David Hockney: Los Angeles California
Truthful Fiction
Buster Keaton sat atop the locomotive coupling rod in The General. Unexpectedly, the unexpected surprised. What followed was a hilarious adventure and a transcendental calm. For a moment, my eyes melded into Buster’s. For a mere few seconds of moving celluloid, our eyes shared a meditative pause, and the entire universe was explained. I became acutely aware of the places between the worlds of fiction and nonfiction.
Universes ablaze, everything that looks like harmony poses before my single reflex. Photography has never been about where I arrive at. I am telling a story that has not been seen yet. I sit, watching quietly and solemnly the world go by, on my way to a destination. It is the middle ground that I see. The fantasies of what may become excite the camera’s lens. It is the lush life for the curious. It invites all eyes to hear the key (if you listen for the magic) of Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life.” It is a place I can play in.
If you could see what my eyes think while en route to a capture–I often repeat these lines to myself as if I am alone with me, me, me. There is no eye in me, just me. There is often a bit of frivolity at play. I unintentionally try to freeze-frame every shift of light on the horizon. I unintentionally try to freeze-frame my life. I unintentionally absorb the meaning of every shapeshifter between here and there. I hold hostage one thousand stories to dream about on another day, in another repose, in a life ahead.
When I arrived at David Hockney’s home, my mind went blank. For too many days, before I tried to imagine the photograph I would snap. The opportunities to meet fame head-on are rare. “What will I ‘do’ with David? What will I do?”
I remember the architectural photographer Julius Shulman (who mentored me for a number of years) told me he could see David Hockney naked from his home. To this day, I doubt it. Julius had a bit of a children’s playpen in his mind. Plus, I have never seen the picture he claimed to have made.
I remember standing at the front door waiting for David to bring me in. As one might imagine, I was thinking about the Shulman naked pic. I was thinking about every photographer I had admired. I was lifting my brain to the north just to understand what I would do with David.
The universe is a funny place to live in. It is impossible to know what will happen in the next moment. So when this pale, pale sweet man greeted me, all and any of my worst fears vanished. He was, for the next few hours, a prince.
As with just about everyone I have ever photographed, he wanted to hear about my experiences and the people we had in common. We talked about his friend R.B. Kitaj for an hour or so. We must have covered many more names and places, too – maybe another hour or more. I felt more like a button buck deer than an equal. He was charming , articulate and just the most friendly of subjects. I was an ordinary person with a camera.
We eventually entered his studio. He was very excited to show me a Chinese scroll on which he essentially based a significant body of work.
He had little interest in explaining anything about the dozen paintings in view. He wanted to unscroll this delicate eighteenth-century or earlier Chinese scroll. His voice was extraordinarily passionate. He pleaded with me to touch the imagery. I slightly caressed the scene. It was a guilty pleasure. “Do it again,” he laughed. My nerves danced. He laughed some more. The Chinese art was as beautiful as anything I had ever seen. Fragile and deliciously ornamental.
My natural light was almost hidden at this point. I asked David if it was time for me to leave. The day was long. I framed maybe a dozen pictures with my camera. There were many details and reflective moments of repose. They were for another time, possibly before they disappear from my memory.
A great morning and afternoon came to a close. As he walked me to my car, we shook hands. Before we parted, he surprisingly gifted me some needed oxygen. He handed me a cassette tape of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor, Op.64. He whispered some generous and profound parting thoughts. I accelerated and found my way cruising atop the Hollywood canyons.
Today I played a Spotify version of Mendelssohn’s Concerto. I wanted to remind myself of what picture-perfect sounds like in my eyes.
