Jean Michel Basquiat 1984
I think my cultural memories have been the basis for whatever creative life I may have. So many cinematic and literary moments have adjusted who I was and who I might be. If you could only feel my pulse in those moments.
It isn’t the the actors Boris Karloff, Vincent Price nor Jack Nicholson in The Pit and the Pendulum that remain with me today: It is the haunting Black Birds.
The Birdman of Alcatraz was a great vehicle for Burt Lancaster, but for me it was “Strouds” passionate affair with the canaries that spirited my senses.
The book, “H is for Hawk” resonates with me for many reasons; But the affair between the hawk and woman addresses the inner passions that live within a sense of loneliness. We all need to discover our unique spirit to fly.
William Wharton’s “Birdy” fed into my imagination the most imaginable but unrealistic thoughts: That I could fly. But when I have considered what I might have to do to fly, I…
I certainly could write about ten thousand words about the culture of memory and how it relates to birds and my psyche. My memories are awakened by some electrical trigger function in my consciousness. So in a small way, you now know why I write these blogs: not only to share, but to tickle the dormant conscious to come alive to remember. It doesn’t matter what comes to my mind. I merely wish for you to see me as if you might see John Derian’s Phrenology Head: to read me is to know how my mind works.
Birds have always played an emotional and visual role in my life and career.
I remember running full throttle down a mountainside in San Francisco’s Muir Woods. Camera in hand I was racing like a teenager to make a snap shot of a Red Tailed Hawk. Run, run, run my mind screamed. I raced towards a cliff that I was not aware of. My Converse shoes braked just a few feet from the edge. Still I was unaware of my immediate danger until I snapped my shutter a dozen times like a gunfighter in a shootout emptying his gun to no avail: The hawk got away, my life was spared.
When I was very young, I wanted to move to London to work with a photographer who traveled the world photographing birds.
Henry Moore 1982
When my career was on the move, I made my first successful photograph of a bird: A dead bird in the hands of the artist Henry Moore. I only made one print from that experience: it is in the hands of a friend from my childhood.
Francesco Clemente 1984
When I peeked my head into the studio of the Italian artist Francesco Clemente; the first thing I noticed was my mind composing the portrait of the artist seated next to a Mynas’ bird cage.
When Andy Warhol suggested I photograph him with Jean Michel Basquiat; my eyes immediately spotted the lone birdcage in the studio.
When I scoped out the studio of the artist Terry Winters, there was this bird.
When I met with the artist Raymond Pettibon, a bird cage silhouette was placed prominently across Raymond’s canvas.
When I sat with the painter Isabel Bishop, I was struck by the shadow of a birdcage across her canvas.
A bird found its way into my portrait of the artist Vija Celmins.
Do I see my bird portraits as an homage to Cartier-Bresson? He photographed Henri Matisse with multiple birds. Or by chance, do I intellectually own these that I have seen and made over the decades?
I remember photographing together Isamu Noguchi and Alberto Burri. A fantastic moment for at least Art History’s sake: But the art dealer stole the role of film. Aside from that devastating loss was a seminal alluring call. The studio adjacent to the gallery: The artist Hunt Slonem supposedly had hundreds of birds in cages and among the rafters in his studio. While shooting Noguchi and Burri I knew the birds were cooing for me to swing the studio door open and “shoot”. The birds reminded me of the the Sirens who sang out to Odysseus.
All I could think about were the multitudes of bird poop. “Oh to be among them, among the living.
It was a dream at one point to stand in the center of “Hunt’s studio, and to point my 8 mm fisheye lens in the appropriate direction. I needed to capture the embracing encounter.
I never needed to visit the jungles on earth to marry with birds. But as a photographer of people and the known built environment, birds have always proved arresting, and placed my mind at rest.
A client alone in a vast part of America catered to the every need of his parrot. The parrot returned the attentiveness. Every time the owner of the parrot would walk by the parrot, the parrot would sing; “waddle, waddle, waddle where are you going fatty”.
Basquiat and Warhol 1984