There she is, the Tropicana girl with her Sugar Daddy. No, not really! What you see is a picture of me in 1980, a naive entrepreneur who stumbled upon the concept of “branding.” The photographer of this picture asked me to pose with Dick Pope, the founder of Cypress Gardens, for a tourism book on Florida.

Why didn’t the photographer choose a beautiful, college-aged girl in an antebellum dress, for which Cypress Gardens was famous? Those innocent girls with Scarlett O’Hara waists decorated travelogues in movies and in print…so why not for this colorful little book on Florida tourism? Because the photographer was Bud Lee.

It seems I stumbled on a lot of things in those days…one of the best was a chance encounter with Bud Lee. Bud Lee the picture-maker. We were both part of the art scene in Tampa, Florida during the early ’80s. Bud had documented Vietnam in the army, and afterwards freelanced for magazines. In the right place at the right time during the Civil Rights movement, Bud captured a horrifying moment that made the cover of Life magazine, which led to his winning the magazine’s prestigious News Photographer of the Year award in 1967.

Bud had a past. He had observed some of the world’s most unique people through his camera lens. His curiosity and gentle charm enabled this big balding guy with a dark beard to be privy to candid moments with people from all walks of life. His shutter clicked in bathrooms and backyards of movie stars, in train cars filled with aging circus performers, and in the wild, dark woods of hermits.

I never tired of Bud’s stories: Stories of Lydia the Swan Lady; of Marilyn Monroe’s hairdresser; of Mick Jagger; and of Federico Fellini, the Italian filmmaker, who hired Bud to make his movie stills for the film Satyricon. “You crazy like me,” Fellini told Bud.

Bud photographed the rich and famous for Life, Rolling Stone, and Esquire, and the elite jet set for Town and Country. But he specialized in the eclectic. Maybe that’s why he photographed me.

A newly divorced performance artist, I needed to make a living in the eclectic flashiness of Florida. As a child, then as an adult performance artist, I loved costumes. During the time that I knew Bud, I owned ONLY costumes. I took pride in not wearing conventional clothes. My business, Edible Adventures, was built on the concept of theatrical catering. I served “Breakfast in Bed” on anniversaries. The “Tropicana” outfit became my logo.

Intrigued by my creative business, a Tampa writer interviewed me and brought Bud to my apartment for a photograph. “Wear your mermaid costume,” Bud instructed. “Now get on top of your refrigerator.”

We settled for a photograph of me with flowers in my hair, holding a breakfast tray. A little too conventional for Bud’s preference, I’m sure, but the article and the photograph were published in the Los Angeles Times, and my phone began to ring. That story and picture led to appearances on national television and international television, and countless other opportunities. I will always be grateful to the young woman writer and to Bud Lee.

Bud obtained a grant to work as an artist in the schools in the Tampa area. He took low-income children from the projects, and had them act out their version of Gone with the Wind. (I never saw the outcome of that project, but it was featured in a Los Angeles film festival.) He also unified the artists and writers of the Tampa Bay area into one, big mass of rich creativity. Getting to know each artist one at a time, Bud found the soul behind everyone’s work. He believed in us, promoted us, and photographed us.

He planted ideas for us to fertilize and nurture, such as the Artists and Writers Ball. Held in an opulent ballroom in Ybor City (the old Cuban part of Tampa), the Artists and Writers Ball featured artists, drag queens, and various creative performers in their most magnificent, bizarre costumes. Bud determined that I should be the Queen of the first ball, and insisted that I strut through the crowd in my peacock costume.

Bud married an art teacher, settled down in Plant City, Florida, and raised four children. When I worked at Walt Disney World, Bud and the kids came to visit me. He had strong reactions against some of the rides for young children. “Mr Froggy is too frightening!” he exclaimed.

Years later, when I revisited Florida on my book tour, Bud showed up. He joined the women’s discussion group, where I facilitated women in sharing their own life stories. Bud contributed a special, vulnerable story about his father caring for him when he was desperately sick, reminding us that men, too, can be nurturing, tender, and emotional.

We lose track of people in life, but there are always those very special beings you want to stay in touch with forever. I visited Bud last year in the convalescent home, where he is recovering from a stroke that left him paralyzed. It hurt to see my friend, mentor, and peer sitting in a wheelchair, dependent on others for all of his needs. Patients with Alzheimer’s disease crowded the halls, and nurse’s aides were kind or rough, depending on their mood of the day.

A showing of Bud’s work fills the walls of the Tampa Museum of Art

There she is, the Tropicana girl with her Sugar Daddy. No, not really! What you see is a picture of me in 1980, a naive entrepreneur who stumbled upon the concept of “branding.” The photographer of this picture asked me to pose with Dick Pope, the founder of Cypress Gardens, for a tourism book on Florida.

Why didn’t the photographer choose a beautiful, college-aged girl in an antebellum dress, for which Cypress Gardens was famous? Those innocent girls with Scarlett O’Hara waists decorated travelogues in movies and in print…so why not for this colorful little book on Florida tourism? Because the photographer was Bud Lee.

It seems I stumbled on a lot of things in those days…one of the best was a chance encounter with Bud Lee. Bud Lee the picture-maker. We were both part of the art scene in Tampa, Florida during the early ’80s. Bud had documented Vietnam in the army, and afterwards freelanced for magazines. In the right place at the right time during the Civil Rights movement, Bud captured a horrifying moment that made the cover of Life magazine, which led to his winning the magazine’s prestigious News Photographer of the Year award in 1967.

Bud had a past. He had observed some of the world’s most unique people through his camera lens. His curiosity and gentle charm enabled this big balding guy with a dark beard to be privy to candid moments with people from all walks of life. His shutter clicked in bathrooms and backyards of movie stars, in train cars filled with aging circus performers, and in the wild, dark woods of hermits.

I never tired of Bud’s stories: Stories of Lydia the Swan Lady; of Marilyn Monroe’s hairdresser; of Mick Jagger; and of Federico Fellini, the Italian filmmaker, who hired Bud to make his movie stills for the film Satyricon. “You crazy like me,” Fellini told Bud.

Bud photographed the rich and famous for Life, Rolling Stone, and Esquire, and the elite jet set for Town and Country. But he specialized in the eclectic. Maybe that’s why he photographed me.

A newly divorced performance artist, I needed to make a living in the eclectic flashiness of Florida. As a child, then as an adult performance artist, I loved costumes. During the time that I knew Bud, I owned ONLY costumes. I took pride in not wearing conventional clothes. My business, Edible Adventures, was built on the concept of theatrical catering. I served “Breakfast in Bed” on anniversaries. The “Tropicana” outfit became my logo.

Intrigued by my creative business, a Tampa writer interviewed me and brought Bud to my apartment for a photograph. “Wear your mermaid costume,” Bud instructed. “Now get on top of your refrigerator.”

We settled for a photograph of me with flowers in my hair, holding a breakfast tray. A little too conventional for Bud’s preference, I’m sure, but the article and the photograph were published in the Los Angeles Times, and my phone began to ring. That story and picture led to appearances on national television and international television, and countless other opportunities. I will always be grateful to the young woman writer and to Bud Lee.

Bud obtained a grant to work as an artist in the schools in the Tampa area. He took low-income children from the projects, and had them act out their version of Gone with the Wind. (I never saw the outcome of that project, but it was featured in a Los Angeles film festival.) He also unified the artists and writers of the Tampa Bay area into one, big mass of rich creativity. Getting to know each artist one at a time, Bud found the soul behind everyone’s work. He believed in us, promoted us, and photographed us.

He planted ideas for us to fertilize and nurture, such as the Artists and Writers Ball. Held in an opulent ballroom in Ybor City (the old Cuban part of Tampa), the Artists and Writers Ball featured artists, drag queens, and various creative performers in their most magnificent, bizarre costumes. Bud determined that I should be the Queen of the first ball, and insisted that I strut through the crowd in my peacock costume.

Bud married an art teacher, settled down in Plant City, Florida, and raised four children. When I worked at Walt Disney World, Bud and the kids came to visit me. He had strong reactions against some of the rides for young children. “Mr Froggy is too frightening!” he exclaimed.

Years later, when I revisited Florida on my book tour, Bud showed up. He joined the women’s discussion group, where I facilitated women in sharing their own life stories. Bud contributed a special, vulnerable story about his father caring for him when he was desperately sick, reminding us that men, too, can be nurturing, tender, and emotional.

We lose track of people in life, but there are always those very special beings you want to stay in touch with forever. I visited Bud last year in the convalescent home, where he is recovering from a stroke that left him paralyzed. It hurt to see my friend, mentor, and peer sitting in a wheelchair, dependent on others for all of his needs. Patients with Alzheimer’s disease crowded the halls, and nurse’s aides were kind or rough, depending on their mood of the day.

A showing of Bud’s work filled the walls of the Tampa Museum of Art this summer. Posters and banners around the city promoted the show. The publicist chose for the show, of all photographs, the one of me and Mr. Pope, two flamboyant personalities who intrigued Bud Lee, the Picture Maker.

You can view Bud’s photographs at www.BudLeePictureMaker.

month. Posters and banners around the city promote the show. The publicist chose for the show, of all photographs, the one of me and Mr. Pope, two flamboyant personalities who intrigued Bud Lee, the Picture Maker.

You can view Bud’s photographs at www.BudLeePictureMaker.