I realize this book has found the hearts of many critics, and art/photography pundits but on the whole i found it dry and the equivalent of artistic navel gazing. Having said that, I feel that way about most of the art world so it comes as no surprise, i suppose. for me, the interesting threads were limited to discussion of the eponymous black coated man that keeps turning up in photos through the ages. The decline of Stieglitz and his role in the photography world and relationship with Georgia O'Keefe. As well, the womanizing of Edward Weston coupled with the twisted relationship to Stieglitz was compelling stuff. It's rare to see any discussion of the "model" wife, and the tiny competitions between photographers. It's a shame the book spent so much time on park benches, fences, hats, and the open road. These may be valid issues for art students, or professors or wanks in a gallery but make for pretty sleep inducing reading.