Dick Herman

I’ve been taking pictures most of my life. What started as curiosity while working at The New York Times in the late 1960s turned into a lifelong passion for capturing authentic, unposed moments. I’ve always been drawn to scenes that speak for themselves—quiet gestures, movement, emotion, and atmosphere. I never set out to become a “professional” photographer in the traditional sense; I just kept following what felt honest through the lens.

Back in 1970, when I was 27, I was given a spare press pass to Muhammad Ali’s comeback fight against Jerry Quarry in Atlanta. I wasn’t there on assignment—I just brought my Camera and six rolls of Tri-X film because I admired Muhammad Ali and wanted a photograph of him. After the fight, a crowd full of photographers, reporters, friends and dignitaries, climbed into the ring , I saw something I couldn’t ignore: Ali standing strong, still catching his breath, with Bundini Brown—his cornerman—resting a hand over his heart. A beam of light hit them like a spotlight through the haze. I stood on a nearby folding chair, so I was eye to eye with Ali, I raised my camera and took the shot. And that was it.

That photograph of Muhammad Ali sat in a drawer for decades. The Times didn’t run it. But something about it always stayed with me. Years later, I entered a contest and won first prize. That’s when the High Museum of Art in Atlanta acquired it. Then the International Center of Photography in New York. And eventually, The Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, and finally the Muhammad Ali Center in Louisville.

When Dr. Damion Thomas from the Smithsonian came to see the print in our home in New York, he stood quietly for a while and said, “This photograph was the start that gave the Black athlete a voice.” That moment stayed with me more than any prize ever could.

In the 1970s and ’80s, I started a candit photography business in Atlanta, focusing on children at play—outside, barefoot, full of motion and spirit. I wanted to make images that felt real, not posed. Later, I shifted careers into real estate and construction, but photography was always there, always calling.

Photography, for me, isn’t about freezing time, it’s about respecting it. I’ve never been in a rush to get the shot. I’ve missed plenty, but the ones I’ve kept feel alive. That’s the gift of this medium. It slows you down, makes you pay attention. Even now, when I walk through a city or the Swiss Alps, or the countryside with a camera around my neck, I’m reminded: the world’s always offering something. You just have to notice.

Now in my eighties, I live in New York and spend part of each year in Switzerland with my wife. I still carry a camera with me wherever I go. I still chase the light.