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I had photographed hundreds of artists. The portraits were my classrooms for art history and psychological engagement. Photographing Katz was a minimalist exercise like a Georges Simenon novel. I had spotted a lone red balloon in his studio and hung it from the single window. The quiet story unfolded, but the power of mental persuasion was alive with every breath. We were two breeds of animals sizing up opponents or determining if there was a bond to occur. The dance of strangers began like a classic toe-step. In position we stood, the music about to begin.
Then, as in most portraits, I recalled some assistance. I saw Gordon Parks position his classic “American Gothic” photograph. I knew Gordon a bit. I could borrow his brilliance. The “American Gothic” was the defining anthem to my portraits, allowing the stoicism to become an unraveling of a life from the past, fusing with a moment in the present.
I listened to Alex talk about Alex. I remembered a rumor from early on in his career. He was so dissatisfied with his work, that he destroyed a measured ton of his paintings. He stared into and beyond the balloon. He repeatedly asked me, “Why?“ Yet he still calmly talked to me, around me, and beyond.
As we verbally catalogued names in common-The artists, the galleries, the travels- I saw him get close to breaking a smile. He was famous, I was not. But in the room where a painting and a camera narrated a history of two individual personalities with unique strengths and weaknesses, I called to him to let him know the session was complete.
Over the years I would run into him serendipitously. I would always extend my hand as he was lingering on a Soho Street or navigating a crowded gallery or museum entrance. He would most often not remember my name but say, “Yes, the Red Balloon photograph.”
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