Bob Dylan is turning 70 on May 24 and it seems fitting to spend this month combing through the archives to share with you some of Jim’s classic Dylan photos as well as Dylan shots that will be unveiled for the very first time here on this blog.
Inarguably, Jim’s most famous Dylan shot is the one he called, “Dylan With Tire,” seen here in all its enigmatic glory. It’s one of Jim’s in-the-moment shots that I find especially compelling for many reasons. I think it captures such an optimistic and ebullient and inspiring time in Dylan’s life. And also Jim’s, come to think of it.
You just never know where Jim’s photos are going to take you. We start out to do a post on Ogden Nash and William Saroyan and end up with Jim’s mom. It’s a journey, indeed, a trip. Go figure.
With our ongoing focus on Jim’s lesser-known and/or pre-rock ‘n roll body of work, I find myself tickled again and again to be able to focus on Jim’s burgeoning talent and passions and, especially, his incredibly productive few years in New York City.
Jim could get a bit reactionary. Yeah, that’s an understatement. I think what helped me deal with his right-wing rants was a deep down knowledge that beyond the Second Amendment, his first and truest love was No. 1, freedom of speech. It think it’s why he always considered himself a visual journalist, a teller of truth at his core, no matter how poetic his images or how many prints sales and gallery shows he had.
Another secret about Jim and his poetic passions: He loved theater and musicals, seemingly the sappier, the better. It’s not something he broadcast much – I would hazard a guess that he didn’t go share just how much he LOVED Carol Channing or a great Cole Porter number or Rodgers and Hammerstein’s work with his mechanic or the guys he got his guns from – but, if he thought you were receptive to the power of it all, he’d definitely bend your ear.
As driven and talented a photographer as Jim was, I think deep in his heart it wasn’t images he was really in love with, it was words. It’s the only way I can explain his incredible affinity for writers, lyricists and, especially, poets. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Jim spent his youth in a place and time (San Francisco in the ’50s and ’60s) that was practically exploding with creative energy; it was unleashed, free, uncensored, and roaming the streets looking for sounds and images with which to collide. And so was Jim.
Jim died one year ago today in New York City on the eve of a major Soho exhibition to herald “Match Print,” his collaborative book with photographer Timothy White. From your comments here on the blog and on our Facebook page, I can see that I’m not the only one who misses this profanely talented happy-sad, crazy-ass magnet of a man. Writing this blog both helps and hinders. And that’s a good, appreciated thing.
I’m not the first to notice that Jim had a thing for photos that showed his subjects (usually singers and often women) with their arms flung wide open. Both in his shot selection in the moment and later, when he was poring over proof sheets looking for unsung “hero shots,” Jim’s eye and his heart were tuned to recognize these moments.
Jim seemed on good terms with Grace Slick – he respected her, recognized her talent and beauty, seemed to think she was a class act, or at least that’s how he represented it to me – but his real connection was with Janis Joplin. Maybe it was just the alchemy that occurs when one mercurial soul magnetizes another, or his admiration for the sheer raw power of what Janis did on stage, but I think it was the trust she showed him.
Behind every great man there has to be a great woman or so the cliché goes, and I think at times Jim was a big believer in this idea of selfless support, but more often than not I think he saw through the stereotype to realize the true power and creative spark that catalyzed some amazing women, their men, friendships and the relationships that he was lucky enough to witness.
One of the very first prints that Jim ever gave me was a B&W vertical 8” x 10” of a portrait he took of jazz saxophonist John Coltrane in 1960. He gave me “Coltrane” in 1984 and to say I was “woefully ignorant” of jazz music would have been a serious understatement. I think at that time my idea of a great jazz horn player, if I even had one, would have been Chuck Mangione.
