This text will be in Part I of the finished book.
Monday morning, September 8, 1952. Richard Avedon’s studio was located at 640 Madison Avenue, between 59th and 60th streets. Only two stories high but a block long, this building (1930's photo, below) was of a type called a “taxpayer” — erected during the Great Depression as a way of retaining title to the land and paying taxes on it while waiting for prosperity to return and a larger structure put in its place. His second-floor suite was obviously designed as a photo studio, complete with a large skylight, and had previously been used by another well-known fashion photographer, George Platt Lynes.
Entering the door, I was introduced to the staff. What a group they made! Here’s some of them, and that’s me on the floor. This was the set for one of the first jobs after I started, a part of the “I Dreamt I Was A (Whatever) In My Maidenform Bra” advertising campaign. Avedon is on the right with Polly, his secretary. Peeking from behind is George Thompson, the studio manager, and Marty, the first assistant. I was low guy on the totem pole, but we all have to start somewhere.
He must have decided that I could be trusted because before that day was over I was presented with a set of keys to both the studio and the building entrance. Although this was primarily so that I would not have to wait outside every morning until he opened for business, it was soon made clear that I could, within reason, make use of the studio and its darkrooms for my own work in the off-hours. I could also help myself to a reasonable amount of leftover film that was opened for a job but not used. Dick never used film that had previously been removed from its packaging as he wanted to be certain that all film on a job was from the same emulsion batch. This made only the slightest difference, but happily for me, he was a perfectionist. I could also use his retired cameras, which included a nice Leica. On Election Eve, 1952, I took this first to Times Square to photograph the joyful mobs, then to the Commodore Hotel where I joined the Victory Celebration by taking lots of pictures. Although I was only barely 18 at the time and not old enough to vote, I considered myself a Republican and a strong supporter of President Eisenhower. Avedon was a Democrat, but that was cool.
Dick's relationships with his assistants varied quite a bit. Some were treated as hired help and others almost as members of the family. Perhaps it was my youth at the time, or maybe my eagerness to learn, but I quickly fell into the latter category and remained there right up until I left in 1965.
Neither I nor any of the other staff members were present on the following Saturday, September 13, when Avedon took one of his most famous photographs. Charlie Chaplin had called him at home, asking him to take a “Farewell to America” picture just before sailing to England in political exile. The famous actor, a British citizen, was the subject of a witch-hunt by reactionary politicians who labeled him a communist sympathizer during the infamous McCarthy era. Shortly before the voyage, FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover had his re-entry permit revoked as an undesirable alien. The resultant photograph, taken simply under the studio’s skylight, captured an exuberant gesture of defiance.
In the weeks that followed, I learned their darkroom procedures, ran errands, kept the place tidy, and got to meet some major celebrities. I soon realized just how unsophisticated this 18-year-old boy from Allentown really was. My appearance was all wrong, I knew nothing about art, and my knowledge of photography was nowhere near their level. So I had to learn. The first problem was soon fixed with visits to Madison Avenue clothing stores (the Ivy League Look was all the rage at the time), but the second was more difficult. The boss suggested that I take evening courses in art history so I would know a Picasso from a Rembrandt. Thus began a series of non-credit courses at New York University, covering both art and philosophy.
One of my odder tasks was the "taping of the shoes" routine. When fashion models walked out onto the set their shoes often made marks on the white paper floor, which had to be retouched. So I was assigned to apply masking tape to the soles and heels of their shoes, then carefully trim the edges just before they entered the set.
My experiences in photography had been limited to 35mm cameras and a 4x5 Speed Graphic. Avedon did nearly all of his fashion and commercial work with an 8x10 Deardorff, and his personality portraits with a Rolleiflex TLR (Twin Lens Reflex). He had no use for 35mm. The Rollei I could cope with, and soon acquired one myself. But that massive wooden Deardorff was intimidating (photo, left). I had to learn how to put those large sheets of film in the holders, how to whip these in and out of the camera as fast as he could shoot, and how to then unload the films into special processing tanks — in total darkness, of course. And then dry and number the negatives, and make contact prints. Enlargements were left to the senior staff, as no one on Earth was fussier about his finish prints than Avedon.
Remember, I was not then a regular employee, but rather a sort of apprentice or trainee, being paid only a token amount until I learned enough to be of value. In the meantime he was my mentor, teaching me more than I could ever have learned had I chosen college instead. In a way this was advantageous, as the informal relationship allowed me an inside glimpse into the personal life of a great master.
In the Fall of 1952 Dick happened to mention to me that he had paid a great deal of money for a custom hi-fi sound system and that it never worked well (or at all), and that the guy who sold it to him had vanished. I immediately volunteered my services since I had built a component system myself a year or so earlier while still in high school. So I was invited over to his townhouse on Beekman Place to check the thing out.
What a place that was! He, his wife Evelyn, and infant son John occupied the most exquisite home I had ever seen. The first floor had a large kitchen (the domain of their cook), an entrance hall with a spiral staircase, a formal dining room, and an opening into a rear garden. All of this on a low hill at the end of East 50th Street, overlooking the East River, just up from the United Nations.
Up the spiral staircase was another gathering room, and to the front a fabulous living room filled with original art. Picassos. Braques. And others. He explained to me that he had learned his sense of taste from Diana Vreeland, then the fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar, later with Vogue, and finally a division head at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art.
In the library beyond this was the recalcitrant hi-fi. After a quick test, I decided that it was hopeless. Only the speakers were of any value. So with his money I purchased a good amplifier and a Garrard record changer. Problem solved, and brownie points for me.
In the summer of 1953 he had rented a country home in Connecticut in addition to the Manhattan townhouse. Since I was a good driver and he was a truly awful one, I got to take him there and help set the place up. The biggest problem was with the five-foot-high statue of a dancing Etruscan nude by Marino Marini that resided in the Beekman Place garden. He wanted to plant it in the country garden. Well, the two of us wrestled it into the back of a station wagon and luckily got it there in one piece. Later that night he drove me to the Westport train station so I could return to the city. Two days later I returned by train and drove him back to the Madison Avenue studio. This was repeated a few times until he left for the Paris Collections in July. Incidentally, as far as I know he never again tried living the country life — except for the Hamptons, which is hardly country.
At first, of course, I did not earn much, but my meager pay was sometimes supplemented by posing in advertising photos (Revlon ad, above). Besides Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow ad in which a luscious model fed me cherries, in other fashion ads I appeared as a bullfighter, a juggler, and other oddities standing next to the famous model Dovima. The strangest one was a fashion ad in which I, wearing a gorilla suit, was shown carrying away a gorgeous model, as King Kong did with Fay Wray in the original 1933 flick. This appeared in the August 1953 issue of Harper’s Bazaar. Another of my enjoyable duties (we won’t mention mopping the floor) was to support lovely models as they got “put together” by the fashion stylists. [insert photo] (photo, left). She had a warm back. The lady on the left is D.D. Ryan (1928-2007), who had previously been an assistant to Avedon but was now a fashion editor at Harper’s Bazaar. of my enjoyable duties (we won’t mention mopping the floor) was to support lovely models as they got “put together” by the fashion stylists (photo, left). She had a warm back. The lady on the left is D.D. Ryan (1928-2007), who had previously been an assistant to Avedon but was now a fashion editor at Harper's Bazaar.
Location shots were a joy, especially outdoor where I didn’t have to lug lights along. And these were usually done with the much smaller Rollei TLR cameras. Here (photo, below) I watch as he works on a puzzle while the model, some kid, and the stylist wait. This was at a horse farm in Westchester County. The first location job on which I was the only assistant was in Washington, D.C. We flew down early in the morning — my first ever flight on a commercial airliner — and rented a car at National (now Reagan) Airport. This I drove to the first job, a portrait of a society hostess, followed by one of labor leader John L. Lewis at the UMWA headquarters in downtown Washington. Lewis gave me a cigar, which I treasured until it disintegrated. I must have passed the test, as both sittings were successful.
It was Avedon’s celebrity portraits that made him one of the most acclaimed photographers of all time. The first one of these that I worked on was of actor Buster Keaton, taken on Thursday, September 18th , 1952. Others that faced his lens in 1953 included Italian actress Anna Magnani (who the next day sent me a small gift), actor Humphrey Bogart, comedian Jimmy Durante, actress Hermione Gingold, and photographer Cecil Beaton. Some of the stars in 1954 were socialite Gloria Vanderbilt, comedian Fred Allen, authoress Janet Flanner, and sex symbol Mae West — who was photographed with one of her muscle men in a Times Square night club. I was the only assistant on that last job, and Avedon kindly allowed me to bring along a visiting friend to watch us work.
Avedon, always the gentleman, almost invariably took the trouble of introducing me to his subjects, so that I felt myself to be part of the action. He also insisted that I call him “Dick,” not “Mr. Avedon.”
Every year, the studio was closed from early July until just after Labor Day in September. This was because Avedon was in Paris covering the Fall Collections for Harper’s Bazaar at that time, and there was really nothing for the rest of us to do except take a vacation. Upon returning in September 1953 he discovered that the studio manager had disappeared and could not be found. In George’s place he quickly hired Frank Finocchio (photo, left), a thoroughly professional assistant with years of experience who at the time was working for another fashion studio. Not only was Frank completely competent and a good social mix, he was also just about the world’s best black-and-white darkroom printer. He remained with Avedon until 1962, but that’s getting ahead of the story.
At the same time the second assistant, Marty, was replaced with another fresh face named Lenny.
It was around this time that I was hurt at the studio while stupidly bringing some prop lumber up on the freight elevator. The long boards had to stick through the top of the lift, and my job was to hold them upright during the ascent. I failed at this, the lumber hit the side of the elevator shaft, split, and badly injured my arm. Dick called for a doctor, who put it in a cast and a sling, after which I took a train home to Pennsylvania to recuperate.
One day in the early Spring of 1954 we received an unexpected visit from theater, TV, and later film director Sidney Lumet, who was a friend of Avedon’s and lived nearby. He had an urgent request. He and his wife, actress Rita Gam, were entertaining a new starlet by taking her to a performance of the Three Penny Opera at the Theatre d’Lys on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. They had arranged a date for her, but at the last moment the guy was unable to make it. Could Avedon fill in for him? No, but Dick suggested me. Lumet said okay, I’d do, and gave me his address in the sixties just off Madison Avenue. I rushed home, got dressed, and hurried over. Our first stop was at a Spanish restaurant near the theater, where we had dinner outside on the sidewalk. The show was fantastic. It was pouring down rain as we left the theater, so we took the IRT subway, changing at Times Square to the BMT and getting off at the Fifth Avenue stop.
A short time later, on May 10th, Avedon did a portrait of the show’s star, Lotte Lenya (photo, left), for Harper’s Bazaar. She had previously been married to the show’s composer, Kurt Weill. This was done on location at Café Nicholson, a wonderfully strange and idiosyncratic place behind 323 East 58th Street.
Marilyn Monroe was exceptionally nice to this drooling teenager, and autographed a large mounting board with the words “To Earl, Love and Kisses, Marilyn Monroe.” To this I affixed a print from the session . A news picture taken during the sitting showed her with me right behind — this image was later used in a fan magazine entitled Marilyn Monroe as The Girl — The Candid Picture Story of the Making of “The Seven Year
Itch.” Published in 1955 as a Ballantine Mass Market paperback, it sold on newsstands for the princely sum of 35¢ and is now a collector’s item worth hundreds of dollars. The session was on Tuesday, September 14, 1954, and included film director Billy Wilder who at the time was directing her in that film. Avedon’s portraiture style was still rather theatrical and had not yet evolved into the stark simplicity that marked his later work, such as the more famous picture of a sad Marilyn Monroe taken in 1957.
Unlike other photographers of stars, Avedon’s portraits were not always flattering, and sometimes downright brutal. He always tried to capture the true soul of his subjects, and strip away the veneer. So why did they subject themselves to his penetrating lens? Masochism perhaps? Or just the notion that bad publicity is better than no publicity?
Sometime in late 1954 or early 1955 the building’s owners decided that the time had come to replace the two-story structure with a high rise. So, the Avedon Studio had to find a new home, described in Chapter 00.
In coming chapters I’ll discuss how his talents evolved over those years, and relate the stories behind much of his work. Historical data and technical information will be in the Appendix, starting on page 000.
Text copyright © 2009 Earl Steinbicker.
RETURN to Part I.
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