Goldsmith Lynn - Rock and roll stories - Lynn Goldsmith

PHOTOGRAPHING KEITH RICHARDS, 1981

thanks

David Cohen, Nancy Griffin, Donna Hellman, Eric Himmel, Mac Holbert,
Melissa Love, Bobby Miller, Robert Molnar, Glenn OBrien, Rachel Ruderman,
Sid Schneider, Todd Stone, Elizabeth Van Itallie, Corbis, Lexar, Nikon,
Mamiya, Lowepro, Chimera

Motorcycle jacket photographs courtesy Elvis Presley Enterprises, Inc.
Jimi Hendrix photograph courtesy 1967 Baron Wolman Patti Smith photographing Lynn Goldsmith courtesy 1977 Michael Putland

Editor: Eric Himmel
Designer: Elizabeth Van Itallie
Production Manager: Anet Sirna-Bruder

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935977

ISBN: 978-1-4197-0958-6

Copyright 2013 Lynn Goldsmith

Published in 2013 by Abrams, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE PERSON WHO TOLD ME GETTING MARRIED AND HAVING CHILDREN WAS NOT FOR EVERY GIRL. SHE SAID, TRAVEL, MEET PEOPLE, AND LIVE, LIVE, LIVE! THANKS, MOM.

PATTI SMITH PHOTOGRAPHING ME, 1977

contents

a wop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom!

M y illustrated autobiography, PhotoDiary, was published in 1995.

Its the story of how a female baby boomer from Middle America came to photograph so many musicians. In retrospect, I realize the title was a mistake. Bookstores didnt know if it belonged in the Photography section or the Music section. It was about my life in rock and roll, but I didnt want those words used in the name of the book because at the time, I resisted the label rock and roll photographer. When people identified me that way, Id get irritated, even though I knew it was meant to be a compliment. They envied me for meeting so many rock icons. The way I saw it, Id done a myriad of other things in my life and career, and had photographed many people other than the pop and rock icons of our time. I didnt want to be pigeonholed.

The truth was, I never really saw myself as a photographer. I used the camera as an instrument in my path as an artist. It seems odd that I couldnt allow myself a specific identification, since my work always revolved around helping others formulate their identities. I had been involved in music marketing and band management, film and television direction, Id even been what I considered to be a first: an optic-music artist, whose songs were meant to be heard and seen simultaneouslya fusion where the video was not a commercial for the music, but part of it. Sure, I used the camera as a tool, but I didnt want the tool to define the artist. I was driven by a passion to make visual images, and everything I did somehow fell into that all-encompassing category. My subjects wanted or needed to be seen in a certain way, and my job was to project that face to the world. I knew how to use clothes and makeup, backgrounds and props, to manipulate perceptions. I enhanced the confidence of my subjects by making my shooting studio a crucible of positive energy.

When I published PhotoDiary, I only knew that I wanted to share my journey as an artist who came to New York with one fifteen-dollar dress in a small suitcase, and ended up living her dreams. By collecting my images together, I wanted to bring rock and roll fans closer to their idols, and help aspiring photographers understand what it takes to be successful. I hoped that Id figure out why rock musicians were my primary subject matter, and in looking at my childhood it became clear to me why that is. Id also hoped that writing the behind-the-scenes stories would help me understand what Id learned from the people in front of my lens. However, because of my resistance to that dreaded labelrock photographerI never felt I completely fulfilled the intention of the book. Not many of us get the chance in life for do-overs, to reexplore a subject in the fullness of time with deeper insight and perspective. I am grateful for the chance to do that here with additional photos and text. I can now proudly proclaim, Yes, I am a rock and roll photographer, and this is my rock and roll story.

I was born on February 11, 1948, in Detroit, Michigan. We lived between Seven Mile and West Outer Drive in the northwest part of the city. It was an ordinary middle-class neighborhood. We played hopscotch on the sidewalk, patty-cake and jacks on the front porch, and the boys played baseball in the street. My mom was a housewife and my dad an engineer. Dad dreamed of doing swan dives off cliffs along the coasts of Mexico. He was handsome and poetic. With the birth name of Shakespeare Oliver Goldsmith, he had to be. I believed Mom wanted to be some kind of star because she always dressed like one. Her birth name was Edythe Victoria Leader. She was very proud that Edythe was spelled with a y and that Victoria marked the fact she was born on the day World War I ended.

MY GRANDPARENTS, HANNAH AND JOSEPH LEADER

ME AT AGE 4, PRACTICING MY PROFILE POSE

MY MOM WEARS A DRESS SHE DESIGNED

DAD WORKS ON HIS SWAN DIVE

My sister, Ellen, was four years older, and to me she was a beautiful princess. Delicate, with blond hair and blue eyes, she was always clean. I had dark brown hair, green eyes, and was always dirty. They called me Butterball because Id grab any available stick of butter and shove it into my mouth. Needless to say, I was chubby. Over my right eye hung a purple blood clot. Basically, I used my left eye to see the world around me. I knew there was something wrong with the way I looked because when my dad took my picture, hed tell me to turn profile.

At the age of four, I was sent to overnight summer camp with my sister. I was the youngest kid there. Every night Id cry because I missed my mom. The cabin counselor would carry me out of my bunk into a rocking chair, where shed sing me to sleep. Her voice took away my loneliness, filling the void with love songs. This might have been the first connection I made to music melting away my fears. When I returned home at the end of the summer, I remember running upstairs to look for my dad. He was nowhere to be found. I opened up his closet. It was empty. My mom gently informed me they had gotten divorced. It was arranged for Ellen and me to spend weekends with him at his new home in another part of Detroit.