From "Weegee", an autobiography of the world’s zaniest photographer, Ziff Davis, 1961.
It pays to be yourself
Arthur Fellig (Weegee), Weegee by Weegee, an autobiography (1961 ) reprinted by De Capo Press, New York, 1975.
Once a year. Vogue discovers a genius. In 1945, when Naked City came out. it was my turn. It took me a long time to get used to the lush surroundings at Vogue. Their office was littered with magnificent girls... with deadpan faces and icy eyes that made me feel as if I had crawled out from under a stone... They matched the furniture. shiny and hard, not a scratch anywhere
I never could get used to those models, maybe it was because they were not used to themselves Even to themselves they were not real, they put on their faces along with their clothes I would just as soon get chummy with one of the plaster mannequins in the Saks-Fifth Avenue window.
The real society people were different from the models They lived in a world as real as their own Their clothes were their own So were their jewels and palaces and their servants dusting the Louis-Quatorze settees
One day, one of the lady magazine editors said, ‘Weegee, you get yourself a tuxedo I’ve been collecting statistics,’ she continued in her educated drawl ‘I find that you have been refused admission to three coming-out parties, seven charity balls, two afternoon teas, four cotillions, two bazaars and eight opening nights at the opera. Why, people think you are a panhandler! You’re giving the magazine a bad name.’
‘I always get in,’ I apologized.
‘Our photographers must enter by the front door.’ the lady said. ‘At next week’s "Rigo-letto" at the Metropolitan you must appear in tuxedos!’
I went out to buy a tux. It was still war-time, shortage-time, no-cuffs-on-the-pants-time. I got bunions canvassing the men’s-clothing departments and stores Finally, a salesman told me about a credit clothing house that had tuxedos to rent I hot-footed it to this loft The linings of their suits were in tatters from old-age and damp-rot. but on the outside the suits looked nice. The salesman said I could establish credit and rent one for three bucks a night, or buy one for $35 cash. (I figured I could stand a bite of $35 better than close investigation of my financial past.) I picked out the tux with the least green mold. The shirt with two sleeves, the bow tie and the cufflinks he threw in free.
I dressed up right away. It was mid-morning of a hot October day, but I couldn’t wait to show my friends at police headquarters that Weegee was really in and was going places.
I said to the cops, ‘How do I look, boys?’ They took one look at me and said, ‘Hey, since when do they wear brown shoes with a tuxedo?’ I said, ‘What’s wrong with the brown shoes?’ They said, ‘It’s not been done - this season ‘ So I dashed out to the nearest Thom McAn and bought a pair of $3 50 black shoes on the expense account And there I was, ready for my debut into Society.
When I got to the Met, I found that I was the only man present wearing a bottle-green tuxedo. Four different gentlemen in black suits asked me if this was the latest fashion I said Yes!’ Sure enough, at the next cotillion I covered there were several brand-new bottle-green tuxedos.
The editor, who tossed away all pictures except those of people in the Social Register, suddenly noted my new tuxedo ‘What an interesting color.’ she said. I must get the name of your tailor for my husband. Mr Weegee.’ I was happy she liked it. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was now my only good suit and that I wore it to work every day.
One of my earliest assignments for Vogue was to photograph an exhibit of the work of the abstract artist Stuart Davis at the Museum of Modern Art. The way I handled abstract art was to make it non-abstract. I shot it straight Vogue went for it, they let me have my own way, and never told me what to photograph. They merely cautioned me against climbing up fire escapes or crashing through windows.
They also told me not to bother about names... they would recognize anybody of importance This was perfect for me. I used the same technique I had used in my newspaper work... the same camera, the same everything, whether it was a murder, a pickpocket, or a society ball.
Once Vogue asked me to cover an important party at the St Regis They would have two girls to assist me, and I must be there at ten o’clock I had had a busy day at police headquarters and when I got home, I fell asleep I didn’t wake up until after eleven. Downstairs, I found that my car had a flat lyre By the time I got things organized. it was midnight.
When I arrived at the St. Regis, the place was deserted I asked the doorman, ‘Where is everybody7’ He said, ‘Everybody’s gone home!’
I decided that I had better turn in something on this assignment and worked on it for a couple of days. When I went to Vogue’s offices all I had were pictures of some of the fancy society dogs arriving at the hotel With a straight face, I told Alex Liebermann, the art director, that I had gotten their room numbers but hadn’t gotten their names (Strangely enough, I didn’t get fired.)
Another Vogue assignment was to cover ballerina Alicia Markova at the Metropolitan Opera House. That was a problem The stage-hands’ union at the Met had made a racket of photographing the Met stage; you had to pay the union four hundred and fifty dollars before you could do a thing there. I had first come up against this problem a few weeks before the Markova assignment when Vogue had asked me to photograph a Swedish tenor at rehearsal. No four hundred and fifty bucks for the Swedish tenor, I said Maybe a nightingale. maybe an Elvis Presley. would be worth it, but not a Swedish tenor. And I said to hell with it.
Here I was back at the Met to photograph Markova. The union said, ‘No pictures!’ This time I just ignored them and took all the pictures I wanted I even photographed the great ballerina as she slumped in a chair in her dressingroom.
The night of the performance, I made the rounds I wanted to get a picture of a ballet-lover asleep in a box... that would have made a good picture, but it had to be a real picture. I spotted Greer Garson in a box. She was on the verge of falling asleep, but she perked up when she saw me. and said. ‘Please don’t take my picture, I’m very tired’ Sure, Miss Garson,’ I said. I respected her wishes.
After I’d been working for Vogue for a while, they gave me my first fashion job. The only thing I knew about fashions, outside of a nudist camp, is that a girl buys a dress at Klein’s to go to a party. Five days later, she removes the beer stains with carbon tetra-chloride, returns the dress, and gets her money back. However, a fashion assignment was a big thing for Vogue. I took my model down to Sussman Volk’s Delicatessen on
Delancey Street After a couple of sandwiches and some hot tea with lemon (three lumps of sugar, please), I posed her against a back-ground of salamis. bolonies, frankfurters, and assorted cold cuts, and made my pictures.
The usual fashion picture is made with marble steps and Grecian columns. That was not for me As a matter of fact, in my picture the main point of interest was the salamis. When I delivered the picture to Vogue, I figured this would be it after my coming back with dog pictures from that society affair. But Vogue got excited. ‘Now we’re getting some place!’ When I got my check for that picture, the voucher read; ‘One 8" x 10" photograph " $2.00, six cents City Sales Tax. Imagination... $200.00, no City Sales Tax.‘ Which proves that it pays to be yourself.
I never could get used to those models, maybe it was because they were not used to themselves Even to themselves they were not real, they put on their faces along with their clothes I would just as soon get chummy with one of the plaster mannequins in the Saks-Fifth Avenue window.
The real society people were different from the models They lived in a world as real as their own Their clothes were their own So were their jewels and palaces and their servants dusting the Louis-Quatorze settees
One day, one of the lady magazine editors said, ‘Weegee, you get yourself a tuxedo I’ve been collecting statistics,’ she continued in her educated drawl ‘I find that you have been refused admission to three coming-out parties, seven charity balls, two afternoon teas, four cotillions, two bazaars and eight opening nights at the opera. Why, people think you are a panhandler! You’re giving the magazine a bad name.’
‘I always get in,’ I apologized.
‘Our photographers must enter by the front door.’ the lady said. ‘At next week’s "Rigo-letto" at the Metropolitan you must appear in tuxedos!’
I went out to buy a tux. It was still war-time, shortage-time, no-cuffs-on-the-pants-time. I got bunions canvassing the men’s-clothing departments and stores Finally, a salesman told me about a credit clothing house that had tuxedos to rent I hot-footed it to this loft The linings of their suits were in tatters from old-age and damp-rot. but on the outside the suits looked nice. The salesman said I could establish credit and rent one for three bucks a night, or buy one for $35 cash. (I figured I could stand a bite of $35 better than close investigation of my financial past.) I picked out the tux with the least green mold. The shirt with two sleeves, the bow tie and the cufflinks he threw in free.
I dressed up right away. It was mid-morning of a hot October day, but I couldn’t wait to show my friends at police headquarters that Weegee was really in and was going places.
I said to the cops, ‘How do I look, boys?’ They took one look at me and said, ‘Hey, since when do they wear brown shoes with a tuxedo?’ I said, ‘What’s wrong with the brown shoes?’ They said, ‘It’s not been done - this season ‘ So I dashed out to the nearest Thom McAn and bought a pair of $3 50 black shoes on the expense account And there I was, ready for my debut into Society.
When I got to the Met, I found that I was the only man present wearing a bottle-green tuxedo. Four different gentlemen in black suits asked me if this was the latest fashion I said Yes!’ Sure enough, at the next cotillion I covered there were several brand-new bottle-green tuxedos.
The editor, who tossed away all pictures except those of people in the Social Register, suddenly noted my new tuxedo ‘What an interesting color.’ she said. I must get the name of your tailor for my husband. Mr Weegee.’ I was happy she liked it. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was now my only good suit and that I wore it to work every day.
One of my earliest assignments for Vogue was to photograph an exhibit of the work of the abstract artist Stuart Davis at the Museum of Modern Art. The way I handled abstract art was to make it non-abstract. I shot it straight Vogue went for it, they let me have my own way, and never told me what to photograph. They merely cautioned me against climbing up fire escapes or crashing through windows.
They also told me not to bother about names... they would recognize anybody of importance This was perfect for me. I used the same technique I had used in my newspaper work... the same camera, the same everything, whether it was a murder, a pickpocket, or a society ball.
Once Vogue asked me to cover an important party at the St Regis They would have two girls to assist me, and I must be there at ten o’clock I had had a busy day at police headquarters and when I got home, I fell asleep I didn’t wake up until after eleven. Downstairs, I found that my car had a flat lyre By the time I got things organized. it was midnight.
When I arrived at the St. Regis, the place was deserted I asked the doorman, ‘Where is everybody7’ He said, ‘Everybody’s gone home!’
I decided that I had better turn in something on this assignment and worked on it for a couple of days. When I went to Vogue’s offices all I had were pictures of some of the fancy society dogs arriving at the hotel With a straight face, I told Alex Liebermann, the art director, that I had gotten their room numbers but hadn’t gotten their names (Strangely enough, I didn’t get fired.)
Another Vogue assignment was to cover ballerina Alicia Markova at the Metropolitan Opera House. That was a problem The stage-hands’ union at the Met had made a racket of photographing the Met stage; you had to pay the union four hundred and fifty dollars before you could do a thing there. I had first come up against this problem a few weeks before the Markova assignment when Vogue had asked me to photograph a Swedish tenor at rehearsal. No four hundred and fifty bucks for the Swedish tenor, I said Maybe a nightingale. maybe an Elvis Presley. would be worth it, but not a Swedish tenor. And I said to hell with it.
Here I was back at the Met to photograph Markova. The union said, ‘No pictures!’ This time I just ignored them and took all the pictures I wanted I even photographed the great ballerina as she slumped in a chair in her dressingroom.
The night of the performance, I made the rounds I wanted to get a picture of a ballet-lover asleep in a box... that would have made a good picture, but it had to be a real picture. I spotted Greer Garson in a box. She was on the verge of falling asleep, but she perked up when she saw me. and said. ‘Please don’t take my picture, I’m very tired’ Sure, Miss Garson,’ I said. I respected her wishes.
After I’d been working for Vogue for a while, they gave me my first fashion job. The only thing I knew about fashions, outside of a nudist camp, is that a girl buys a dress at Klein’s to go to a party. Five days later, she removes the beer stains with carbon tetra-chloride, returns the dress, and gets her money back. However, a fashion assignment was a big thing for Vogue. I took my model down to Sussman Volk’s Delicatessen on
Delancey Street After a couple of sandwiches and some hot tea with lemon (three lumps of sugar, please), I posed her against a back-ground of salamis. bolonies, frankfurters, and assorted cold cuts, and made my pictures.
The usual fashion picture is made with marble steps and Grecian columns. That was not for me As a matter of fact, in my picture the main point of interest was the salamis. When I delivered the picture to Vogue, I figured this would be it after my coming back with dog pictures from that society affair. But Vogue got excited. ‘Now we’re getting some place!’ When I got my check for that picture, the voucher read; ‘One 8" x 10" photograph " $2.00, six cents City Sales Tax. Imagination... $200.00, no City Sales Tax.‘ Which proves that it pays to be yourself.
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2007-12-31 22:50:44
