or became over time – a gifted photographer, according to his own making because he was too dyslexic to become a writer. Even without spell check and proofreading, however, dyslexia would be his smallest problem. The biggest thing is that he doesn't find any details in his life too small to overshadow the big events he's been in.

Look at me, Mom

Fred Baldwin grew up in a white upper-class family in the southern states, lost his diplomatic father at the age of five and never really managed to live up to his educated and female-dominated family. . .

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