Friday, July 24, 2015

Casting a “Fairy Spell”

I started writing Fairy Spell in 2008. I stopped writing it in 2008. I started it up again in 2014. I sold it in 2014. And now I can finally announce it by sharing the Publishers Weekly announcement.


Thank you Jennifer Greene at Clarion (also publishing my upcoming nonfiction picture book about a Japanese WWII pilot’s unprecedented journey) and illustrator Eliza Wheeler for returning with me to this thrilling day of yesteryear.

From capes (Boys of Steel) to planes (Thirty Minutes Over Oregon) to wings (Fairy Spell)…these books fly. Hopefully they will also fly off the shelves. (Sorry, couldn’t not.)


Frances and the fairies, 
Cottingley, England, 1917

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

My 1991 college paper on “The New Yorker” magazine

I discovered The New Yorker (specifically the cartoons) when I was in high school (specifically in the waiting room of my dentist’s office). Like most teenage boys, I got a subscription and hung some of the covers on my bedroom walls. I did not read any of the articles. That awareness would come later.

 

For Chanukah my senior year, I got this coffee table book and swam through it for hours:


(I still have it. And got my daughter her own copy.)

In college, I took a course on the history of journalism. I wrote one of my papers on the New Yorker. I remember being surprised that there were books about a magazine. Though the paper was originally ten pages, double-spaced, it seems shorter here. In any case, it is a fascinating story, even more so if you are a grammar geek.

The Century of the Comma Man: The Journalism of Harold Ross’s New Yorker

December 4, 1991
AMST (American Studies) 137B
Professor Whitfield

Harold W. Ross, founder and editor of The New Yorker from 1925 until his death in 1951, once found out that a writer who worked for him, James Thurber, had done an impersonation of him at a party. Ross called Thurber into his office and growled, “I hear you were imitating me last night, Thurber. I don’t know what the hell there is to imitate
go ahead and show me.” Ross was a man who was so intriguing that he was ripe for imitating; the same can be said for his magazine, which has, inevitably, outlived its creator. An imitation lends itself to a definition, and a definition of the style and the appeal of the New Yorker is as complex as Ross himself.

The periodical that debuted on February 21, 1925 consisted of—and still consists of—that which “is commonly called sophisticated.” However, as many a
New Yorker employee has noted over the years, the admirable level of sophistication towards which Ross intended to strive was in direct contradiction the actual level of worldliness he himself possessed. He was aware, and not ashamed, of this fact. As editor he felt his job was “encouraging people more talented than he to do their work better than they had hitherto known how to do it.” He combined a nurturing stance with a mildly belligerent one in a system that has been dubbed “benign despotism.” This is not to say that he was an ineffective editor; in fact, Ross “dearly loved a superlative,” and they were frequently used to describe him. Thurber said:


There were so many different Rosses, conflicting and contradictory, that the task of drawing him in words sometimes appears impossible, for the composite of all the Rosses should produce a single unmistakable entity: the most remarkable man I have ever known and the greatest editor.

It is interesting that Thurber revered Ross in a way that almost rendered Ross indescribable to him, particularly because, as Ross attested, “Nothing is indescribable.” Alexander Woollcott called Ross “the best editor in the world.”

Compliments were paid to Ross in strange ways. Many comments started off as insults, but before the sentence was completed, they had somehow turned into the most sincere forms of flattery. Ogden Nash reported, “He was an almost impossible man to work for—rude, ungracious and perpetually dissatisfied with what he read; and I admire him more than anyone I have ever met...” John Duncan Miller, in less than a half-hour after meeting Ross, revealed, “I felt that Ross was the last man in the world who could edit the
New Yorker. I left there realizing that nobody else in the world could.” Harpo Marx’s character study worked in reverse: “I loved Ross, he was wonderful company and his friendship was warm and personal. It was always a wonder to me that such an unworldly man could originate and edit the sophisticated New Yorker.

Ross set out to produce a magazine with a “chatty, informal quality.” He wanted to avoid serious issues; he equated the word “serious” with “grim,” and the
New Yorker was to be anything but. Subjects he dismissed as unprintable were anything of an arty, literary, or (gasp!) intellectual nature. Perhaps the only exception was humor; the humor of the New Yorker was permitted to be intellectual, and most times, it was. In fact, on many occasions artists submitted cartoons that were beyond Ross’s level of comprehension. Part of the reason that the jokes of the cartoons often escaped Ross was because he was so meticulous in his portrayals in the magazine; he allowed no “indirection or physical implausibility in the text” and “exercised a similar strictness in respect to drawings.” His literal-mindedness blocked his capability to accept slightly eccentric ideas; unfortunately, cartoons depend on such eccentricity, and usually are not funny without it. Overheard at the Players Club, a man supposedly said, “[Ross’s] mind is uncluttered by culture.” An enlightening anecdote corroborating this claim: one day, he asked, in complete sobriety, “Is Moby Dick the whale or the man?” Ross was a cunning, concerned man in terms of the content of the New Yorker; arguably, his sensibilities tapered off after that.

Ross was an organizational maestro; he insisted on nothing less than a flawlessly prepared magazine every week, no exceptions. The first two years of publication were confusing and financially disappointing, and ultimately were instrumental in Ross’s thrust to improve the efficiency and clarity of everything. (Although the
New Yorker was the “outstanding flop of 1925,” it was “the only flop that kept on going.”)  The principal tactic that Ross adopted to insure that there would be no mistakes was his overhauling of the checking department. One worker there once quipped, “If you mention the Empire State Building in [the magazine], Ross isn’t satisfied it’s still there until we call up and verify it.” Ross was notorious for accuracy; perhaps this explains his passion for facts over fiction. If a piece of information was factual, it was accurate, according to Ross.

The Rossian crusade for perfection was nearly synonymous with the Rossian preoccupation with punctuation. He shuddered at the staggering overuse of the words “little” and “pretty” for modification: “the building is pretty ugly and a little big for its surroundings.” Meanwhile, he was also known for his frequent insertion of phrases like “and such” and “otherwise” in copy to “achieve ease.” The biggest gripe that both he and his successor, William Shawn, had with respect to grammatical impeccability was the elusive comma. When questioning a particularly enigmatic application of a comma in a writer’s work, Shawn, a reserved and conservative yet brilliantly creative man, was likely to suggest that maybe the comma was not the mark that would best serve to convey the meaning of the sentence, although his gentle manner implied that he realized “what a lot of time and thought [had] gone into the comma.” Predictable were the days when Ross would barge into a writer’s office “deeply worried by the state of the world, or a comma, or something...” Typically, if it had to be one or the other, the
New Yorker featured an excess of commas as opposed to using them sparingly (or, at the very least, only when appropriate). An English journalist once said that an apt title for Ross’s autobiography would be The Century of the Comma Man.

Since Ross’s goal was to provide his readers with a periodical of the highest quality, it would be helpful to indicate exactly what Ross did think of his readers. The
New Yorker was meant to attract upper class, affluent customers who would be satisfied with the clever folly Ross wished to print. He got nervous not when the circulation plummeted, but rather when it thrived. Oddly, he felt that he could have too many followers. The readers were “diffident about writing letters”; no matter—the New Yorker would not print them anyway. Ross assumed that the potential letter-writers “[had] reached a level of sophistication...that [caused] them to avoid pressing a personal claim upon an author; they [withheld] the admiration...that less sophisticated readers would be apt to give.” Ross tended to win reader loyalty by approaching them subtly. In a verbose early advertisement seeking subscriptions, it was explained that although most of the paper for the New Yorker came from trees, the material best suited for the work was “an oblong sheet of green paper issued by the United States Government, and bearing the words: ‘Five Dollars.’  From this single scrap, enough paper can be procured to print 52 copies,” and have them subsequently mailed to one’s home.

Duplications (or striking resemblances) in the captions and content of cartoons were prevented by monitoring each new sketch. An office accountant was hired solely to “determine whether a just balance was being maintained” among the fact, the fiction, and all other categories of contributions. Several topics were essentially taboo: blatant sexual reference, profanity (despite Ross’s incessant oral spewing of it), and for a while, controversial or political issues. Ross was “inherently cautious” and shied away from taking stands; gradually, however, he became less rigid in his prohibitions and began to run the “long short story” and war coverage, most notably the expansive John Hersey article on the bombing of Hiroshima. Ross sacrificed his exclusively metropolitan focus when he found the world, including his readers, was changing, broadening. He then claimed, “This isn’t a magazine—it’s a Movement!” The
New Yorker, around the time when Shawn inherited it, was poignantly summarized as “a humorous magazine that, holding up a mirror to life, everywhere reflects the darkest shadows and yet manages to make us laugh.” Although Ross was positive that the world was designed for the sole purpose of wearing him down, he still longed to amuse its inhabitants.

For a man short on phone etiquette (he announced who it was by a single, gruff “Ross”) and intolerably long on prejudices (he did not view women, homosexuals, and other minorities in a thoroughly favorable light), he proved to be an endearing and responsive editor who had a genuine interest in his writers’ work. Despite his limp handshake and morbid, “invariable morning greeting”—“One day nearer the grave”—he was an assertive, motivating figure who demanded the very best from authors and rarely got anything less. He cultivated a magazine really had no definite style because he urged each writer to develop his or her own style, each of which would be welcome in the
New Yorker, as long as it was interesting, or funny, or both. His criticisms and opinions, even if volatile, had a way of refreshing one’s knowledge of himself or herself and renewing one’s interest in his or her work. Both he and Shawn were fond and proud of praising the work of any of their writers or artists, thereby restoring the confidence that surprisingly was not characteristic of some of them. The journalistic reputation of the New Yorker was of the utmost importance to Ross, yet he was humble enough to apologize if he pushed someone too hard to meet a deadline or to pursue a story.

Oliver Wolcott Gibbs felt that the average contributor to the
New Yorker was semi-literate, and would “use three sentences where a word would do.” He devised a list of 31 Commandments of Editing, New Yorker style. All of them are blunt, and most of them are just as witty as the articles and illustrations of which they are designed to guide. The most notable of them follow: refrain from excessive use of adverbs, do not use alternatives for the word “said” (grunted, snorted), no clichés, no funny names (“Mr. Middlebottom”), do not begin sentences with “and” and “but,” do not write about other writers, do not spell words phonetically for local effect (“trubble”), no triple adjectives (“thin, sweet, gorgeous Melissa”), no awkward division of quotations (“I am going,” he said, “downtown.”), no humor at the expense of a drunk, adulterer, or homosexual, no “vaguely cosmic” last lines (“Suddenly he felt tired.”), no puns, no patronizing or “Godlike” tones, no French unless it is correct French, and “make dialogue sound like talk, not writing.” The very fact that such a list exists (and is no doubt enforced) underlines the idea that everything at the New Yorker is done for a reason, and every fact that is printed has been checked and rechecked. Every paragraph is examined, every sentence is scrutinized, and every word is selected with precision and delicacy.

Ring Lardner said, “I would rather write for the
New Yorker at five cents a word than for Cosmopolitan for a dollar a word.” What lofty ideal or sacred tenet did this magazine represent to so many distinguished writers and artists, and why were they attracted to it practically unconditionally? Ross and then Shawn after him set such high standards for the New Yorker, and paid well for work of distinction. Once Ross offered Thurber $70 a week if he wrote anything. Later that same afternoon he phoned Thurber, informing him that the price had been upped to $90 a week. Thurber’s first check was for $100. Ross, a newspaperman then and always, explained, “I couldn’t take advantage of a newspaperman.” Ross’s first major endeavor in the world of journalism was editing the Army newspaper, the Stars and Stripes. Despite his undying love for the New Yorker and the prosperity that it would eventually find, Ross still insisted that the Stars and Stripes was “the only place I ever really enjoyed working.” Judging by the effort that he put into and by the legacy that he left at the New Yorker, it is hard to believe that Ross could have meant what he said.

The impact of Ross’s magazine on America has been astounding; countless forms of journalism flood the newsstands, but only a select few are influential in any significant way. Among other things, the
New Yorker was responsible for the switch from colored to white lights in the Empire State Building and for the cancellation of broadcasting commercials in Grand Central Station. The magazine that was created to present a “sharper satiric view of contemporary society than the established humorous magazines” succeeded in cementing a firm cornerstone in the foundation of twentieth century American journalism. Shawn credited Ross for the “literate, observant,...light-handed, timely writing that was to revolutionize the American magazine article.” Although it unmistakably caters to a wealthy clientele, it has matured into a publication that confronts issues of all classes and people in general. Although it was constructed around “the desperate and yet somehow joyous difficulties of ordinary daily New York life,” it has extended its scope to cover the entire world.

Ross “was married three times to women, and once, for keeps, to the
New Yorker magazine.” Shawn, when naming those people who had contributed heroically over the years, said, “But at the source, abounding in promise, was Ross.” By January, 1951, Ross had seen many go, and many die. In January, 1951, he said to Thurber, “All of my friends are dead.” Less than a year later, so was Ross. Fortunately, however, his truest friend in the world, and perhaps his truest friend ever, was still alive then, and it is still alive today.

Works Cited

Here at the New Yorker by Brendan Gill, 1975.



The Years with Ross by James Thurber, 1957. 



Cartoons [not posted in full here to respect copyright]

The following cartoons have been taken directly from the pages of the New Yorker and span seven decades, from the 1930s to the 1990s; I was unable to attain cartoons from the 1920s. I did not select them on the basis of their humor. Although most of them here are funny, they were all chosen because I feel that they exhibit the unique wit and style of the magazine, despite the fact that it claims that it does not represent any one distinctive style. Note the recurring themes of selfishness, subtlety, stupidity, arrogance, greed, and superficiality. Most of all, enjoy them.

1930s

(woman to firefighter) Bring down the little blue georgette with the white piqué collar cuffs.

(tour guide to elderly group) It’s a thousand years old, as some of you may recall.

(at newspaper printer) My God! They’ve left off the ‘New York Evening Journal’!”

1940s

(soldiers in a bar) Would you care to step outside and call my friend what you just called me?

(meeting where adman shows sign “Gimbel’s Hates Macy’s”) No, that isn’t quite it yet, Judson. We want something a little more subtle in its approach.

(house in French countryside with tank tracks leading up to it, bumping into it, reversing, and going around)

1950s

(man to another, stuck in traffic) Suppose you try to start my car. I’ll stay here and blow your horn for you.

(boss to couple kissing in hidden spot at company party) You’re fired! You, Preston, that is.

(editor to alien) It’s very interesting, but I’m afraid we only publish science fiction.

1960s

(woman with husband, looking at expensive car, to salesman) We’re just kidding ourselves, thank you.

(man to woman at party) You’re stupid. I like that in a woman.

(man to another holding gun to his own head at roulette table) Watch where you’re shoving that elbow, Mac!

1970s

(waitress to grouch) Let me see if I have it correctly, sir. To hell with the appetizer. A chopped sirloin that damn well better be rare. No goddam relish tray. Who cares which salad dressing, since they all taste like sludge?

(young man to young woman at party) You’re very cute, as am I.

(couples at party) And this is Mr. Kolkov, who...Heavens, Mr. Kolkov, I’ve forgotten what’s interesting about you!

1980s

(businessmen meeting) I would’ve recognized you anywhere, Mr. Davis. You look exactly like your corporation.

Son, you’re all grown up now. You owe me two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars.

(waiter) Is everything satisfactory here—I mean as befits our one little star in the New York ‘Times’?

1990s

“How to Delegate During a Recession”: You’re fired. Pass it on.

(sleazy-looking businessmen speaking in front of plummeting profits chart) But, hey, what is ‘recession’ but a word? And the same goes for ‘money,’ right? And how about ‘human beings’?

(Christmas) It’s a check for a hundred thousand dollars. Do you like it?


(end of paper)

Oh, and now my daughter hangs up New Yorker covers.

But classier, as befits a magazine of its stature—note the frames:

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Super chupacabra

DC Comics recently launched its first-ever Bizarro series, in which Bizarro has a companion chupacabra. Bizarro is a reverse of Superman, so I guess he adopts a chupacabra because Superman hasn’t?


I am mentioning because it is the closest we may come to a Boys of Steel: The Creators of Superman/The Chupacabra Ate the Candelabra crossover.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

The bigness of Batman, in short

Batman’s adventures were larger than life, literally.

On comic book covers in the 1940s and early 1950s, his villains were sometimes shown as giants.






 This time, it was literal.



Inside, he sometimes fought those villains on oversized props


Even his ears were bigger (sometimes extremely so).


Bats may be small but Batman has never been.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Super-Team Family: The Lost Issues blog

Superheroes are already fantasy, but why stop there?

As a kid, I was, no surprise, the biggest Super Friends fan going. One of the show's hallmarks (like the Justice League comics that inspired it) was the way in which the larger assembly of heroes would divide into smaller groups to tackle simultaneous crises. I loved seeing who went with who each time, and made up my own mental wish-list sub-groupings. 

Today, I still love this about the medium—and its inventive derivations.


My first online stop of the day is Super-Team Family: The Lost Issues, a daily dose of fictional meetings of fictional characters (as opposed to the "real" meetings of fictional characters that play out in comics, movies, and TV shows).

A labor of love by Ross Pearsall, it combines characters who (usually) haven't co-starred in an actual published story. Ross doesn't limit himself to superheroes; his covers also tap popular figures from science fiction, action-adventure, comic strips, rock music, and more.

Many of the pairings are inspired (Dr. Mid-Nite and Moon Knight) and sometimes batsplat crazy (Vibe joins the Monkees). The digital mojo on display is seamless, plus Ross has a gift for clever wordplay; the titles of his fake stories are spot-on.

Ross may rue the day I discovered his work because I regularly send him unsolicited suggestions. A guy who teamed up Huntress and Darkman and Godzilla and Boba Fett and Peanuts and Tiny Titans is obviously is not lacking for inspiration.

Still, he humors me, and sometimes even runs with one of my suggestions. (Sometimes it turns out that he beat me to it—either a team-up that was already up but I missed or one already in the works. Geek minds think alike.)

Ideas I proposed:


(though the main co-star is the other Thing)

 Daredevil and Blue Devil

 James Kirk and Han Solo 
(both space captains)



(namely Sword of the Atom) 
 

(both archaeologists)

(hers and his hyphenates)







 
(kindred spirit to my suggestion of
Fantastic Four and Inferior Five vs. Secret Six...
but then see two covers down)

(on one-year anniversary of Bill getting official credit)


(I suggested Swamp Thing and Yoda on Dagobah) 




All work copyright its respective original creators. All team-up alchemy credit to Ross. Keep it going, Ross!

Monday, July 13, 2015

Bill Finger in “amNY,” a free daily newspaper

Cristian Salazar at amNewYork contacted me with questions about the connection between the Grand Concourse and the creation of Batman. This led to a nice mention of Bill the Boy Wonder: The Secret Co-Creator of Batman in a 7/7/15 article about the storied history of this major Bronx thoroughfare.


My theory is that Bill Finger and Bob Kane were not on the GC when they created Batman, but weren’t far. And they were there—specifically Poe Park, at 2640 Grand Concourse—to brainstorm later Batman stories.

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Jay Emmett, negotiated Siegel and Shuster’s Superman settlement, 1928-2015

Twice in a two-week period, I was too late.

My list of pop culture figures to track down and interview was reduced by two with the deaths of actress Amanda Peterson and former Warner Communications (now Time Warner) executive Jay Emmett, who passed on 6/22/15. (Yes, this is the world
s only post that mentions both of them.)

I’ve already quoted Jay here (in 2014), and that quotation is worth reposting at any time, not just in light of the circumstances. In 1975, when Jay was Executive VP of Warner Communications, he said of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster: “Legally, nothing has to be done. Morally, I think something should be done, and we will do it out of compassion.”

And they did. And ever since, fans have debated how fair the settlement was. In one of my earliest blog posts, I sketched out ways (according to me) in which Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster were “right” and “wrong” and the ways in which the company that is now DC Entertainment was “right” and “wrong.”

When I quoted Jay last year, I also asked out loud where he had gone. Then I immediately tried to answer my own question, surprised that it took me that long to think to do so. Thanks to fellow Superman author Larry Tye, I did reach out to Jay with an interview request, but did not hear back. I followed up, but again, no reply. I now know that he was not well of late, though perhaps he would not have responded in any case; another Superman author/friend, Brad Ricca, said it’s possible Jay was bound by a NDA.

Whatever you think of the Siegel and Shuster settlement, it was something—far more than Bill Finger got. If you’re a Superman fan, you owe Jay a debt of gratitude. Apparently he was a heckuva guy in his own right.

Friday, July 10, 2015

Amanda Peterson of “Can’t Buy Me Love,” 1971-2015

Like many people my age, I saw Can’t Buy Me Love in 1987 and then an untold number of additional times on cable. I even bought the DVD probably five or six years ago, though I did not watch it till this week when news broke that its female lead, Amanda Peterson, died at age almost-44.


In my self-appointed role of “pop culture archeologist,” I keep a list of people I want to track down and interview, and Amanda was on that list. Her last appearance in a film was in 1994. Over the years, I’ve  seen more than a couple of posts by people asking whatever happened to her.

Now we know she had rough patches. This is always upsetting to learn, but in this case more so because she seemed to fall victim to some of the traps she presumably left Hollywood to avoid.

Upon rewatching CBML for the first time in more than 20 years, I felt it hasn’t aged particularly well. But Cindy, the character Amanda played, is the least clichéd part of it. Her performance is charming and assured.

The world learned of Amanda’s death on 7/6/15, and the morning after, I contacted Ryan Hartsock, the Colorado photographer who took the last known professional photos of Amanda, in 2012. They’d been online since then, apparently, but didn’t come up when I searched for Amanda a year or so ago.


photos courtesy of Ryan Hartsock of KR Productions/

Unsurprisingly, at least one outlet much larger than me also interviewed Ryan, and beat me to posting it. But I am running mine anyway, as a tribute to the star of a movie that meant enough to me at one point that I wanted to own it. Thank you for your time, Ryan. If you were suffering, Amanda, I’m glad you aren’t anymore.

How is it that you met Amanda?

I met Amanda through a friend while planning an event to help models and photographers in May 2012.

Did you meet her family, too?

I never had the opportunity of meeting her family other than her daughter.

What was her initial response when you asked to photograph her?

We spent quite a bit of time on the phone leading up to the event and never once mentioned taking her photo. On June 3, 2012, she and I talked and it was decided that she was willing to shoot on the conditions that she choose the photos and “don’t Photoshop the hell out of me.” The images I took that day were only released at her discretion and on her time frame. She was very careful as to how they were released.

The snake...was she immediately cool to pose with that? Or nervous?

She loved the snake, as did her daughter. She spent a great deal of time playing with it and I think had a genuinely good time.



Why did you photograph her? How aware were you of her movie past?

She wanted to get back in front of the camera on her own terms and I accepted. I jokingly say it took convincing but in reality, although she was hesitant because it had been so long, she was totally open to the idea. I knew of her role in movies but to date I still haven’t seen them, other than Annie when I was young.

Updates on Amanda were virtually nonexistent online, but apparently you’d posted the photos back in 2012? Before she died, did anyone stumble upon them and ask you about her?

We had agreed to post the pics and just see the response without advertising the shoot. People were able to send emails through the website that she and I would read when we were able to meet up. She didn’t have her own email so she would sit with my computer and read through the fan mail that had been sent to me. That always brightened her day. There have been several people that have been in contact over the years with various interview offers and requests but she wasn’t ready and had hopes of starting her own blog and website that unfortunately we never finished.



Did you ask why she left the film business and/or if she had plans to try to break back in?

No, it was kind of a non-issue. I base my opinions of people on the present and how they treat me and those around them. I was there to listen to various stories as she brought them up but her past to me is irrelevant, she was a great person while I knew her and that’s what matters.

Did you see/communicate with her after the impromptu shoot?

We did stay in contact every few months over the years but it definitely wasn’t all the time. We would go months without any contact and then spend hours at Starbucks while she read the latest gossip about herself or spend time texting back and forth regarding offers or ideas. I was a go-between basically, I would send her the info and she would go over things with her manager and get back with a yes or no. She was cautious to keep her whereabouts as private as possible.

Anything else about Amanda you’d like to add?

I would love to get all of the photos from that day to her family but the only number I have is her cell. If they could contact me, that would be great. [MTN: They since have.] She had an effect on so many people and I think it would be nice to get all these emails and messages to them so they can see the good versus all the media spin and gossip that seems to flood the headlines. She was a great individual and it’s disheartening to see how cruel people can be. She had also sent me cell phone pics of her and some of her friends backstage at concerts, etc. Although she wanted them to be seen, I don’t feel that this is the time now and I’d like to pass them off to her family.


In the time I knew Mandy, she always treated me with kindness and respect. Although I was just breaking out in photography at the time, I’ll always feel honored that of all the great photographers she could work with she chose lil ol’ me.

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