jpegs were entitled: Chet’s Ass, Nina’s Nipple, Miles Shooting Up and stuff like that. Once every few images, a famous much-younger-than-now face would pop up, usually a well-known jazz face sans-trumpet-sin-piano. As my father grew older, the equipment and models grew younger.
Starting with some scanned black-and-whites of seriously buxom Betty Boop pin-ups in large bikinis, all the way up to anorexic nymphs wrapped in latex, bound like pre-pubescent sacrifices, shot in state of the art digital, and photo-shopped into Hustler-like quality. Someone, I assume Elena, had put them in chronological order. Although the subject changed, his objectivity was rock solid. I knew his framing, composition, lines, light-everything, my father. A side of him I had never seen before rose clear and true. As the photos appeared on my screen, my father emerged a different man. I went straight into my office, plugged in the hard-drives, picked up the phone and cancelled the day’s appointments. Pedaling home, with the awkward heavy gigs, I was filled with intrigue and panic. I hugged Elena tight, told her to enjoy Greece and call when she had arrived safely. “Don’t judge him…He never judged you…He loved and trusted you. After she paid, when we were parting on the sidewalk, she took my elbow and pulled me close. We discussed, Greece, her friends, my kids. I put the bag under the table and slid a foot through a strap. When you see them, you’ll see… they are not jazz.” Elena did not smile. “Jack has no morals…He’ll do the wrong thing. I assumed he had been a loyal friend and business partner. Jack had kept my father out of the poorhouse and always made sure he had enough equipment, light and food to keep working. This was the first time I had ever heard a word against him. Jack Birbaum had been my father’s manager, agent, publisher and protector for the last forty years. “You know…I don’t give a horse’s testicle about money…You know I have always had plenty.
I’ve been trying to organize or …since… It is just too much…I can’t… I don’t know what is what anymore… I can’t go on…” All he ever cared about was shooting jazz. He had published more than a dozen glossy coffee table books. His obituary had made all the international papers. My father was one of the world’s greatest jazz photographers.
Post haste flash cards full#
It was full of brick silicon hard-drives. I know you are the only one who will know…do the right thing…I have tried…” She plopped an old leather doctor’s bag on the table. After the Soave was poured, she took off her sunglasses and inhaled. “Okay I guess, surviving, barely, thinking of going to Greece for awhile.” She said. You wouldn’t need to be a Hollywood costume designer to know Elena was recently widowed. There she was sitting in “our family booth” by the kitchen door, behind big sunglasses in a lowcut black dress, flipping through her bible, Vogue. I’m not sure why I arrived thirty minutes early. The waiters pretend to know you and know what not to ask. A trattoria where you can sit in a booth, sign vital contracts over truffles and mama-made rigatoni. Sal’s is secluded, a little more expensive than I could afford at the time, one of my father’s old haunts. It was a few months after the funeral when Elena, my stepmother invited me to lunch at Sal’s Italian on Riverside.
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