Read Online Ansel Adams by Mary Street Alinder - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Street Alinder
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he is, he had replied, “Caviar.” We had a kilo of caviar air freighted to Carmel.
Following the concert, I walked back to the office to check on our children, whom I had closeted close enough that they could hear but far enough away that they wouldn’t have to sit still the whole time. I found Jasmine, Jesse, and Zachary staring in perfect awe at Ashkenazy, who was seated cross-legged on top of my desk with a big tin of caviar in one hand while devouring the roe with the fingers of his other hand, intent on leaving no evidence. Although not the biggest of bodies, he polished off the entire kilo with a satisfied smile.
This event concluded with a fantasy ending for me. Ansel, greatly moved by both the performance and the days spent with Vova, took Ashkenazy into the workroom and asked him to pick out his two favorite photographs. That was the only payment (besides the caviar) that the pianist would accept; my fear of having to take out a second mortgage on our house to pay for my share of the concert evaporated.
Broad-ranging though his interests could be, Ansel was not well acquainted with pop culture in any form. The last movie he had seen was probably in the thirties, his taste in music allowed for few composers born in this century, and his reading material was usually of a serious nature. Television was a late addition to the Adamses’ Carmel household and rarely turned on except for the six-o’clock news.
If Ansel was quite aware of current politicians, he was absolutely in the dark when it came to celebrities. He just did not care. In early 1982, Clint Eastwood, another Carmel resident, telephoned and asked if he could come by and get some advice from Ansel about photographs for the upcoming U.S. Open at Pebble Beach. As he would to any such request, Ansel generously replied, “Sure, come on over tomorrow afternoon,” having no idea who Eastwood was until nearly the entire staff swooned.
The appointed hour chimed, the doorbell rang, but Ansel was back in the darkroom, excited about a print in progress. Although there were five people working, not one consented to answer that darn door, so the “painful” task was up to me. I slid the door open, and the man in the movies stood facing me. I ushered him in and explained that Ansel would be out soon, but just how soon, I did not know—once he was in the darkroom, there was no telling. I showed Eastwood around the gallery and began yammering to him at length about the various photographs. (He was not one to make small talk.) After forty-five grueling minutes of my spiel (my normal loquaciousness was definitely challenged), with hardly one intervening word from Eastwood, Ansel at last emerged, grasped the actor’s hand in a firm shake, and sat him down for their little talk, which was far more brief than my monologue. Exit Eastwood.
Garry Trudeau and Jane Pauley fared better. While trekking in the Himalayas, Trudeau had run into the photographer Marion Patterson, who discovered that her longtime friend Ansel was one of Trudeau’s heroes. She supplied him with AA’s address, and Trudeau scribbled a postcard with a cartoon showing himself and his wife contemplating nature. Doonesbury was, in turn, Ansel’s very favorite comic strip, the first thing he turned to in the morning paper, and he was hugely tickled to learn that Trudeau respected him. He invited the two to come out for a visit, which they soon did, causing Ansel to smile like the Cheshire cat. Garry’s gift of all the Doonesbury books instantly enriched Ansel’s sleepless nights with a hefty ration of laughter. After Ansel died, Garry very generously donated a large number of original strips to be sold to raise money for the Friends of Photography.
In 1983, then-mayor Dianne Feinstein requested that a large exhibition of Ansel’s photographs be sent to San Francisco’s sister city, Shanghai, China. Jim, Robert Baker, and I were honored to be appointed the experts to accompany the show. The
Following the concert, I walked back to the office to check on our children, whom I had closeted close enough that they could hear but far enough away that they wouldn’t have to sit still the whole time. I found Jasmine, Jesse, and Zachary staring in perfect awe at Ashkenazy, who was seated cross-legged on top of my desk with a big tin of caviar in one hand while devouring the roe with the fingers of his other hand, intent on leaving no evidence. Although not the biggest of bodies, he polished off the entire kilo with a satisfied smile.
This event concluded with a fantasy ending for me. Ansel, greatly moved by both the performance and the days spent with Vova, took Ashkenazy into the workroom and asked him to pick out his two favorite photographs. That was the only payment (besides the caviar) that the pianist would accept; my fear of having to take out a second mortgage on our house to pay for my share of the concert evaporated.
Broad-ranging though his interests could be, Ansel was not well acquainted with pop culture in any form. The last movie he had seen was probably in the thirties, his taste in music allowed for few composers born in this century, and his reading material was usually of a serious nature. Television was a late addition to the Adamses’ Carmel household and rarely turned on except for the six-o’clock news.
If Ansel was quite aware of current politicians, he was absolutely in the dark when it came to celebrities. He just did not care. In early 1982, Clint Eastwood, another Carmel resident, telephoned and asked if he could come by and get some advice from Ansel about photographs for the upcoming U.S. Open at Pebble Beach. As he would to any such request, Ansel generously replied, “Sure, come on over tomorrow afternoon,” having no idea who Eastwood was until nearly the entire staff swooned.
The appointed hour chimed, the doorbell rang, but Ansel was back in the darkroom, excited about a print in progress. Although there were five people working, not one consented to answer that darn door, so the “painful” task was up to me. I slid the door open, and the man in the movies stood facing me. I ushered him in and explained that Ansel would be out soon, but just how soon, I did not know—once he was in the darkroom, there was no telling. I showed Eastwood around the gallery and began yammering to him at length about the various photographs. (He was not one to make small talk.) After forty-five grueling minutes of my spiel (my normal loquaciousness was definitely challenged), with hardly one intervening word from Eastwood, Ansel at last emerged, grasped the actor’s hand in a firm shake, and sat him down for their little talk, which was far more brief than my monologue. Exit Eastwood.
Garry Trudeau and Jane Pauley fared better. While trekking in the Himalayas, Trudeau had run into the photographer Marion Patterson, who discovered that her longtime friend Ansel was one of Trudeau’s heroes. She supplied him with AA’s address, and Trudeau scribbled a postcard with a cartoon showing himself and his wife contemplating nature. Doonesbury was, in turn, Ansel’s very favorite comic strip, the first thing he turned to in the morning paper, and he was hugely tickled to learn that Trudeau respected him. He invited the two to come out for a visit, which they soon did, causing Ansel to smile like the Cheshire cat. Garry’s gift of all the Doonesbury books instantly enriched Ansel’s sleepless nights with a hefty ration of laughter. After Ansel died, Garry very generously donated a large number of original strips to be sold to raise money for the Friends of Photography.
In 1983, then-mayor Dianne Feinstein requested that a large exhibition of Ansel’s photographs be sent to San Francisco’s sister city, Shanghai, China. Jim, Robert Baker, and I were honored to be appointed the experts to accompany the show. The
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