A long cab ride from the nearest train station, the estate, Wormsley, was beautiful. I introduced myself to Sally, Mr. Getty’s assistant, and set to work. The setting was tidy and genteel, the grounds immaculately kept, the lord of the manor soft spoken, generous, and somewhat shy, perhaps in uncertain health. The match was altogether friendly, and the sit down lunch delicious. I returned two years later during another fruitless visit to the sport’s London journals and publishers. The problem in a nutshell was that the British understood the photos’ subject, but not their style (I had, I was told, an American eye), while in the U.S. people understood the style but not the subject. And so my project never found much support outside a couple lovely days thanks to Paul Getty, who died in 2003.