PHOTOGRAPHERS OF MY LIFE
part of my life I have lived next to in fashion, with the world of glamor photography, ridiculing him and he must be, secretly enjoying the them.
Suffice it to say that my two wives were models, one has worked in fashion magazines, my current favorite woman - fashionable actress, and I myself - zafotografirovanny character to the holes of the world culture and politics has been a quarter century. So that the subject I know.
In the early 70's in Moscow, me and my lady hearts Helen take pictures Leo Nisnevich and Vadim Krokhin, both were related to the Literary Gazette. Now, looking at pictures of those years, I appreciate their photographs very high - they are original and in no way inferior to the creatures of Western masters of the appropriate time. Nude Elena, sitting on a silver platter, And I'm standing over her young man, looks like a Bob Dylan - it's very good work of Nisnevich. He subsequently went to the United States and tried to become a photographer there. However, his fate was never fully developed. I do not even know whether he is alive.
Krokhin did amazing and imaginative picture stories. More recently, I found a couple of dozen prints and was struck by their modernity - and in fact they are already over 30 years. There is me, young man, lying alone on a cot in the empty room - a sort of portrait of a lonely existentialist. I've seen with Krokhin in the early 90's, he worked at the time electronically, some weird experiments to create virtual experiences. What happened to him now - do not know either.
In New York, when I appeared there in February 1975, employed many Russian photographers. Several of them helped Alex Liberman, art director of all magazines Conde Nast, the husband of Tatiana Yakovleva, once beloved of Mayakovsky. In particular, helped He Lene Lubenitskomu, red-headed photographer from Leningrad. Lubenitsky later did some become a classic portrait of Brodsky and my time writing "Eddie." There I was with a cross on his neck, with a cap of hair, would be seen as a fisheye. I myself do not like it, but admit a talented portrait creation. For reasons, known only to him, Lubenitsky was working as an assistant of Richard Avedon, the best photographer magazine Vogue. I remember that out of curiosity I came into the studio Avedon and watched as the Leonid (everyone called him Lenka) installed lights, umbrellas and reflectors. I found this wildly funny, but Lenka argued that all of this - the "system" and that he was able to penetrate the "system of Avedon. I found that the photographs Avedon's cold and as if varnished, lifeless; find it now. Avedon himself (somehow we were at one table at a reception in the house Libermans) was polite and reserved person. However, Lenka said that Avedon - a tyrant to those who worked with him.
Rival Lubenitskogo (all Russian quietly competed with one more time has been published in fashion magazines) was then Sasha Borodulin, the son of a famous Soviet photographer who subsequently emigrate to Israel. On the wall at me now hangs photowork Borodulina in 1977 - a beach of Coney Island (New York), thousands of people went into the water in the blue-gray haze, a cloud of eggs - a lot of black bodies. Beach - a suburban, poor, a sort of wet hell. Borodulin in those years a lot of shooting poor, black and English.
I remember the piles of bodies in his photographs. In some ways ahead of Borodulin time. If he had connections and he would have time to published album "New York beaches, which then was running, I think, he immediately would become fashionable and expensive photographer. But something prevented him to implement this project.
I do not remember now where I first saw the work of Helmut Newton, I think - in the magazine "Interview" Andy Warhol (editor there was Bob Kolachello). I really wanted to get to the pages of this magazine, I was ambitious. So, I was worried about pictures of Newton, sensual beat of a situation, full of intrigue.
world of high fashion came across the photographs of Newton with the dark alleys of the night city, in a dramatic situation is the model, and the collision was born a subtle, spicy and somewhat perverse eroticism.
I am a successful man of the world the bourgeoisie, I remember, went to the presentation of a photo album of Newton to the store "Rizzoli," the 51-th Street. Year, that's true, I do not remember. (A successful man - because worked as house-keeper, holder of the homes of multimillionaire Peter Sprague.) He sat in the shade of a rich store shelves that were full of books on art, in the middle furniture of the old wood, decorated with leather, big-nosed and somehow lonely, without escorts. Announcement that he will sign your album, put "Village Voice", and I assumed that the store will hold a crowd of admirers, but except for me and a dozen aging beauties no one there. I have long walked in circles, leafing through the book, which I am not interested in, hesitating to come, and dare, maybe just half an hour. Afford to buy the album, I do not doroguschy could it cost more than my monthly salary, "the holder of the house." Therefore, following the example of an elderly lady who had just come unstuck from the master, I handed him the notebook. "Please sign, I really appreciate your photos. In them - the new urban eroticism. You are elegant ... "- and here I stumbled. And he was smiling, helping me and reached for my notebook. "Here you have a Picture, where a young model ... a mini-skirt, stockings, elastic peep out from under the skirt ... stands on the roof of the warehouse type. Night, weak stream of light ... "-" Yes, yes, thank you "- he mumbled, interrupting me, hurriedly scribbled something in the notebook and returned it to me. Somehow I thought he was afraid of me. And I left the store. Newton's autograph I gave at the same time some random passions, a beautiful nurse.
[ first text was published in the journal "OM", № 10 (97) October 2005 ]
PHOTOGRAPHERS OF MY LIFE
I spent part of my life with fashion, with the world of glamor and photography, all the while deriding it, but perhaps, secretly relishing in it.
It's enough to say that two of my wives were models, one worked for fashion magazines, and my lovely current wife is a young actress - while I've been a figure of world culture and politics who has been photographed to death for a quarter of a century already. And so I know my subject well.
In Moscow in the early 70s, my ladylove and I had our pictures taken by the photographers Lev Nisnevich and Vadim Krokhin, both of whom were associated with the Soviet arts magazine Literaturnaya Gazeta. Today, looking at pictures from back then, I highly value their photography work ― they were true originals and in no way inferior to the Western heavy-hitters of the era. A nude Elena seated on a silver salver, and me as a young man standing over her Bob Dylan style ― that was quite a piece of art by Nisnevich. He subsequently went to the United States and tried to become a photographer there. However, that was not be be his fate. I don't even know if he's still alive.
Krokhin produced striking and ingenious photo essays. Not long ago, I found a score of prints and was amazed by their modernity ― even though they were already more than 30 years old. There I am, a young man, lying all alone on a cot in an empty room ― what a portrait of a lonely existentialist. I when I caught up with Krokhin at the beginning of the 90s, he was into electronics and some weird experiments to create virtual sensations. But as to what he's up to now, I haven't got the slightest idea.
There were quite a lot of Russian photographers working in New York when I arrived there in February 1975. Some of them were helped out by Alex Lieberman, the art director at Cond Nast Publications and the spouse of Tatiana Yakovleva, who was once the darling of Mayakovsky. In particular, he helped out Leonid Lubenitsky, a redhead photographer from St. Petersburg. While I was writing, «It's Me, Eddie», Lubenitsky made several portraits of Brodsky and I that would become classics. There I am with a cross around my neck and a full head of hair, seen as if through a «fish-eye» lens. I don't like myself in it, but I do admit that the portrait is a creation of a man with talent. For reasons known only to himself, Lubenitsky was then working as an assistant to Richard Avedon, the best photographer for Vogue magazine. I remember when curiosity got the best of me and I walked into Avedon's studio and watched how Leonid (everyone called him Lionka) was setting up the lighting and flash-reflecting umbrellas. He seemed to be doing it in an overdone way that was funny to me, but Lionka held that all of it was part of a «system», and that he had been able to glean insight into «the Avendon system». I then found and still find Avedon's photos to be cold and somehow lifeless. Avedon himself (as it turned out I sat next to him at dinner-party at the Liebermans) turned out to be a courteous and reserved man. However, Lionka said that Avedon acted like a tyrant to those who worked with him.
Lubenitsky's rival (all Russians take part in an undeclared competition to see who gets published the most in fashion magazines) at the time was Sasha Borodulin, the son of the famous Soviet photographer who later left for Israel. Hanging on my wall at home is a 1977 photography piece by Borodulin featuring Coney laland Beach in New York, where thousands of people, mostly blacks, relax in the water on a gray, hazy day. The beach is in a poor neighborhood outside the city center, a kind of waterfront hell. Borodulin devoted much of his work at the time to poor people, blacks, and Hispanics. I remember the masses of bodies on his photographs. In a way, Borodulin defined his times. If he had had the connections and published the «Beaches of New York» photo album that he then carried around with him at the right time, I think that he would have immediately become a fashionable and highly prized photographer. But something or another hindered him in completing that project.
I no longer remember when I first saw the work of Helmut Newton, I think it was in Andy Warhol's magazine «Interview» (Bob Colacello was then the editor). I had really wanted to appear on the pages of that magazine, I was ambitious. Netwon's photographs really moved me, they were sensuous, always playing out some situation or another, and full of intrigue. In Newton's photographs, the world of high fashion collided with the dark alleyways of the city at night, his models were placed in dramatic situations, and the collision resulted in a delicate, spicy, and somewhat perverse eroticism.
Having been a successful servant of the world bourgeoisie, I remember going to a presentation of Newton's photo album at Riccoli's on 51st Street. I can't recall, however, exactly when that was (As a successful servant because I was then working as a house keeper for multimillionaire Peter Spreg). Newton sat in the semidarkness of an expensive store whose shelves were filled for books on art, among burly wood furniture trimmed with leather. He was long-nosed and for some reason alone, without an entourage. The «Villige Voice» had printed an announcement that he would be signing his album, and I had expected that the store would be filled with crowds of admirers, but there was nobody there except for me and a dozen former models. I walked in circles for a long time, leafing through books that didn't interest me, all the while too shy to approach him. It took me a half-hour to work up the courage to walk up to him.
I was unable to buy the super-expensive album, it cost more than my monthly wages as a housekeeper. That's why, following the example of the older lady who had just been up to the master, I offered him a notepad to sign. «Could I please have your autograph? I really appreciate your photographs. They demonstrate a new urban eroticism, you're quite elegant…» That's where I started to stumble. But he smiled, and helped me out by taking my notepad in his hand. «You've got a picture where a young model… a mini-skirt, stockings, and panties peeking out from under the skirt… she's standing on the top of a warehouse. It's night, weak beams of color…,» I stammered. «Yeah yeah, thanks,» he muttered, cutting me off, and hurriedly writing something in the notepad and then returning it to me. For some reason, it seemed that he was afraid of me. I got out of the store. I gave Newton's autograph to my current flame, a beautiful nurse.
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