#shooting stars the rolling stone book of portraits

[nostalgia-eh52]

1973 Shooting Stars: The Rolling Stone Book of Portraits

1969 Duane Allman

📷 Stephen Paley

[live-the-fangirl-life]

By the Light of the Moon

Aelin Galathynius x Rowan Whitethorn - Ghostly Stroll

Walking through a graveyard on Halloween, what a cliché. Happy Spooktober

Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Halloween Collection

Warning: Potential Crying, Mentions of Death

1358 words

*******

The moonlight shown through the cloudy sky, reflecting in the small puddles left on the paved, damp road.

Aelin liked stepping in those puddles.

She would huff a laugh every time her boot fell in the shallow water, creating rippling distortions to the light before it calmed and mirrored the moon once more. She liked the feeling of the stray droplets of water splashing against her foot.

Rowan didn’t comment, simply shook his head fondly and rolled his eyes with each passing puddle.

There was a chill in the air as a soft, crisp breeze blew through the trees. Aelin listened to the rustling of leaves—the ones that were left anyway, seeing as most had already turned shades of crimson, ochre, and toffee, before blanketing the ground.

As a particularly strong gust of wind lifted strands of Aelin’s blonde hair, now shimmering in the moonlight, Rowan reached across with the arm not entwined with hers and gently tucked it behind her ear.

She smiled at the gesture and leaned closer to her husband, savoring the feeling of her shoulder pressing into his and smiling again as he turned his head to kiss the top of her head.

“This is nice.” She said quietly, “don’t you think?”

“Which part?” he asked, facing her and meeting her blue and gold gaze.

Aelin didn’t answer him right away, instead enjoying their peaceful stroll along the empty road. She pushed a stray silver lock back from his face. “The breeze.” She smiled as sounds filtered from houses out towards the road. “The echoes of strangers telling stories. The smell of a fire and roasting marshmallows.” Aelin caught and held Rowan’s gaze. “Walking this beautiful night with you.”

They kept walking, not in a hurry to get anywhere but just enjoying each other’s company. “It is nice, Fireheart. It’s the best time of year.”

Aelin smiled again as she caught the faint sounds of children giggling as the last, straggling trick-or-treaters collected their candy before returning home. She squeezed Rowan’s arm, keeping pace with him as they strolled farther down the road, enjoying the fresh October air.

“My favorite.” She agreed.

They walked along the familiar road for a while more before the houses disappeared and gave way to a large plot of land housing graves, tombstones, and mausoleums.

Aelin turned to grin at Rowan, and he knew exactly what she was going to say.

“It’s Halloween.” She said as if that was question and answer enough. He supposed it was, but Rowan raised a brow, and she rolled her eyes before amending, “Halloween, All Hallows Eve, Samhain—the sentiment’s the same. But we’re here,” she looked toward the graveyard for a long moment before insisting, “we can’t not go in.”

“Walking through a graveyard on Halloween,” he muttered dryly, but followed her lead as they passed through the creaky metal gate. Its not like he would say no to this, or to her. “What a cliché.”

Aelin snorted and met his amused stare with her own. “You say that like we don’t do this every year.”

The front of the graveyard mostly held newer burials, all polished headstones and fresh flowers. The farther back they walked, the older the dates on the stone became. The organization also became more haphazard the further back they roamed. Near the gate the plaques and stones had been lined up in neat rows, but as asphalt turned into cobblestone turned into grass-covered paths, the headstones were placed at odd angles and spaced at random.

“Hmm” Aelin contemplated, halting in front of a new-looking stone and glancing at the dates.

“No, not again, Fireheart.” Rowan groaned, knowing his wife too well.

“I’m going to say that this woman died at the ripe old age of eighty-seven while posing for a tastefully nude portrait.”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s a little vulgar to make up outrageous stories about the dead?” Then he snorted. “And how would that even kill her?”

Aelin raised a brow at him even as his lips quirked up. She steered them down another aisle. “Are you saying that because you actually think that?” Her tone made it obvious she didn’t believe it. “Or are you upset because you know you couldn’t come up with anything more interesting?”

He scoffed as they landed in front of a stone with slightly older dates. He glanced down at Aelin who was watching him expectantly as if to say show me what you’ve got. He glanced around, making sure one no one else was within earshot.

Occasionally, Aelin and Rowan would spot another person or sometimes a small group of people walking through the graves or staring solemnly at a particular headstone. They would nod in acknowledgment and share a brief, understanding look.

Not seeing anyone, he begrudgingly focused on the plaque and said, “Let’s say that this fellow lived his life in the circus and had an unfortunate fire-breathing accident.”

Aelin laughed, her eyes sparkling as they continued to make up stories.

They kept walking. Every now and then they would hear a bird flying across the grounds or the wind whistling through the trees.

“Ooh here’s an older one.” Aelin glanced at Rowan before nodding, “this one accidentally shot himself with a cannon.”

Rowan snorted, “how does one shoot themselves with a canon?”

“I don’t know,” she rolled her eyes, “maybe it failed to fire, and he went to check on it and suddenly boom.”

They meandered through the aisles and slowly watched as the stones became rougher and covered in moss, the words etched into them barely legible.

The clouds had cleared and now the sky was filled with the light of the fading moon.

This far back into the graveyard, neither Aelin nor Rowan could make out the entrance from which they came.

But that didn’t matter. Not as Aelin kept her arm hooked through her husband’s while they turned down another row of ancient, long-forgotten tombstones.

Rowan stopped walking and felt Aelin press herself closer towards him.

“What do you think about these?” he whispered; voice barely audible above the low wind.

Aelin squeezed his arm. “I think,” she whispered just as quietly, “they lived a long, happy life and forever thanked the stars that they found each other.”

The stones were old. Rounded corners from age and layers of moss were identical on the pair of faded headstones. And even though the letters had long since faded, the inscription was something neither of them would forget.

Go Rattle The Stars. Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius & Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius. To Whatever End.

They stood quietly for a long moment. Their humor replaced with a calm serenity.

“How long has it been, Buzzard?” She whispered. “I lost count ages ago.”

A lie. Aelin knew exactly how many years had passed—how many anniversaries, how many holidays, how many celebrations; how many children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; how many Halloween nights she and Rowan had made this same trek through the graveyard.

“Too long, Fireheart.” he murmured.

She held his hand even tighter. They didn’t speak again, relishing in their companionable silence and the comfort of simply being with one another, until the moon had almost fully dipped beneath the horizon.

Aelin faced him, a fond smile growing as she placed a hand on his cheek. He still looked as handsome and young as the day she’d met him, despite them having grown old together long, long, ago.

“Until next All Hallows Eve,” She promised.

It wasn’t a thing to feel sad about, nor angry or frustrated. It simply was.

She wasn’t sure how it happened or why, but she and Rowan found each other every year on this night, and she would thank the universe for letting it be so.

“Until next year.” He held her waist as she wound her arms around his neck. Rowan leaned down to press his forehead against hers. “To whatever end, Aelin.”

“To whatever end, Rowan” she raised herself on her toes to kiss him.

As the last glimmers of moonlight disappeared, Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn faded away once more in a ghostly whisper.

*****

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[atypicalacademic]

My OCs as "Vibes"

Um- as the kids say

Haider Wazim

Flowering trees, their branches drooping with fresh blossoms. Tender leaves shooting up the rich earth, glistening with dew. Paint-stained fingers. A nest of pillows. Your friends/family in one room. Hand-made, just-because gifts. The heady, earnest teamwork of putting together a wedding or a birthday party for someone you love. The divine scent of cooking, generous servings heaped on a plate in your favourite color. The tap-tap of steady, familiar footsteps down wooden stairs, warm, head-to-chest bear hugs, tight arms squeezing your pain away and filling hollow spaces with courage.

Nurlan Samal

Cigarette smoke. A crowded tavern, lively drunken chatter and gambling. Red lipstick, the second coat of makeup. Long nails flashing some metallic shade of red. Marigolds buried in black hair, preening at yourself in the mirror. Oil and fire burning high on Temple lamps, a prayer thrown to the winds. The scent of spice that makes your eyes water. Soaking in the busy street-sounds, blowing kisses to your friends. Thunderous applause. A picture of yourself that's come out just right. An arm around your shoulders, a throaty laugh in your ear - "Don't be shy, gorgeous, it's fun out here in the spotlight."

Zurkhi

Wildroses growing through cracks in cobblestones, turning up where you least expect them. Hushed, passionate whispers in the firelight- a plan to rise up against odds, topple a tyrant, swapping ideals and dreams till the sun comes up. A scorpion scuttling over bare arms, familiar as a friend, never dreaming to hurt. The fire-flash of a liquor shot burning its way down your throat. Stained sleeves, a low hum of conversation in many languages. Poetry learnt byheart. Winning an argument with ease and confidence. A rallying cry at the Town Square, a speech that picks at the fire in your spirit. A clap on your shoulder, the unwavering flame of deep, abiding conviction spurring you on as you speak your mind at the top of your lungs, over and over until your very voice cracks.

Kadambari Naayagi

The complex notes of a Veena playing in the distance. Anklets and rhythmic footsteps. The sound of a flute weaving through birdsong. The chittering of a squirrel and a short, high laugh. Sheet music abandoned in favour of improvisation. The kind of security you feel safe to get lost in. Daydreams, picking tiny flowers, fingers running through long black hair. Playing "they love me, they love me not," rolling dice, and singing through your chores. Losing yourself in art galleries or a stage performance- finally nailing a note you've been trying to reach. A running river rippling and sparkling in the sunlight. Curling up with a good book or diving into your favourite show, letting the world fall away. A warm hand on yours, gently urging you to let go of whatever you're holding on to that hurts.

Oxana Lebedev

Foamy, frothy coffee. Hot cocoa with marshmallows on top. A small, but luxurious cafe, with polite service and an evidently hand-picked menu. Leather bound notebooks and a gold-tipped pen. Pocket watches and rose-gold rimmed glasses. Ruffles. Pressed clothes. Lace. A polished storefront, a small, well-kept lab. Observations scribbled in a neat, systematic hand. Bathing salts dissolving in warm water. Long conversations about all your goals and interests. Platform heels on cobble stoned streets, bitten nails. A crossed-out to do list, a well organized planner. A bunny nestling into your lap. Soft gloved fingers lacing through yours, a stern warning to not talk yourself down. A sticky note on your mirror encouraging you to chin up and go get 'em.

Sergio Casimiro Leopold

Gemstones catching the starlight. A large, ornate mirror. Castle halls with lined portraits. Star charts, an intricately carved telescope. Silk sheets and fur quilts. Cognac at midnight. Braided hair and shimmering makeup. A confident turn of phrase, moving through the crowd to respectful murmurs. Golden crown shining in a glass and velvet box. Marble statues. Striking up a waltz on the piano, being drawn to a partner's chest. A hand at the small of your back. Expensive vacations. Being waited on hand and foot. Resting your head on someone's lap, a presence that always listens as you speak, hand running through your hair and murmured words of comfort.

Sybilla Livsdottir

A colourful tent, the jingle of charms from an overflowing pouch. A hip flask, the strong scent of whiskey early in the morning. Road trips and camping out with strangers. Long, dangly earrings. Rings on each finger. A bargain well struck. A campfire, dancing with more abandon than skill, the press of someone's body against yours. The downhill rush of wind. Turning back and knowing that the worst has passed. A falcon's wingbeats. Meat roasting over fire. Feline eyes. An accent you can't quite place. A door thrown open in a lodge in the middle of nowhere- a low, kind voice from within assuring you that the storm will let up, but in the meantime, here, some shelter, a fire and company.

What are your OC's "vibes"? 💜����❤️

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with KATARINA DU PONT, who is TWENTY-NINE years old. She is often called KATHERINE by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

What is DOOMED to look on forever, admired and sparkling and forbidden from participating in the fancies and follies of man? Stars, strict-upright roses in a crystalline vase, girls in pearls, and a painting hung over the fireplace. What is Katarina Du Pont? Not a star, a bouquet, or a godforsaken fucking PORTRAIT. From the time she was born, the girl was a pearl in reverse: instead of coming from a thing tightly bound and rough to the hands of man with the beautiful thing beneath, she was the unbreakable, opalescent gem with something sharp and coarse melted inside. Every child is meant to be a story, and with each day that Katerina aged, she took her plotline further away from the synopsis her parents had intended: in the beginning it did not matter much that she was a precocious, serious child, nor that the fits she threw - unlike the average spoiled, silver spoon-poisoned youth - were not only a matter of unreasonable want, but indisputable ARGUMENT. All that mattered in her beginning years was that she was a pretty representative of her last name, willing (albeit contemptuous) enough to put on the frilled dresses that were asked of her when the monthly dinner parties rolled around. When years later, her younger sister – the princesse – would stamp her ball-jointed ballerina ankle for a new toy and dew her eyes until the product was achieved, Katarina had made a habit of presenting undeniable reason as to why this thing was owed to her with aggressive FERVOR and a sophistication well beyond her years.

Katarina was a girl that had forsaken METAPHORS by the time her high school English teacher leaned over her pretty porcelain shoulder and whispered an allegory about the colour of her eyes during an exam on Wuthering Heights. She had him fired for improper conduct 36 hours later, and received a 98% on the test. Following a brief interlude after class with the substitute, she had argued her mark up to 101%. In place of metaphors, the soft-silk innuendos and allegorical whispers of other blue-blooded girls her age, Katarina was all skin, bone, and vein. She felt things VISCERALLY, did things with her body, and made no apologies or excuses by pretending what had been done - usually something awful, usually something with teeth - was because of an iridescent shimmer inside her forged by the mating of wealth, intelligence, and beauty. The simpering faux-ignorance of socialites and the general stupidity of men enraged her to an unnatural degree, and her seeming inability (read: unwillingness) to clear her face of evidence when these feelings of disdain crossed her was a blaring LIABILITYfor the Du Ponts. As she aged from girl to young woman to tempest, her parents were faced increasingly often with the embarrassment of finding their eldest daughter had insulted a potential business partner and their second-largest shareholder within the time it took her to finish her first cocktail. There was a bitterness inside her whose origins she could never quite place; it seemed that for as long as she had existed, there had been some mean black stone inside her named resentment, called RAGE.

Just as if she had been a man, Katarina had been indulged in the finest education and the highest expectation - to inherit the family business and continue its greatness - and perhaps that was the fatal FLAW in her raising. Even if the woman had been left unattended and locked away as a child, her mind would have forged itself into the glass-edge it was now on its own – after all, all it takes to make a sharp piece of glass is to break a mirror. But instead that intellect had been honed into something even larger than her heart and more dangerous than her face, and shatter the looking glass Katarina did, along with glass ceilings alike: upon finding out that the ascent to company CEO was meant to be hailed as little more than a poster-girl and placeholder, leaving the decisions of the Du Pont bank to the board of aging and bigoted white men, Katarina’s path changed VICIOUSLY. While this was not the axis upon which her entire life upturned itself, it was the last push that the pendulum needed in order to swing. And so like all aspects of her life, Katarina did what would unnerve the greatest amount of people, and subsequently give her the most pleasure: she took the most literal blue-collar job possible.

She joined the police force.

Men in particular - whether they be criminals, affluent businessmen, or both (the two are not mutually exclusively) - have had a fondness over the years of questioning how a BEAUTIFUL daughter of money had found herself in such a pedestrian aggressive job. And Katarina always answers the same manner; in the most CUTTING way possible, decrying the individual for their attempt to pinhole her and chopping down their own frivolous career in the process. Despite the shock factor of her vocation choice, there is a swelling, even dangerous pride that Katarina fosters from knowing she is a source of dynamite and justice in such a damning city – and in the knowledge that she’s potentially the best shot in all of Verona. True to her teenage self, Katarina is still no metaphor, nor is she a trope, an archetype, or one slim edge of a preset dichotomy: she is a WHIRLWIND, everything at once, and a danger from every angle. She makes no concessions and cuts no corners of herself, donning her uniformly pressed work slacks at daybreak and Harry Winston diamonds by night — and Verona can be sure she that Beretta Model 92FS strapped to her hip shoots with as much ACCURACY as the wicked pink slip of her tongue.

BERNADETTE DU PONT: Sister. In the rule of righteousness, it is the younger sister that should spend her life in her elder’s shadow – and yet Bunny has seemingly been born backwards, casting her shadow in front of her rather than behind. Though the primary emotions slanted towards her sister are annoyance, distaste, and regret for all the things her kin could have been but never will be, there is also a mean sliver of resentment under the nails of Kat’s soul. While the attention of her parents - or anyone at all - has never quite been a driving force for Katarina, that her intelligence and ambition should have favour lost to the falsely doe-eyed ministrations of her sister sets her alight. Katarina’s bitterness has always been her defining factor, and no more so is it present than when conversing with darling Bunny dearest.

MIKAEL FALCO: Achilles Heel. Kindness does not come easily to her, whether it be by word or action. But no one can say that she isn’t a generous soul. When she sees a bird with a broken wing, she can’t help but give a small cluck of exasperation and do what any other might – which is to say, nurse the fallen dear back to health. Perhaps there is something within her that calls out to the Falco man, something just as broken as he. But when the two talk, it is as if that hum of pain is drowned out, momentarily, briefly, fleetingly, but drowned out all the same. Her logic tells her that a wounded creature is a creature meant for slaughter. Her heart tells her that their stories are the same, somehow, some way. Verona isn’t kind to those who show weaknesses. When it comes to the Falco man, she can’t help but guard both his and hers.

LILLIAN WEN: Best Friend. They had grown up on opposite ends of Verona, yet found their way to each other as if tied by red string. In their younger years, when her fire was especially potent and without control, here were times that Kat had felt as if Lillian was the only existence in all of Italy that she could tolerate. The pair has been an unconquerable and known duo since childhood, and together they form a diamond: Lillian the glisten and shine, Katarina the sharp-cut edges unbreakable content. More recently tension had arisen between them due to their discrepancies with each other’s career choices, and while Kat will never quite understand (or like), Lillian’s status as a living clothes hanger, it’s better than the shadow-clad second job Katarina has turned a blind eye to for as long as possible – her best friend’s status as a Capulet consort. Perhaps there had always been an expectant part of her longing for her best friend to be the only consort she would ever know…

LAWRENCE VERNON: Old Friend. He abandoned her, left her for desolate at a time where she would such abandonment most keenly. Since then, she has forcibly forgotten what secrets were passed between them, what tender moments were shared. It would be nice to say that she can rise above and forgive, wipe away, repair. But, alas, not even she, with all her righteousness, can do such a thing. Friendships that have been abandoned by one side, are often to be resented by the other. She cannot help that it rises in her, nor can she stem the flood of old aches that quickly follows.  A Capulet and a Montague, what bitterness always follows – and they? They are simply another chapter to add to the book that holds so many tales.

Katarina is portrayed by SARAH GADON  and was written by TARYN. She is currently TAKEN  by VICTORIA.

[dndeviants]

Aric’s reward

Aric was glad to be rid of Rahadin’s dreadful presence... without the constant, whispery screams, he could eat in peace.

He took time to savor this meal. It was the first meal that he had had in some time that was suitable for his station... but he craved the fare of his homeland...

Dates, he thought. Dates would have been a nice desert...

He thought of the lush palm trees that bore the dates, wistfully. The plump fruit, the sun-dried delicacy...

The screams came again.

Back too soon, though Aric, as he looked up to the stern elf. 

Rahadin strode gracefully into the dining room, hardly making a noise, and poising himself tall, with his hands behind his back.

"Lord Strahd requests your presence in his study,” Rahadin informed them in his quiet, low voice, “His audience with Lady Linda is adjourned. Are you finished with your meal?"

Aric nodded,  "I am, are you finished, Jeeves?"

"Quite finished," Jeeves replied, wiping off his face. He stood and waited for Aric.

Aric rose from his chair and nodded to Rahadin, waiting for him to lead the way.

They followed Rahadin out of the dining room, and into a spiral staircase. They walked up two flights of stairs until they came to a landing with two vaguely human shapes flanking a steel door. 

The steel door was engraved with images of a human king in armor astride a horse, a majestic range of mountains, and shooting stars in the background. Tiny figures of humans and wolves framed the image.

I wonder who this depicts-

"This way, if you please," Rahadin’s voice cut off Aric’s thoughts.

Aric batted away his annoyance, as the elf opened the door to what looked like a private dining room... that was dark and dusty from centuries of misuse.

Aric cautiously stepped in, The room is full of dust! And that smell... sweet... decay... He wrinkled his nose.

The table before before him was covered with a fine layer of dust. The center of the table hosted a three tiered wedding cake that leaned heavily to one side, the frosting that was once white had turned green with age. Cobwebs hung like dusty lace down the side of the cake. A single doll figure of a woman adorned the crest of the cake. Suspended above was a web shrouded chandelier of forged iron. 

Heavy curtains draped an arched window on the south wall... resting in a wooden stand by that window was a dusty lute, and in the southwest corner, was a tall harp, shrouded in cobwebs...

Is this where I die? Aric looked to Jeeves with a very confused look on his face. 

Jeeves returned his glance with a worried look of his own. He cleared his throat,  "So... no one come through here often?"

Rahadin was expressionless, "No. But this is the polite way to enter the master's study."

Rahadin opened the door to the next room over, "Lord Strahd. Lord Aric and his retainer."

Aric and Jeeves entered, not sure of what awaited them... 

But they were immediately taken aback with the contrast.

A blazing hearth fire filled the room with rolling waves of red and amber light. The walls were lined with ancient books and tomes, their leather covers well oiled and preserved through careful use. 

All was in order here. A thick, luxurious rug concealed the stone floor beneath. In the center of the room a large, low table, waxed to a mirrored finish stood. 

Even the poker next to the blazing fireplace is polished...

Large, overstuffed divans and couches were arranged carefully about the room. Two chairs of burgundy colored wood with padded leather seats and back cushions faced the hearth. A huge painting hung over the mantle piece in a heavy gilded frame. The rolling firelight illuminated the carefully rendered portrait... 

The girl from the village... Ireena? That can’t be... Aric lost himself in the room.

Strahd glanced up from his spell book to his overwhelmed guests, "Welcome. Please, make yourselves comfortable...”

Having garnered their attention, he gestured for them to come in. He spoke to his chamberlain, “Rahadin... see what you can do to attend to Ruki."

Rahadin bowed and retreated from whence he came. Jeeves looked to Aric for guidance  on where to sit. Aric, still transfixed by the portrait, sat in one of the burgundy chairs by the fireplace. Jeeves nodded and stood by his side.

Strahd closed his spell book and rose from his seat by the desk, “Let me join you...” he took his spell book and walked over to sit across from Aric in the other chair by the fire. 

Aric waited for the vampire lord to settle, and folded his hand in his lap, addressing him respectfully,  "What did you wish to talk about, Lord Strahd?"

Strahd had made himself comfortable in casual, but fine, wear. He wore a bright white shirt, black trousers, a rich red sash about his waist... with a ruby pendant resting on his chest. He traced over the filigree embedded into the fine leather spell book he carried. 

 "Your reward was why I summoned you...” he looked to the young genasi boy, “I have recovered enough arcane energy to give you a proper gift... for that spell-storing ring of yours.”

The vampire smiled with no small amount of pride, “I have three of my own spells that I think you will find suitable. And certainly they are unique. No other caster will have them."

Aric’s curiosity grew, "What are these spells?"

Strahd steepled his fingers, "The first spell I offer would be my Explosive Runes spell. With it, you would be able to lay a magical trap upon any object...”

“It is a spell I created to specifically entrap greedy mages...” he explained, “the runes will be glaringly magical in nature, and make ordinary objects seem like rare magical artifacts, but when deciphered by a mage, will ultimately explode."

Strahd smirked, "Does this interest you? Or should I lay bare what else I have to offer?"

Aric looked at the vampire. He was all too familiar with this kind of game... A good politician would offer the least he could give first... bait, to ensnare the greedy and impatient with something lesser than what was due to them. 

Strahd was testing him, most assuredly. 

"I would like to know all my choices before making a decision," Aric looked to Strahd without insult. 

"Wise indeed," Strahd made a small gesture of agreement, and nodded his satisfaction.

Very wise, very smart... impressive for his age... just like I was... Strahd thought to himself. He offered his second choice:

 "The second spell is my Baneful Attractor...” He paused, “You are familiar with Counterspell, are you not?"

Aric hesitated, he was clueless as to really anything magic related. It wasn’t in his field of study. He was aware of the magic in the rings, but beyond that... had no clue in how any of it actually worked...

But Strahd is in a talkative mood... may as well take advantage of it. Aric admitted, "I'm not familiar with it, actually, can you explain?"

"Gladly...” Strahd held out his hand, “Counterspell is a spell that will negate a spell being cast by an enemy caster. Say... they try to cast a fireball at me. I, as a wizard will recognize the spell they are about to cast, and can react magically to negate the casting of that spell...”

He tilted his head, “The benefits of this spell is that the enemies burn through their arcane energy, and I am prevented from being blasted by fire. Do you follow?"

Aric nodded his understanding, "I do, please continue."

"My Baneful Attractor spell functions similarly, but instead of just negating the spell..." Strahd smiled wickedly, "I can redirect their spell directly back on them, and create an aura that will attract all spells cast around them...”

Strahd nodded his cruel satisfaction, “...to redirect themselves to the mage.”

Strahd noted Aric’s confused expression and gave example, “So now this hypothetical caster casts fireball, and I recognize the spell and cast Baneful Attractor... the fireball spell is cast, and its course is redirected back on to the caster that summoned the flames. Then, all other harmful spells cast within its aura will also do the same. Useful, no?"

Aric nodded, pleased, "Very, I feel that would be more useful to me than the first spell you mentioned, but what about the last spell?"

"The last one is really just a little vanity spell, if I will be honest. Very dramatic. I call it... my Rain of Terror..." Strahd laughed,  "What this spell does is summon a terrifying, unnatural rain in an area that can cover about one square mile...”

“It can cause several enemies at once to be afraid and also be more susceptible to the effects of fear... as well as make me ten times more intimidating than I already am... It is also useful for reducing enemy visibility, limiting their perception, removing fires...”

He paused, “A great variety of unnatural things can be summoned by the rain and it is random every time... I have seen black water, blood, ash, locusts, snakes, spiders..."

He leaned back into the plush chair, musing,  "Even some toads... But it really is best against an army or a large group of people. I don't get to use it much. Not since the War against Azalin."

Strahd tilted his head to Aric, "So what will it be, young lord? Explosive Runes? Baneful Attractor? Rain of Terror?"

Aric thought for a moment, and came to a conclusion,  "I think Rain of Terror would benefit me the most, if nothing else, putting a little fear in Mehmet could do him some good."

Strahd laughed, "I see. Yes, perhaps you are right. Do you mind handing over the ring so I may cast the spell?"

Strahd noted Aric’s suspicion as he held out his hand. Strahd held his eyes with the boy, “No tricks. You have my word.”

Aric, satisfied with Strahd’s vow, removed the Annulus Qysaris Minor from his left hand and passed it to Strahd.

Strahd took the magical ring in his hand... He could sense the potential for greater power within it... But kept his word.

He closed his eyes, and cast his spell. A small peal of thunder emanated from the ring... the room grew dim and cold... the ring glowed purple... grew hot in his hand...

Then everything returned to the way it was before.

Strahd tilted his head back and opened his eyes, muttering,  "Interesting."

Strahd passed the ring back to the boy, and fixed him with his stare, "I may have a few questions for you, if you have the time."

Aric paused, then nodded, "I suppose it's owed, seeing as you have provided food and accommodations for all of us. What questions do you have?"

Strahd gestured to the rings adorning Aric’s fingers, "These rings that have found their way into my realm are quite interesting trinkets... I know you stated that your goals here were to find these rings... before your treacherous cousin did."

He continued, “I can understand the appeal of these rings for a mage like your cousin... but you? You can hardly wield their full power... so it begs the question.... Why? What do you get from this, other than limited power, and preventing a rival from gaining these?"

Aric answered,  "The rings individually are quite limited, but if one person were to obtain all  twelve, they would be quite powerful.”

“They have been used by the Calephs, the kings, of my people to obtain and maintain their power. Should Mehmet get all the rings,” Aric shook his head, “It could be the end to my grandfather’s rule, and eliminate my father as the successor to the throne, and myself in turn.”

He looked to the vampire with determination, “I've spent most of my life training and doing what I can to elevate my father’s favor with the Caleph, allowing Mehmet to have them now could mean the end of all of that."

His father? Strahd raised a brow, and folded his hands over his spell book, "So... you are doing this so that your father can secure his position on the throne... as opposed to your cousin? If you gain all twelve rings... shouldn't you be Caleph? Would you have to give up those rings that you earned yourself?"

Aric was aghast, "You're suggesting I usurp the throne, forsake my family and traditions simply because I would posses the power to do so? That would make me no different than Mehmet!”

Righteous anger poured through Aric, at the vampire’s suggestion, “Through politics and favor, I will earn my place! My people have seen enough of power hungry rulers!”

Strahd raised a hand to calm the fiery tempered boy, "That is not what I am suggesting. What I am saying you are doing all of this...” He gestured broadly, ”...coming to foreign lands, risking your life, battling with beings and forces beyond your reckoning... for what exactly? A little favor?"

Strahd paused before his voice could become too mocking. He looked to Aric, and used his most reasonable tone, "Why isn't your father here, then? His position is the one most dire. it seems. Was this venture your idea? Or were you asked to do it?"

"I was requested to track down the twelve rings as news had reached my father that they were being sold...” Aric paused, “My cousin being the seller was a surprise and being taken to another plane was... unpredictable. As to why my father didn't come all this way...”

Aric hesitated, “I'd imagine he felt dealing with the matter was beneath him, and if I had refused to go, he likely would have asked one of my siblings. After all, most of us are trained in one deadly art from or another. While I stand to gain little from this now, it could mean the difference between me being Caleph or being looked over for another sibling...”

Strahd folded his hands back in his lap and thought for a moment. This... was all too familiar to him. The boy was young, the father was asking a son to risk his life... all for a little favor... a little acknowledgement...

He looked to Aric, and asked quietly, "How... old are you Aric?"

The boy looked back to him, his ember red eyes questioning, “Seventeen... why?”

That young?! Strahd blinked then pinched the bridge of his nose. Anger, fury... those emotions coursed through his veins at remembered pain. 

He could only laugh.

That startled Aric. 

"Nothing... has changed then...” Strahd sneered, “Fathers are still sending their sons to die for them without hardly lifting a finger themselves... They still send children to fight their battles for them..."

Strahd laughed a little louder, "Linda supposed I may have come from your world... she must be right... and what a cruel world we came from."

 "Maybe,” Aric spoke uncertainly. He tried to put more bravado in his voice, “But its up to us to choose how we survive in it."

 "I had your optimism about that, once."

Aric felt chills run through his blood as Strahd looked at him. 

Strahd averted his gaze into the fire, and explained himself,  "I was fifteen when my father sent me to fight in a civil war that was ravaging our homelands while he was safe in our palace. The War of Silver knives...”

Strahd made a throwaway gesture, “He was capable of fighting himself, but instead put all the pressure of commanding on me... I was barely finished with schooling...”

He looked back to Aric, “Of course, at the time, I didn't see it that way. I was going to be a hero-"

Strahd spat the word, “Heroism. There is no heroism in war. Only the fighting, the dead, and the dying.”

“I was seventeen when that war ended... and it only ended when I had nearly died and had to be rescued by wandering Vistani. Do you know how it ended?”

He didn’t wait for Aric to answer, “My father decided that enough was enough... and got involved in ending the war swiftly... at that moment I knew I had been betrayed by him.”

“If he could so easily win the war... why did he draw it out thus? Why allow unnecessary bloodshed? Sacrifice countless lives? Sacrifice his own son?" 

Strahd arched his back... the burning in his blood brought back the burning pain of remembered wounds. He growled, "And I was further punished. For my failure.”

Strahd lamented, “I did not have the experience he did. I was not a fighter like him. I was a child. In spite of my many successes, I still had to bear the burden of failure."

Strahd collected himself and shrugged, forcing a faux optimism into his voice, "But perhaps your father is different. I hardly expect your father to be a general, with handy years of experience in battle and tactics...”

He continued, “I hardly expect him to be a cunning man like my father, or as politically minded. Perhaps you know your father better, and he is more present in your life than my father was. Perhaps... you are on this mission for him beyond any familial duty, beyond favor, beyond proving yourself. Perhaps this is an act of love, and you are here because you chose to be. And perhaps you were asked because you were the most loved son... but what do I know?"

Strahd looked over to Aric.

Aric looked over his shoulder to Jeeves. Strahd had struck a chord...

He had listed exactly everything Aric’s father was... and for the first time... doubt, crept into Aric’s mind.

Jeeves seemed to sense his master’s discomfort, and put his arm on Aric’s shoulder... 

Aric grew quiet, then mustered the strength to look at his host, "Thank you for gift Lord Strahd, if you have no further questions, I would like to be shown our room."

Strahd nodded his sympathy... He took it too far.

"Ah, apologies. Thank you for enlightening me. I think I understand a little bit better. May you put my spell to good use, Aric,” Strahd spoke gently, “And have a good night. Is there anything you require, Jeeves?"

Jeeves bowed respectfully, "In the way of gifts, anything suitable for Aric is good enough for me. Thank you, Lord Strahd."

Strahd closed his eyes and reached out his mind... He made a gesture to the door, “Volenta will see you to your room...”

They waited in silence for her to arrive. The small vampire appeared humbly before them, speaking meekly, "Where are they staying, my Lord?"

Strahd spoke softly, "Be a darling, and take them to the guest quarters. Escher should already be there entertaining Linda."

Volenta bowed. Aric and Jeeves walked numbly through the dining room and up the same flight of stairs until they had come up to a bright and well taken care of room. Escher was there with Linda, chatting...

They paid no mind.

"Here you go!” Volenta guided them, “There is a bedroom just down there, but this is the common room. You are free to enjoy it, or retire."

Jeeves bowed his head, "Thank you, but I feel that we are going to retire for the night. The room was back there you said?"

Volenta nodded.

Jeeves gave his thanks and motioned Aric to the back room. Aric followed Jeeves with his head down in thought. Jeeves opened the room for him. Aric hardly paid attention to the scenery, opting to sit still on the chaise lounge  when they walked in.

Jeeves sat next to him, "Do you... want to talk about it?"

 "It was... enlightening,” said Aric, un-enthusiastically, “He makes a point, but I don't really know what that means for me..."

Jeeves inhaled and exhaled slowly, "It isn't... like we have much of a choice. Mehmet and the Pershakahl are no good for the country, but... permission to speak frankly?"

"Always."

Jeeves nodded, and reached out to comfort his friend, "We don't... really know your father, or his ambitions either. There was also what Strahd said about perceived failure... Even if we win here, recover the rings... if something isn't absolutely perfect...”

 “What happens to us?” Jeeves questioned, “You could lose your rank, lose favor. I could be... reassigned. Or worse. I don't think that we should cease our mission. But I think it was made very clear that we need exit plans and contingency plans."

Aric looked to Jeeves with a firm expression, "You won't be reassigned. If nothing else, I've earned that. As for the rest, you're right. I think it's best to finish getting the rings and finding how to get out of Barovia. As for where to go from there, I don't know.”

Jeeves folded his arms, "What Strahd said would be treason. But we can't exactly allow good faith in work well done to be our only hope. The situation just becomes more complicated."

Jeeves paused, "What do you think? What can you remember about your father?"

"Not much...” Aric admitted, “He's never really been close. Not with any of his children as far as I know. I know he wants to be Caleph, but not why or what he hopes to achieve when he is."

Jeeves nodded and held out his hand, "I... don't remember much either. Other than a lot of formalities... only that after my family was killed by bandits... and I was kidnapped by merchants... I was gifted to him. And in turn... I was gifted to you. Trained from a young age to be your personal protector, and if need be, decoy. I've... not observed much of his personality."

Aric nodded, "I think it's safe to say we know more about Lord Strahd than we do my father...” Aric bit back bitterness, “But for right now it changes nothing. I still cannot let Mehmet get the rings and we have to find a way back home. We will have to decide what to do from there...”

Aric paused and leaned back, “Disappearing into the desert, like Mehmet did, is starting to seem like a good idea.."

Jeeves leaned back as well, and laughed, "Maybe we will find whatever Mehmet found there too. Or who knows? Maybe we could stay here...”

He spoke sarcastically, “I'm sure I could get used to the spiders. And the monsters. And the other weird stuff here. When you take away all the mountains and grass and replace it with sun and sand... it's not so different from Calimshan."

Aric huffed a small laugh, despite himself, "I don't think that is such a good idea, but we will figure something out, we always do.”

He sighed, and rose, “For now lets gets some rest. It has been a long day."

Jeeves nodded as he unlaced his boots, "At the very least, we have something to sleep on. Thoughts, and beds."

Jeeves gestured to the bed in the room. Aric, not bothering to change, plopped on there, and adjusted a pillow.

Jeeves kept his boots to the side and plopped next to his friend. He sighed, “We'll figure something out." 

[acehotel]

Just/Talk: Justin Strauss with Jerry Schatzberg

Since the beginning of his illustrious career in the 50s, Bronx-born Jerry Schatzberg’s singular vision has shaped, shifted and pushed the cultural needle in fashion, music and film the world over. His seminal works are so powerful that they’re indistinguishable from the subject itself — it’s hard to envision Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde without immediately calling to mind Schatzberg’s portrait of him. He's photographed the greats, directed Al Pacino’s starring debut and was a trailblazer for boundary-pushing art. For this edition of Just/Talk, legendary DJ and Ace friend Justin Strauss talks to Jerry about dressing The Rolling Stones in drag, his foray into photography and why Dylan’s iconic LP photo is blurry. 

Justin Strauss: I'm really thrilled to meet you. I've interviewed a lot of people. When this opportunity came up, it was really something special for me. Your images are burned into my psyche. I've been buying records since I was seven years old. When I grew up, my dad was into records. The cover you shot for Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde LP is one of the most iconic record covers ever.

Jerry Schatzberg: I hope so. We just had an issue over a cover on a Bob Dylan book I'm doing  now, and I think the book cover is beautiful. The German publisher decided they didn't like it. They didn't think they could sell it. I don't know why. I realized after listening to what they were talking about, they just wanted to do their thing. I could just see the board meeting in the morning on how can we get our touch on this and all that. I didn't like anything they submitted.

If somebody shows me something better than what I've got, why not? I'll say it was my idea. But they came through with really terrible stuff. I told the publisher. I said, “No, you'll have to go with the cover we've got.” It's being translated into four different languages. They wanted a little something different in each one so they could tell the difference between the languages, which was just an excuse they gave me.

Finally, I said no to them. Then they said, “Well, let us just submit something.” I said okay. They submitted something, and it again was terrible. “We'll find something else.” They submitted it. It was also terrible. I wasn't being difficult. If somebody does something better than what I've got, I want to do it. It's still going to be my book.

Finally, I got my lawyer involved. They said to him, “We're not going to do the book.”  I said, “Okay. I don't care.” That's a good position to be in because, first of all, books  don't make a lot of money. Fortunately, I have the final say. My lawyer called back and said,  “They're not going to take it.” I said okay. That afternoon, the publisher called back and said, “Okay, we'll take it, but we're not going to take as many books as we were going to.” I said, “I don't care. Fine.” If they sell a bundle of them, they'll order another bundle. Who cares?

And the one of the reasons I like the  cover idea is because I'm a visual person. If you put Blonde on Blonde in a window of record covers, it'll always stand out. I think this in a bookstore on a shelf or in a window will also stand out.  

Justin: You grew up here in New York?

Jerry: In the Bronx, until I was about 13 or 14. Then we moved to Queens. When I got married the first time, we moved out to Long Island.

Justin: And where did you develop a love of photography?

Jerry: That was all just hating what I was doing and I just had to find something different. I was working for the family fur business, but I hated it. There was a big retail camera store not far from where we worked, Willougby's, I don't know if it's still there. I used to go there for lunch hour, and I'd end up walking around for a couple of hours. I didn't even know I was there for a couple of hours, but my father would let me know when I went back to work because he didn't like that his brothers were working back in the factory and I'd take two hours...

Justin: What was your first camera?

Jerry: I had a camera when I was about eight or nine, or six. It was a plastic little camera. I don’t even know what it was.

When I was getting out of the Navy, I had seen something I liked. It was a 35 millimeter camera, an Argus C3. I didn't take many pictures with it, but one day I saw an ad in the Times for a photographic assistant. I had no idea what that was. But I called the number, and the person there was really an employment agent. I told him my story, and he laughed.  He said, “Come on in  and I'll see what I can do.”  

He sent me out, and the first place I went to was Lillian Bassman Studio, and it was like falling down the rabbit hole. I didn't see anything like this in the Bronx or school or anywhere. The interview went very well except they couldn’t offer me much money.  I couldn't take the job.

My uncle worked for a company where, if you rented their diapers each week, they'd give you a free picture of your baby.  I told him I’d like to do that, I’ll take baby pictures. My uncle said, “No, there's no money in that.” I said, “Well, how much money?” And what he told me was more than I was offered at the first interview. So he set it up for me and I borrowed money from my mother to buy a camera. When I went out for my first appointment, the baby was sleeping and they wouldn’t let me in. When I went to the second appointment the baby was sick and they wouldn’t let me in.  So my uncle was right. There's no money in that.

So I decided I would try to sell the photographs and that was a mistake. My Uncle was very good at it. He'd come back with $40, $50 orders from people who can't afford $10. I didn't like that very much. After a year of suffering through that, I call the employment agency back and he remembered me, and he laughed again. He sent me to two places.

Justin: As a photographic assistant?

Jerry: Yes. The first place was too fancy for me, it was really a catalogue house. They made a lot of money, but they didn’t do anything creative. The second place was up on top of a building. There were other guys waiting when I arrived and I was fourth in line. The stylist didn't know when the photographer was going to arrive, and told the first three guys to go out and get some coffee. After five minutes the photographer arrived, and I was the first in line. I had my interview, and he told me he would probably hire me. I didn’t quite believe him, and I went back to selling pictures on Long Island. I called home that night and my wife told me Bill Helburn had called. That was the photographer who said he would hire me. I figured I probably lost the job. I called him first thing in the morning and I got the job. I probably asked for the least amount of money. I worked for him for two and a half years. When I told him I was leaving, he offered me a piece of the business.

I had made a few friends in the industry. One of them was Bob Cato, who was an art director for Charm Magazine. He promised me work at the magazine, and just after I quit working for Bill Helburn, Bob Cato lost his job at the magazine. Now I had a big studio, a small rental, no work, but lots of experience photographing all the young woman who came to New York wanting to be models. We exchanged photographs for experience.         

Justin: When did your work start to appear in Vogue?

Jerry: Through the small advertising agency of my friend, I started to get a few little assignments, around 1954 and, of course, Vogue was the first decent thing that I got.

I said to the secretary as I was leaving, “If I don't hear from him in two or three months, can I call back?” She said, “In two or three weeks, call back.” By the time I got back to the studio, he'd already called to give me an assignment. That was a beginning. It was small assignments, small pictures in the magazine. It was a start.

Justin: Were you into fashion photography?

Jerry: My father was the salesman in the family fur business and, in the showroom, they'd have one magazine, which was Town & Country. I do remember Milton Greene’s name. I guess he was doing most of the photographs for Town & Country at the time. I remember his name, and I didn't pay much attention to the photographs until I was in it.

Justin: And you were always into music?

Jerry: Yeah, even as a kid. I remember I always liked the big bands. I'd be in the car driving with my mother and I'd hear a band, tell her who it was, and she’s be so impressed. I was thirteen years old and I already knew the name of the band.

Justin: And in the 60s, with the Beatles, and the Stones, and Dylan. Were you into all that as well?

Jerry: In the beginning, I was more into rhythm and blues, and that was when I went to college. I went for a year to the University of Miami. It was just starting, and I found two other guys from Jamaica in my neighborhood and we had rented one room on Miami Beach — the three of us lived in that one room. I remember asking one of the bellmen where could we go to listen to music. He said, “Real music?” I said “Yeah.”

He took us out to this place. I guess it was a church, but a small building with spaces between the clapboards. You could see right through them and Count Basie was playing there. The place just shook, but he played for his people, and it was great.

Justin: At some point you merged your love of music and your love of photography and started shooting musicians as well?

Jerry: Oh yeah. Once I was working for magazines, I started to get assignments to do actors and other personalities.

Justin: This was the golden age of fashion photographers, people like Avedon, Penn, William Klein… Did you know them?

Jerry: I didn't know Penn. Actually, Penn bought a camera from me. I knew Avedon. I knew Bill Klein, because we both worked for Vogue. Norman Parkinson, Helmut Newton. When I first started working, I worked mostly in England, and I hadn't gone to Paris. I was friendly with David Bailey, Terrance Donovan and Duffy. They were my buddies. We were working all the time, and playing all the time. We just had a lot of fun.

Bailey told me when Beatles came here and we were all going crazy, he says “Hey, you haven't heard anything. You got to hear The Rolling Stones.” The next time I went over, we went to brunch at a friend's and Mick Jagger came in. At first I didn't know who he was, but he came into the brunch. Dirty sweater, very long dirty fingernails. I was talking to him and then I realized who he was. I hadn't heard the music yet. I said, “Where can I hear you play?” He said, “We're playing this afternoon.”

I said, “Oh, can we all go?” He said, “Yeah.” He called up the theater and put away some seats for us and we went in a caravan of about four or five cars. At the time, Mick’s girlfriend was Chrissie Shrimpton and she was driving his car.  I remember that we all went up there, and when we got to the theater, I saw all these people, these kids outside screaming and running after the cars as we turned into the driveway.

We went to the  backstage entrance and we couldn't get through the people. Mick got out of his car and started running for the backstage and they're pulling on his sweater, hair, all that. We got in. We fought the crowd and went inside. We watched about four or five groups perform. Red outfits, blue outfits, and I figure The Stones were putting on the chartreuse outfits or something. They came out, and they had his ripped sweater and I started to understand who The Stones were and where they were coming from.

Justin: Then, at one point, you shot the picture sleeve for single “Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing In The Shadows.” What that your concept to dress them in drag for the sleeve?

Jerry: No, Andrew Oldham, their manager called me up, and said, “The Stones have a new single coming out, would you like to photograph them in drag dressed as their mothers?” I said, “Yeah, but I'd just as soon do them as Americans and shoot in New York.” They're wearing American military uniforms. Right around the corner from my studio was a building that looked just like the building I grew up in the Bronx, so I wanted to photograph them in front of that with a star in the window. We did that, and probably some of the most interesting ones are the back behind the scene there, getting dressed for the shoot.

Justin: To dress them in drag was a revolutionary idea at that time.

Jerry: I wasn’t thinking anything like that. But in the new Dylan book I’m doing, Jonathan Lethem (who did the text) also said “You started something,” referring to that sleeve, and mentioned David Bowie.

After that sleeve came out, Frank Zappa called me and wanted to do a combination of the Mothers of Invention in drag and the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper for the cover of their album We’re Only In It For The Money. We used fruit and vegetables instead of flowers.

Justin: Amazing. And you owned nightclubs?

Jerry: Yes, one was called Ondine. The other one was Salvation. We had a different crowd at Ondine. Ondine started as very café society. The person that started it was a Frenchman named Oliver Coquelin.

I had just come back from London the week that we were opening, and he showed me the records they were going to play and I said, “Oh come on.” Charles Aznavour, that's alright once in a while. So I took him to Colony Records and we bought about $100 worth of records and he said, “Oh, my patrons are not going to like that.” I said, “Do you want a successful club, or do you want just have your patrons?” We opened. We were very successful, and then Sybil Burton opened the club Arthur and that took a big chunk out of our business.

My partner, the person I found to manage the club, was friendly with the groupies, the kids that would come in there and give us atmosphere. They were telling us about the bands from California and I figured the way we should go was for the young people.

We brought in the Doors before their album. We brought in Buffalo Springfield before their album. We brought in Jimmy James and the Blue Flames, who a year later became Jimi Hendrix. Linda Keith, who was Keith Richard’s girlfriend at the time, told us about this guitarist she had seen down at Cafe Wha, a club in the Village.

But things were up and down at Odine. The stockholders reneged on the deal they had with me and wouldn’t pay me. I said, “Okay, I'm leaving,” because the same guy that offered us funding was starting another club, which was Salvation. I said to Bradley, my partner, “Let's go down and let's go with the other club.” We did, and Jimmy James (Hendrix) had just come back from London — he opened the club for us just one night, the first night. After that, we just had a disc jockey.

Justin: But no one knew who he was at that point?

Jerry: No, nobody knew who he was, but the club had a good reputation. We had everybody come to that club.

Justin: And was Andy Warhol and his crew hanging out at your club?

Jerry: They'd come, but they'd rather hang out at the Factory, although Albert Grossman, Bob Dylan’s manager called me and asked me if I would photograph Edie Sedgwick. He thought there was something there. I said, “Well, what?” He said, “I don't know, but there's something there.” I said yeah, I would. I was walking the street and there's Andy with Barbara Reuben who was an underground filmmaker.

“Hey, Andy. How you doing?” “Oh, good. How you doing?” “Oh, I'm photographing Edie…” and I sensed  something because he didn't like anybody stepping into his territory. I didn't think I was stepping into his territory...I'm just photographing Edie. I'm not making her my super star or anything. I told him Albert asked me to and he goes, “Oh yeah, fine. Bye.” I get back to the studio and Barbara calls me and says, “Andy wants to know if you'll do five minutes of Edie for his film of her?”

I said, “yeah I’d like to” because I'd been playing around with a film camera. Hang up. She called back five minutes later. “Andy wants to know if he can do five minutes too? He's doing five minutes.” I thought for a minute. “Yeah, sure.” Hang up. She calls, “Can I come down?” I said yeah, everybody can come down. Everybody showed up. The Velvet Underground showed up. All of his gang showed up for the shooting, and I made them stay in the studio. We were in the dressing room. We did it. I have my footage but I’ve never seen Andy’s footage because, while we were shooting, Bobby Neuwirth said to Andy, “Andy there’s no film in the camera,” and Andy said, “oh it doesn’t matter.”

Justin: Did you ever photograph Velvet Underground as a band ?

Jerry: No. I photographed Nico when she was a model. I've got some good photographs of Edie. She's probably one of the most asked for photographs that I have. People just know of Edie, so Andy did a good job.

Justin: Tell me how the Dylan Blonde on Blonde album cover shoot came about.

Jerry: Albert Grossman, Bob’s manager, called me for that. I'd already been photographing Dylan.

Justin: Where was that picture taken?

Jerry: In the meatpacking district. The building doesn't exist anymore. We've tried to find it. People have asked, and then there was actually a search made for it, but they can't find the building. Some guy seems to have found the location because he plugged it into other things that might have been there.

Justin: It was one of the first rock double LPs and the way you used the one photo to cover both of the LP sleeves...

Jerry: Robbie Robertson, in his book, claims that it was his idea to do the double spread. That may be, because it wasn't my idea. I thought it was Dylan's idea, but in his book Robbie talks about it and how he suggested doing it that way.

Justin: When you shot that picture, it's a little blurry, and a little different. Did you know that was the cover, and did you know that it would have the effect it did?

Jerry: No. If they had asked me to send in my choice, I would never have sent that. It was the beginning of February. Dylan had on this little jacket. I didn't want to put on a big coat or anything, so I just had a little jacket. It was cold, and we were shivering. I grabbed about four images where it's blurred like that, moving.

Justin: So it's blurred because you were cold and moving the camera.

Jerry: Yes. Dylan, when he saw the photographs from that day, he picked that picture, which I was delighted about.

Justin: It's a great choice. It was really a breakthrough album, musically and visually. For me as a kid buying records, and for a long time after, record covers were almost — if not as — important as the music. It was what you saw first because we didn't have the ability to hear things before we bought them like we do now. You'd see a record in the record store. “Wow. This looks cool. I'll buy it.”

Did you ever think that in 2018 you'd be talking about this record cover still, that people are still blown away by it?

Jerry: No, no. I'm delighted. I think of these German publishers bullshitting me on the telephone. It's Bob Dylan. Put Bob on the cover and people will buy it. What are you talking about, that you want to change this, you want to change the type, and think people won't understand it.

Justin: So you're doing record covers with the biggest artists of the day, you're doing fashion photography shoots for Vogue. You're living a dream life right in the 60s, early 70s. And you’re a big part of it.

Jerry: Nora Ephron did a piece. It had something to do with “where's it happening.” I was always where it was happening. Her articles were good. She did five photographers. I think she did Hiro, Avedon, Halsman, me and somebody. I think it was at the Post, when it was a liberal.

Justin: Did you know or feel like that time and the work you were doing would have such an impact on modern culture?

Jerry: No, those things you know after. We were just living our lives and doing our thing.

Justin: When or what motivated you to want to go from what you were doing to making movies?

Jerry: When I went to do the collection for Vogue, I wanted to take my favorite model, Anne St Marie, with me to do the collection. Vogue said “No, we've got to find a new girl. She's been around.” I got so angry with that because she was still a great talent, a great beauty. I thought that was so unfair to her. That happened to many models. In those days, they started in their twenties, early twenties.

Justin: You got upset with Vogue for not letting you use the model you wanted to use for your shoot?

Jerry: No, I was pissed off at that story. I wanted to tell that story and I couldn't figure out how. I thought maybe I'd just do a series of photographs and show how beautiful this person is and all that. “No, we don't want to work with her. We've had too much of that.” It's that kind of power trip I didn't like; I always had it in my mind. Then there were a couple of producers from LA that got in touch with me, and they were doing a TV special, The World's Most Beautiful Women. Would I be interested in being an advisor on this?

I said, “yeah, of course.” They came in. They were two interesting guys. Not too interesting, but they were always fighting with one another. I remember that. They had this thing, and I said, “Who's directing it?” They said, “We don't have a director yet.” I said, “You know, I've been shooting film.” And they said “Let us see it.” I showed it to them. They liked it. They showed it to ABC. They liked it. So I was the director now. We went over, and it wasn't just cosmetic beauty. It was women that had more substance, like Antonia Fraser and Queen Sirikit of Thailand and Claudia Cardinale.  

I did Antonia, and then we were waiting for Queen Sirikit to come into London, and she kept canceling. Finally, I told them I had an arrangement. I've got a job. I've got to get back to do that job, and I'll come back again. I left, and maybe two days after I left, she came to London and I couldn't come back. So they decided they would shoot her. They did, and the two guys are still fighting all the time. They each confiscated one segment, the one that I shot, and the other one. They wouldn't give it to each other. The network just canceled them out. But it gave me the experience, and I felt that maybe this is the way to tell my story.

I started to develop that story. It took me four years to get it on, but I started to develop it. I came back here. I talked to some friends of mine who knew a French writer. I got in touch with him. He was coming over to do something in California. I paid him to write a screenplay for me. He did. I liked it, but I didn't like him. He was just a pain in the ass. I didn't want to put up with that, so I just figured I'd take the loss and, by that time, I had already told my story to Faye Dunaway, and she fell in love with the character. So she became part of the project, and it was much easier at that point.

Justin: She had already starred in Bonnie & Clyde, which was a huge film.

Jerry: Yeah, I met her when she was doing her first film. Esquire sent me down to Florida to shoot her and then she did another film for Sam Spiegel, and then she did Bonnie & Clyde. When they came back to New York, Marianne Downy — her press agent — said, “Why don't you call Schatzberg and see if he'll do more photographs with you?” She did. I said, “Yeah, I'd love to,” and she had actually just got an apartment here on Central Park West. Went there, and looked like a hurricane had hit the place. But we became friends, and then once we were having lunch or dinner, she said, “What else are you doing?” I said, “I'm working on this film.”

I told her about the story and she fell in love with it and the character. Then she met the woman that the story is based on, so it just kept building. Through her agency, we got a deal with Warner Brothers. I found a writer, and he did a terrible screenplay. The first screenplay was pretty good, the Frenchman, but I just couldn't deal with him.

Then I was in an elevator in Los Angeles at the Beverly Wilshire, and somebody in the back said, “You Jerry Schatzberg?” It was a producer I had met at a party and he remembered me. He said, “What are you doing here?” I said, “I'm looking for a writer.” “Like what?” I told him a little bit about my story. He said “I just worked with a writer you should meet. I think she's great. But the director doesn't like her screenplay.”

I said, “Can I read it?” He sent me the screenplay and I fell in love with it. I called her up and I asked if she'd come and meet me and Faye Dunaway at the Beverly Wilshire, and she said, “Yeah.”  I thought she'd kiss our rings or something. Shine my shoes. She was very nice, said “Yes, thank you” and she left. 

I was going to do the film with film producer Ismail Merchant. I told him the story, and he was in India. He invited Faye and I to India. We went to India.

Justin: You and Faye Dunaway were romantically involved at this time?

Jerry: At the time, yeah. We went to India. Then we went around the rest of the world and back. I kept calling Ismail and telling him, “We've got to make a deal with this writer. I really want to use this writer.” He says, “Well, I've got to finish this film with James Ivory.” “Yeah, but you're telling me that all the time, and it'll go on and on and on, and I won't have a writer. I really want this writer.” I finally called him, and I said, “Ismail, we're going to have to end it because I'm moving on.” We made a deal with Paramount. No, first I went out to California. I rented a house there and I called Carole Eastman — who was the writer — and I asked her to come. I want to talk to her. She said, “Oh yeah, yeah.”  

But every time I talked to her I said, “Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about you, Carole. I haven't forgotten about you.” She came up to the house. She says, “I can't stay very long because I've got a friend of mine in the car and she's got a bad toothache, and I've got to take her to the dentist.” I figure “Oh, she's making her escape.” I said, “Well, I've got a tape I'd like you to listen to.” “How long is that? Two and half hours? Oh no, I can't.”

I said, “How much can you listen to?” “Well, let's play the first ten minutes. Let me see what it is, and then we'll see.” In the car was Helena Kallianiotes, she played the hitchhiker in Five Easy Pieces. I said, “Well, do you want to invite your friend in?” She said, “No, no. She doesn't want to. She's shy.” I put the tape on. She sits there for two and half hours listening to the tape. She decided she wanted to do that film, so we made a deal. We became good friends. I'd go out to dinner with her and spend six hours with her just talking about it and all that. It was just great.

Justin: So what happens to this film?

Jerry: Then we got the script. I love the script. I brought it to the executive producer Bob Evans at Paramount to read. He didn't like it. He hated it. I said, “Oh, that's too bad.” He thought he was going to get Antonioni’s Blow Up, and my film was not Blow Up. Blow Up might have made more money, but my film was not that. My film's a really good film. I was just delighted with it.  

Freddy Fields was my agent then. He said, “I've got maybe one more shot. I don't know where we go now, but I've got one more shot we'll try. I'm going to give it to Paul Newman and his company, see what they think.” Paul and Joanne Woodward read it and they loved it. Joanne had a roommate that had the same experience and she fell for it. My original thinking before I had met Faye, was thinking of either Joanne or Anne Bancroft as the aging model, and then just get a younger actress to do the other part. But after meeting Faye I thought she could do the part from beginning to end.  

So we started off, and it worked beautifully. I remember the first time I wanted to bring Paul the script, let him read the script and talk about the script. We got there and before we even started working, Joanne came running out of the house. Sharon Tate and Jay Sebring had been murdered. They were very friendly with Jay, and I was very friendly with Sharon. We couldn't work and I just left. We were up in Connecticut and I called Roman Polanski who was in London. I went out to California for the funeral. It was a really sad time.  

Justin: After all this, how does your first film Puzzle of A Downfall Child about an aging fashion model, whose life is now falling apart, finally get made?

Jerry: Well, in 1970 I took the film to Oregon, where Paul was shooting something. I know we showed it to Paul, his crew, and Henry Fonda. He loved the film. People loved the film. Then it was invited to the San Francisco Film Festival, and a Frenchman had seen it there. First of all, I didn't know the Frenchman, but he told me later that when he saw the schedule, he said, “Oh, a film by a bullshit fashion photographer. I'm not even interested.” He turned out to be an important person in the film world. I didn't know him. He called me and said, “I've called Universal because I want to represent the film in Paris and I just want you to know and we're moving ahead.” I said, “Wow. Goodness, that's fantastic.”

I brought the film to Universal’s executive's home to show his friends at his private screening room. They were all eating and drinking and half of them were drunk. I’m there and I hear people saying “I didn’t get that. What was that?” After the screening, the executive says, “I want to talk to you.” He takes me into a toilet and keeps me there for 20–25 minutes trying to convince me that I should have somebody do voiceover at the beginning to tell you what the film is about. I said, “I think if you just sit and watch it, you'll find out what the film is about.” He went on and on and he said “I won't change it unless you agree to it.” I said, “Okay, I don't agree to any changes.” Then he changed it.

I spoke to Pierre and told him what had happened at the executive’s house. He said, “I’ll speak to them.” He called Universal and said “I won't take the film unless it's the original Schatzberg film.” They said, “Oh come on, Pierre. We know what we can sell and what we can't sell.” He said, “I don't care.” Pierre said, “We won’t take it.” They had other prospects, so they said “we'll leave the European version as the original, and we'll do what we want in America.” They did, and I hated it. Every time it would come on, I'd just cringe. But then when years later when they went to restore the film, they restored my version because that was the first version submitted to them. The people in the labs didn't know which one, so they restored my version.

Justin: Your next film The Panic in Needle Park certainly made a big splash.

Jerry: Yeah. Well, that was sent to me right at the end of my finishing Puzzle, and the film lab scratched the last six minutes of my negative. Screw came loose and just scratched the negative all the way to the end. I had a safety, but you can see the difference when the film changed. Now digital has made it so you can do that stuff, but I was very upset. I got the script for Panic at that same time. I didn't like the script. I don't know if I liked it or not, but I didn't like it in my mind. I was really too concerned about Puzzle and the lab's mess.

Justin: Who approached you to direct the film?

Jerry: My agent. They had the script that Joan Didion and John Dunne had written. They were looking for a director, and she saw my film and loved it. I went to my business manager and he said, “There's a good script around.” I said, “What's that?” He said, “It's called Panic in Needle Park.” I said, “Funny, I think I just turned that down.”

He asked why and I didn't tell him about the scratching. I said, “Drugs. I don't know. Too many friends have died.” We're having conversation and he's trying to talk me into it and he says, “You know Al is interested in it.” I had seen Al with him on stage four or five years before that, and I remember saying to him if I ever made a film, that's a guy I'd like to work with.

Justin: Al Pacino, we are talking about. This was his first movie role?

Jerry: This was his first. He had a small role in Me, Natalie or something like that, but this is his first major role. My agent was trying to get him as a client, so we went backstage afterwards and the difference between seeing him on stage and seeing him backstage, you could see how great an actor he was. On stage, he just blew me away, and then he was this pussycat backstage. I went back, read it again that night. Called up the producers again and told them how foolish I was, and they agreed.

Dominick Dunn was the producer, and he was at a party and he was talking to the publisher Helen Gurley Brown about this film. She says, “Well, that sounds terrific. Why don't you talk to Richard?” Richard Brown was her husband, a producer with Richard Zanuck. So my agent talked to him about the film, there at the party, and then he went and gave him the script. Then they said, “Well, what about the directing. I don't know his work.” So they looked at Puzzle, maybe the beginning and the end, and they said okay. Now I was the  director of his film.

Everything was going fine. We started to do some pre-production. They decided they didn't want Pacino. He was too old. He was thirty-one looking twelve. I said to Nick, “Nick, the reason I'm doing this film is because Pacino is involved.” “I know,” he said, but let's go through the charade of casting and at the end tell them it's got to be Pacino.”

I trusted him, we went through the process of casting, and the last actor that came to see me was Robert DeNiro. He was pretty good.

Justin: That's a tough choice.

Jerry: But then the more I thought about it, for me Al is the character. Even though DeNiro is a great actor and he did a great job auditioning with it, Al is the part. So I left it at that. One day I'm looking in a store window on Third Avenue, and I hear a voice behind me saying, “Man, I really want to do that part.” I turn around and it's DeNiro. It's like a deer in the headlights, and you don't know what to say, so I told him the truth. He looked at me, and he turned and walked away. Through the years, we see each other, “Hi.” That's all. Just like that.

There was a tribute to Morgan Freeman at Lincoln Center. I was speaking and he was speaking. We nodded at  each other.  hey wanted us to come back on stage after Morgan spoke, and so I come out. I was standing there. I forget who I was talking to, but DeNiro walks by me. He stops. He comes back. “Hi Jerry.” It took forty years for him to say “Hi, Jerry” to me. That was it. He would have been great in it.

Justin: Well, I think you made the right choice.

Jerry: Yeah, Al was pretty good.

Justin: People still talk about New York in those days, how New York is not the same. What's your take on it?

Jerry: It's not the same. But you have to adjust. I'm not the same.

Justin: The world is not the same. It's not a change for a better or a change for worse. It's just things always change.

Jerry: Well, for some people it's a change for better. Some people it's a change for worse. There are probably some things I don't like about it. There were less restaurants, and I enjoyed going to the few that were special. Now there are more restaurants, and I enjoy going to the ones that have good food.

Justin: How do you feel about the internet, and how it's taken over everyone's life?

Jerry: Oh, that's changed everything. That changed the whole film world. I haven't done a film in ten years. I've been working on one, but I stopped working because I figure my legacy is going to be in my photographs.

Justin: Yes, do you keep up with what's going on with current photographers?

Jerry: So many that I don't know them. Now that you can take a picture and take it again, and again, and again. I see some wonderful things. People have wonderful eyes. They don't experiment as much, and the ones that do experiment do too much experimenting, doing things that have no soul. They add graphics to them, but they don't have any individual souls. It's tough to find people that can take a portrait like Penn, or get the excitement that Avedon gets in a picture.

Justin: Was there anyone that you wanted to shoot that you never got to shoot?

Jerry: I would have liked to have shot Miles Davis. I would have like to have shot James Dean. But I shot so many.

Justin: You've had quite an amazing life. How old are you now?

Jerry: Ninety-one.

Justin: Any regrets?

Jerry: Of course there's always regrets, but regrets are not anybody else's business but mine. But I've had a good life. I'm not complaining. I've lived a good long life.

Justin: I look forward to your next movie, I hope you finish it.

Jerry: I really like the way it's going. Now that I've finished with the book, we're going to concentrate more on that because I think I've gotten some interesting ideas on it.

Justin: I could talk to you from now til tomorrow.

Jerry: No, you can't.

Justin: I can’t. But I would like to.

Jerry: Let’s call this part one then.

[colinwebberphotography]

Clean White Inspo

Shoot 1: Lorenzo Agius

Agius studied Art and Art History at the University of East Anglia, moved to London in 1983 and started to assist in photography. In 1989 he became a freelance photographer specialising in fashion and portraits. 

Lorenzo Agius began his career in Great Britain 20 years ago. Early on, he garnered “rock star” recognition with his iconic and striking images of Ewan McGregor and cast of Danny Boyle's groundbreaking film Trainspotting.

With his highly considered approach to photography, he captures the essence of his subjects’ emotions with his skillful use of subject position, light, camera, and lens. The viewer feels drawn into the subject and setting.

The portraits are very playful and humorous and offer an insight into each of the individual characters. I like the simplicity of the shoot and how he is able to capture the personas just through body language and facial expressions. 

Shoot 2: Gerard Mankowitz/ Rembrant Bros.

Gered Mankowitz is a London photographer, born in 1946 as the first son of the late playwright, author and film writer Wolf Mankowitz. He is well-known and respected as a celebrity portrait photographer, having once been the Rolling Stones official photographer and taken internationally recognised images, such as the cover shot of Jimi Hendrix for 'Ultimate Experience.'This portrait published in ‘The Complete Kodak Book of Photography’ 1988 was one that I was incredibly inspired by. I particularly like how the rich tones and strong lines of a close-up portrait are brought out by carefully controlled lighting. Diffused top lighting produced dense shadows without losing facial detail.

Shoot 3 - Photograph published online for article ‘How I Learned to Love Myself’ by Julie Rybarczyk on the 4th of December, 2018 for Wit & Delight. 

- Accessed from Pinterest Post (Photographer unknown)

This photograph really inspired my third shoot. I like how light and shadows are being used like a key hole. It is quite intrusive as though you’re seeing into the subject. Like what is hidden is illuminated and brought to the surface under the light. It creates a sense of vulnerability in the subject, like a mask. Because the majority of the face is hidden, this creates a curiosity as to what the shadows are concealing. 

[ronniesshoes]

Keep Yourself Alive

It’s ten past nine, Tuesday evening, and despite the meeting having begun not twenty minutes ago, the table is a right mess already; littered with old magazines and library books he doubts will be returned anytime soon, Freddie’s sketches and scribbles, Roger’s Macbook, and a knocked over jar of glitter that was already there when Brian got home. He supposes Roger and John might have something to do with it, because there’s a fair amount of glitter in the bassist’s hair, and a speck just beneath Roger’s left eye.

“Okay, so, stagewear,” Freddie says, holding up his index finger as if about to start counting, and Brian, having been designated as scribe, starts scribbling, “and, no matter if we get signed or not, ideas on how to promote the next album. Personally I think we might as well go full glam, because as of now it seems like we are unsure of what’s going on ourselves. Anything else?”

John’s eyes drift towards the ceiling, and Roger, brow furrowed, is drumming a pen against his thigh. Brian reaches out to stop him.

“Well?”

“The website is still not up and running,” Roger begins slowly, having now begun to draw small triangles on the thigh of his jeans, “and we should probably talk about who’s in charge of social media as well, because as of now, the few people who actually write to us may never get back a reply.”

Freddie nods. “Right, yes, the banner is almost done, and you’re right about social media. Brian, what about your friend, what’s his name?”

“Daniel. He promised to get back to me before next week,” he says, making a mental note to do a follow up tomorrow.

“Good. Let’s start with stagewear, shall we?”

Brian drops his head in hand, attempting to hide his smile. Dressing his band for concerts and photo shoots is no doubt one of Freddie’s favourite pastimes, right up with researching Oscar Wilde and trying to persuade them to get another cat.

“I like these,” John says, holding up two of Freddie’s sketches of different batwing costumes which he has been examining, “on you two, at least. I’m thinking it would look really good on stage.”

“I looked at some of Zandra Rhodes’ designs,” Freddie says, reaching for one of the books, “obviously she does a lot with colour, but look at this wedding dress, for example. Imagine very large sleeves with pleats like that, how great a visual effect we could achieve. I’m sure I could ask Mary to make something like that.”

“I think it’s great, it goes well with the whole black and white theme we’ve got going,” Roger says.

“So we’re keeping that?”

“Didn’t they wear lots of colours back then?” Brian wonders aloud, trying to recall the pictures Roger and Freddie have shown him on various occations.

“They did, but to be perfectly honest, things like coloured satin and sequins and the like looks rather cheap to me,” Freddie says with distaste.

“Basically we’re taking the best of glam and ignoring the things we don’t like,” Roger says, tipping his chair back.

“Yes, but what I don’t understand is why we haven't had a glam revival yet,” Freddie says, sitting up straighter, “today’s rock scene is so ... insipid; really, it’s the perfect time to spice it up a bit of flamboyance, to provoke and to provide a bit of fun in a time where music has sounded pretty much the same for the past three decades. And, I mean, I understand the importance of the movement back in the 70s, but most of the performers who dressed up and did the whole androgynous thing were straight men, and now we have the opportunity to create a space where actual queer artists can express themselves. I mean, how often do you hear someone like Jobriath mentioned?”

Despite the rhetorical question, Roger shrugs, expression bemused. John purses his lips.

“So obviously we’ll have to find a new drummer,” Brian says, lazily adding to his stick figure portrait of only drummer present, already wearing a hat atop significantly longer locks and dressed in a tutu.

Roger opens his mouth to retort, but Freddie is quicker. “Don’t worry, dear, a dash of glitter and a haircut like Brian Connolly, and no one will notice!”

That comment makes John snorts into the crook of his elbow, and Roger looks like he's not sure whether to feel indignant or to laugh.

“The token straight,” Brian continues with a sigh, merely laughing when Roger socks him in the arm. Ziggy, disturbed by the commotion, hops down from the armchair he’s been sleeping in for the past hours, and starts rubbing his head against Freddie’s leg until the singer starts petting him.

“We can’t really go fully glam with short hair, though,” John points out, and they all fall silent, exchanging tentative glances.

“I suppose it’s not uncommon to see guys with long hair anymore,” Roger says after a while, “I do have a some trouble imagining it, though.”

He’s not the only one; every long haired guy Brian can recall seeing has been a whole other type, one he doubts any of them fits, especially not if they are going to adopt the glam style, which in and of itself is way out of Brian’s comfort zone. It may be less of a trouble for Freddie, who already owns a fair few pieces from that era, and generally dresses more or less glam already, if perhaps a bit more subtly, and Roger, who gladly lets Freddie dress him, and whose style spans from pretentious art kid to burnt out rock n’ roll star to a walking Adidas ad, and that despite not having engaged in any kind of sports since leaving Cornwall as far as Brian is aware.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Freddie says, “we should give it a go.”

“As long as I’m allowed to keep my hair as it is,” Brian says, suppressing a grimace at the thought of himself with long hair.

“What, no! If we’re all growing our hair out, you’ll have to do it as well,” Roger protests.

“Not with curly hair," he says, going for patience but finding it hard to, "I’ll end up with an afro, and I doubt that’s the look we’re trying to achieve.”

“It looked fine on Bolan!”

“Don’t know who he is, and it doesn’t matter anyway, I won’t do it,” he says, ignoring Roger’s outraged expression. He reaches for his Mac, punches the keyboard buttons, and shoves the screen into Brian’s face, showing a pretty faced guitarist who indeed works both long and curly hair.

“See?” Roger urges, a slightly manic expression on his face, “and Jimmy Page! You practically drool every time you see a picture of him, how can you doubt that curls and long hair don’t go together?”

“I would’ve phrased it differently, but I have to agree with Roger, dear, almost everyone wore their hair long in the 70s, and no doubt it will look good on you, too.”

“John and Freddie have curly hair as well, you know,” Roger offers, like he’s being helpful.

“Not the same,” he says, but when even John’s usually neutral expression shifts just slightly enough to convey his opinion on the matter, Brian knows he's lost. “All right, fine. I’ll complain, though, and if it looks stupid, I’ll cut it short again.”

He pointedly ignores the way Roger’s face fills with glee and Freddie looks pleased, opting instead to exchange glances with John, who merely lifts one eyebrow a fraction, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Right,” he says, looking down at his notepad, “promotion?”

“Yes, right,” Freddie says, pausing for a second as if about to reveal some no doubt grand, but probably a bit mad, idea, a slightly worrying glint in his eyes, “I’m thinking a nude photo shoot for—”

“You’re thinking a what?” Brian interrupts, certain he’s heard wrong. Roger also looks uncertain, John plain uncomfortable.

“A nude photo shoot, of course,” Freddie repeats, like it’s no big deal.

Brian hides his face in his hands, wondering not for the first time how he's survived living with these maniacs for this long.

“I think Stones did that for Sticky Fingers though,” Roger says, and Brian looks up to see him already tapping on his keyboard.

“What?” Freddie exclaims, looking mildly outraged, “let me see.”

“No, sorry, it’s only Mick,” he replies, handing his laptop to Freddie, “I remembered it as all of them.”

“Well, I’m thinking more along the lines of Performance, now you mention him. Only less hippie and more stylish, you know.”

“We still haven’t seen it, Fred,” Brian says, because it’s not the first time Freddie has referred to a weird art film, and especially Performance he has talked about a lot for a movie he claims to hate.

“You don’t have to,” Freddie says dismissively, “you wouldn’t like it anyway, but here, look.” He turns the laptop so they can all see the picture of Mick Jagger, seemingly naked, reclining on a large bed. A moment later, Roger gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

“I want us all in the nude, sprawled on a large bed with expensive sheets and a bottle of champagne,” Freddie continues, raising his voice enough for Roger to hear.

“So just an ordinary day, then?” Roger asks as he return with more beers, making John laugh and Freddie hide his teeth.

“And why exactly is it that we have to be naked for this to be glam?” he asks after a moment. John, newly-brought beer can to his lips, shoots him a glance, and Brian thinks he looks relieved.

“It’s provocative, and that’s all I’m about, dear, you know that. God knows that it shouldn’t be, but here we are. Obviously you don’t have to be naked, it just has to look like you are.”

"Fred, I don't—"

“Oh, I know, Fleetwood Mac definitely had a picture taken where they were all in bed,” Roger interrupts.

“Roger,” Freddie says, tone saccharine, but when the drummer turns to look at him, he chucks a piece of crumbled up paper at him, “shut up.”

“But we’re trying to sell music, Fred, not ourselves,” Brian tries to reason, “I know you want us to be outrageous, but to be honest I can’t really see the point.”

“Of course we’re trying to sell ourselves,” Roger says, looking up from where he’s been inspecting the tattoo on his right wrist, “that’s the whole point, isn’t it? I mean, no one’s asking you to get your cock out on stage, but I agree with Freddie that it’s possible to do this with taste. Personally I think it’s a good idea.”

“You just want an excuse to show off,” Brian grumbles, annoyed that the two of them always gang up on him, “like we don’t see more than enough of you already.”

“Brian,” Freddie warns.

“I don’t— what are you talking about?”

“Forget it,” he says, working hard to keep his voice level, “if you really want to, I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Well,” Roger says after a beat, looking uncertain, “what do you think, John?”

“The four of us sprawled naked on a big bed might be a bit much,” he allows, “but I don’t see anything wrong with having pictures taken from the waist and up, for example. It comes down to the photographer as well. Did you have anyone in mind, Fred?”

“I thought maybe Tim, he’s been doing lots of weird art films lately, I’m sure he would be happy to do it if he’s not busy.”

Brian nods along with the others and quickly scans the bullets on his pad. “Should we keep our music on Soundcloud or extend it to Youtube as well? We all know Roger’s opinion on the matter, but what do you two say?

“It might be easier to share new songs on Facebook,” John says, “it looks neater with actual videos, but unless we keep it up to date and reply when people comment it just looks unprofessional and has the potential to do more harm than good.”

“John is right, and Roger mentioned it earlier as well, we need become better at checking up on social media,” Freddie agrees.

Brian caps and uncaps his pen. “Any volunteers?”

“As long as you check up on it once in awhile as well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind too much,” Roger offers.

“Great,” Freddie says, “now, does everyone have an outfit for the concert at King's College?”

“I don’t,” John says. Brian dips a finger in some of the glitter still on the table and carefully inspects it.

“Come down to the stall Friday, we’ll find you something,” Freddie promises. “Roger, I’ve seen yours already, Brian? Not gonna show up in one of those awful shirts, are you? I age ten years every time you wear one in public.”

Brian rolls his eyes, about to say a thing or two about some of the singer’s more outlandish clothes, but he holds his tongue. “No, Fred.”

He looks at his notepad again. “So I’ll call Daniel, Freddie will talk to Tim, Roger is responsible for social media, and John ... please turn it down a notch with Bonnie Tyler while you shower. It’s a bit disconcerting.”

“I’ll try to keep it down,” John offers, a smile tugging on his lips when Roger lets out a snort of laughter.

"If that's all, I'm off to bed," Freddie says, pushes his chair back, and stands. He pauses for a moment, looks at the table, and adds, "I hope this mess is gone tomorrow", before he disappears into their bedroom, Ziggy close on his heels.

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

It’s completely dark outside when he stumbles out of bed some hours later, half asleep still, but he barely registers it, his only thought revolving around the pressure on his bladder. It takes lots of fumbling before he finds the light switch, and when he does, the sudden light is too bright, and he has to screw his eyes shut again. He somehow succeeds in shoving down his pyjama bottoms and pushing up the toilet seat without ever opening his eyes, but he doesn’t trust himself enough to have a go at it and end up missing the bowl, and so he tentatively opens one eye, inwardly cursing himself for drinking those extra beers.

It is as he’s making his way back that he notices faint noises coming from the living room, and despite his desire to get back to bed as quickly as possible, he stops to push open the door to blearily peek in. Roger is there—or at least his blond head of messy hair is—huddled up in a corner of the couch watching A Clockwork Orange for the umpteenth time. Brian steps into the room, and Roger turns, startled by the creak of the floorboards, before his face quickly morphs into a smile.

“Why aren't you in bed?” he asks, and Brian waves a hand towards the bathroom with a grunt, too tired to form a proper sentence. Roger seems to understand, but there’s an amused smile playing on his lips. He decides to ignore it, and instead sinks onto the couch, his whole body melting into the soft, worn cushions.

He thinks about staying here for a while, because the couch really is soft, and conveniently enough he’s already sitting on it, whereas his bed is in another room, and now his eyes are falling shut anyway. If only he had something to support his head on, because the back rest really is too low and, weird, it never struck him how bony it feels, not at all like the rest of it, and ...

“Wanna lie down?” At the sound of Roger’s voice he looks up, and, wow, he has got a lot of hair. Finally registering the question, he lifts his head from where it appears to have settled on Roger’s shoulder, and nods, once, before shifting back to lie down with his head in the drummer’s lap. Only for a moment, though, then he is going back to bed. Said moment passes, and then Roger's hand comes down to thread through his hair, and no, he is definitely okay with staying here. For a while he tries to focus on the movie, but his eyes are heavy and stinging and keep falling shut. The scenes from the movie are in his head, created by memory and sounds, and even though Roger's thigh could've been softer, there are certainly less comfortable places to rest. If only it wasn't so cold, he thinks, and he really does want to open his eyes and go back to bed, it’s just so, so far away. Roger shifts underneath him then and removes his hand, and Brian tries to communicate his displeasure with a small noise in the back of his throat. A moment later, something warm and soft is draped over his body, and Roger's hand returns, lightly massaging his scalp with calloused fingertips. A minute or less, for sure, later, and Roger's voice, soft and gentle albeit somewhat distant, sounds, and then he's manipulated into first sitting up and then standing, and with the blanket around his shoulders he is dimly aware of the fact that he is being lead into his room, too dazed to even realise he is walking, before he falls into bed with a warm sort of gratefulness. ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

The next morning, early but not too early in case he’s sleeping in, he calls Daniel. Brian doesn’t actually know the guy, except that he attends the same course as Brian, and that he has a knack for setting up websites. He has been very sweet and helpful about it all, but they haven’t even discussed a price yet, and the whole thing makes Brian stressed and unsure and a bit nauseous. When he gets the answering machine, it’s with equal measures of relief and exasperation that he throws his phone on his bed and gathers his books to finish his assigned readings. The kitchen is blissfully quiet, Freddie having left half an hour ago and John and Roger most certainly not up yet. It’s with some envy that he thinks of this, because his body is stiff and heavy from lack of sleep, but before readings and phone calls and his afternoon lecture are well over, he can’t justify going back to bed.

Two hours later and halfway done, he is just contemplating whether to take a break when the door at the far end of the living room opens and the rhythm section appears, both bleary-eyed in bare legs and jumpers and with their hair mussed from sleep, John wearing two different socks as usual and Roger only wearing one. “Good morning,” Roger says around a yawn, even though it’s closer to noon. Still, they’re up unusually early considering. “Morning,” he replies, “you’re up early.” “The bloody neighbours started having sex again,” Roger complains, flicking on the kettle and reaching for two cups. “They’re pensioners,” John explains, “suppose they don’t hear very well.” “They could at least close the window. It’s november, bloody freezing anyway,” Roger says, dumping tea bags into the cups, “can barely look them in the eye when I meet them. You want tea as well?” “Please,” he says, handing over his empty mug before returning to his work. “Do you actually colour code your stuff?” Roger asks a while later, so close to his ear it makes him jump. “It’s what I imagine Freddie does because he thinks it looks pretty.” “He does,” John confirms. “I don’t do it because it looks pretty, I do it because it helps me stay organized. You should try it sometime,” he says pointedly. “What, being organized?” Roger yawns, “nah, never works. I find comfort in chaos.” “Unless you’re late and can’t find your earphones,” John says, filling up a bowl with granola until it’s almost overflowing. “Or your phone,” Brian adds. “Okay, but everyone loses their phone once in awhile, that doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly where every other thing in my room is.” “Under your bed,” John says. “Exactly,” Roger says, pointing his spoon at John like he’s the one who really gets it. Which he probably is, because he’s not much better. He tries to return to his readings once again, but the two of them together make for a pretty big distraction, even when he does his best to stay out of the conversation. He picks up the tea Roger made him and reads the same line over and over again until his head is swimming and he starts thinking about everything on his to-do list. “Are you up for practise later?” John asks around a spoonful of granola, pulling him from his thoughts. “Sure,” he says, and dies a little inside. It's when they've finally buggered off that he realises just how tense he's feeling. He rolls his neck and shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension, but it only serves to make him even more aware of the stiffness. He idly wonders if a good, long wank is what he needs, but quickly decides that hoping to be left alone long enough is unrealistic. He doesn't fancy doing it in the shower, his body not responding to being naked the same way it does when he's in bed, but unless Roger has a lecture, even a few hours alone very unlikely to happen. John and Freddie both work Wednesdays, so it's practically the only day of the week where there’s a slight chance he can get some time for himself, but most often the drummer is there to keep him company. And it’s not as if he doesn’t like to spend time with him, but he really is not at all like Roger who thrives off company, and sometimes all that socialising is a bit much. Sighing, he packs up his stuff, saves his notes for the thirteenth time, and closes his laptop. He drains the rest of tea, long gone cold now, and allows himself a minute to just sit. He tries one of Freddie’s meditation techniques, but immediately feels stupid and stops. It would just be his luck for John or Roger to walk in on him. As it happens, Roger does have a lecture, and appears again half an hour later, smartly dressed which means the girl he fancies is going to be there, grabs a bottle of juice from the fridge, and hangs around for a good five minutes to chat. “Didn’t you have a lecture?” he hints when it becomes clear that Roger has lost all track of time during his not particularly asked for review on the new Roger Waters album. Roger stops mid-sentence, lets out a laugh, and puts on his shoes, waving at him before disappearing outside. Appreciating the near-silence immensely, Brian goes back to brainstorming his next paper. John appears again a while after to make another cup of tea, but he doesn't strike up conversation, and for the next half an hour, Brian manages to fill three pages in his notebook. Satisfied with his work, he puts it away and mentally goes through the rest of his tasks. There's that phone call again, which he supposes he can't really put off any longer, and afterwards there's lunch, and then he thinks he should be able to squeeze in a wank before he leaves for uni. “Right, I’m off,” John announces, patting his coat pockets, “see you later.” “See you. Have a nice shift!” John thanks him and leaves, and Brian is left alone. No point in putting it off any longer. He walks back to his room to get his phone and lies back on his bed, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Daniel’s number. While waiting for him to pick up, Brian eyes wander to the large poster of a deliciously sweaty Jimmy Page on the opposite wall. He thumbs at the hem of his trousers, his own cold fingers making him shiver when he brushes against the bare skin of his stomach. “Hello?” Daniel says, and Brian almost drops his phone, guiltily snatching his hand away. “Hi, uhm, hi,” he says, immediately feeling stupid, “sorry to bother you, but you never called me back, and—” “Right, yes, sorry about that. It’s just about done, I thought we could look over it after the lecture today if you’re not busy?” “No, that would be great, thank you.” “Alright, Brian, see you in a couple of hours.” “Yeah, alright. Bye!” Embarrassed by his lack of social skills, he finds that he’s not particularly horny anymore, and so deems it to be too much work. Glancing at his watch, he finds that he still has an hour to kill before leaving for class, and so he retreats to the studio and picks up his guitar, relaxing properly for the first time that day. ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

“Yes, mum— No, I told you today is not so good,” he says, phone pressed against his ear as he steps up the stairs from the Tube, “but I don’t work Saturday, how’s that?”

“The Parkers are visiting, dear, I told you so the last time we spoke,” mum says.

“Right, sorry—”

“Are you sure you can’t come by today? Surely the guys won’t be cross with you for skipping band practise this once, I imagine they have mums who miss them, too.”

“It’s not just band practise,” he says, weaving through the crowd and wishing he was home already, “and I can’t skip, mum, I already agreed— hold on.”

He passes a group of construction workers drilling, and returns to the phonecall.

“What about tomorrow? I finish work early.”

He will have to move a few things around, and stay up after practise to rewrite his lecture notes, but there’s that.

“Oh yes,” mum thrills, “how’s it going with, what’s his name?”

“Louis,” he says, narrowly avoiding bumping into an old woman, “and it’s going fine. But mum—”

“Louis, that’s right. You know, I talked to Deborah, and I told her you started tutoring recently, and she’s looking for someone to help her son with maths, and I told her that I’m sure you’d love to, but she’d have to call you herself to make an arrangement, so I gave her your number, and—”

“Mum,” he says, unable to keep the slightly whiny tone from his voice, “I appreciate you trying to set me up with more work, but I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, and I’m not sure I have the time.”

“Of course, dear, but you know it would really help them a lot, and it’s only twenty minutes by the Underground.”

“Right,” he says. Twenty minutes to the station, and then he has to walk for twenty more to get to their house if memory serves him well. “I’ll think about, but I really can’t promise anything.”

“Oh, she’ll be thrilled,” mum says.

“Bri?” someone calls, and he spins around to see John a few blocks down.

He waves at him and says to mum, “how was tomorrow for you? I can probably be there around five-ish, is that alright?”

“Five is perfect. Dad will be happy to see you, I know he has quite a lot to talk to you about. In fact—”

“No, Mum, sorry, but John’s here, I really have to go now. Please tell dad I said hi, and then I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“See you tomorrow. Tell John hello from me!”

“I will,” he says, just as John catches up with him, “bye, mum!”

“Wanted you to skip practise?” John guesses as Brian lets out a sigh.

“Like always,” he says, smiling in spite of himself. “How was work?”

“It was all right,” John says mildly, “did you talk to that Daniel?”

“Yes, he showed me how to set it up and everything, it looks really good,” he says, following John up the stairs to the flat.

“Seems like everything’s coming together then,” John replies, opening the door to the flat and the music coming from inside.

It’s Roger singing and playing Don’t Play Your Rock and Roll, which Brian has only ever heard him sing in the shower, and that only once or twice. “It’s not half bad,” he says genuinely, toeing off his shoes.

“What’s more baffling,” John says, not sounding baffled at all, “is how the two of them manage to play all three instruments at once.”

Brian is surprised to discover he is right - it’s a slightly stripped down version of the original, but never mind that, he already has trouble wrapping his head around the fact that they indeed are playing both drums, guitar, and bass. “How are they doing that?”

John shrugs and pushes his boots to the side with his foot. He’s wearing a sock patterned with pink octopuses, Brian notices. The other has The Great Wave off Kanagawa on it.

He follows John into the living room just as the door to the studio opens and Roger comes bouncing out, waving the drumsticks still in his hands. “Oi, there you are! Thought I heard you!”

“How did you—” he begins, but then Freddie and Tim both appear, Tim with John’s bass hanging from around his neck, and the pieces fall into place.

“Tim! How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. Just stopped by to pick up the drinks dispenser.“ He looks at John, “I hope it’s okay I borrowed your bass.”

“Of course,” John says, dodging Roger’s attempt at putting his arms around him. “Roger, stop, you’re all sweaty.”

“Tim,” Roger says, dragging out his name, “this is our new and better bass player, Deacon John. John Deacon. Deaky.”

“I know, Roger,” Tim replies with great patience, “I’ve known him for two years.”

This apparently strikes Roger as terribly funny, because he starts laughing so hard that no sound comes out and John has to hold him upright, all the while trying his best not to smile.

“Who let him have sugar?” Brian asks, watching with slight worry as Roger gasps for breath.

“Tesco had a 3 for 2 offer on all sweets,” Freddie replies, and knowing Roger’s absolute weakness for Tesco offers and sugar in general, Brian thinks this explains it very well.

Roger, seemingly able to breathe again, brightly offers to get the last bag to share, but luckily, everyone reclines.

“I was actually about to leave,” Tim says, “did you want me to have a look at your ideas for a photo shoot before I go?”

“That would be great,” Brian says, “Fred?”

“Right, yes,” he begins, before launching into a detailed description of his idea, one that impossibly enough involves even more nudity than the night before. He opens the door to their bedroom, and they all follow him inside. “I’m thinking my bed,” he says, gesturing to his god-awful rococo bed, “it’s as big as Brian’s but much nicer.”

“I see,” Tim says, tone neutral.

Roger, now looking bored, and clearly on the way down from his sugar rush, looks like he is strongly considering lying down on either bed. Brian takes a step to the side, blocking his own.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time the next couple of weeks, but things slow down quite a bit for me after the 1st,” Tim says, “I’ll get back to you, yeah?”

Hugs and claps on the back are exchanged then, and soon after Tim leaves with the drinks dispenser in hand, and another promise to stay in touch. 

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ Thursday morning sees Brian waking slowly, reluctantly, stirred from sleep by melancholic piano play he instantly recognises but doesn't remember. Eyes still closed, his attention is stubbornly focused on the warmth of his covers, the way his sleep-heavy body merely exist in this warm cocoon that is his bed. When he finally opens one eye—the song he now recognises as Für Elise still playing— Freddie is sitting in his bed, looking sleepy rather than tired, and lets the music play instead of turning the alarm off right away.

"Good morning," he says, and Brian's murmured remark gets lost somewhere between his lips and pillow. "It's nice, this, isn't it?" Freddie continues, wriggling out of his pyjamas and turning down the heat before reaching up to crack the window open. Brian pulls his duvet tighter around him. "Better than his 5th, definitely," he says, watching as Freddie rummages through his closet, "or that awful one, Rossini I think it was." Freddie's sudden interest in classical music and insistence to use a new piece every day for his alarm the past month has at times been trying, and while some of it is quite nice, Brian is unable to enjoy any kind of music before breakfast and two cups of coffee, and that's no matter how great a masterpiece it supposedly is. Freddie laughs. "Never seen you up so fast." He grimaces. "'m not a morning person." Nine months of living together, and it still seems necessary to point out ever so often. He envies John and Roger at times, because their sleeping arrangement seems to work quite well. While Freddie is in the shower, Brian lies in bed, face buried in his pillow, torn between getting up and go about the day, and staying in his bed, the internal struggle an as important part of his day as his morning coffee and Freddie's shower first thing in the morning. At last he gets up, albeit reluctantly, and if only to shut the window. Throwing on a warm sweater, he heads into the living room. John and Roger are there, still playing Mario Kart by the looks—and sounds—of it, just like they did when he went to bed last night. There's a crumbled bag of Walker's crisps under the sofa, and John is chewing on a strawberry lance, a concentrated look on his face. “Morning,” he greets. Receiving no answer, he tries instead, “have any of you fed the cat?” “I think Freddie did,” Roger replies distractedly, before letting out a shout of “bastard!" Brian checks Ziggy’s bowl and puts on the kettle, leaning against the counter while idly watching the other two play. "So who's winning?" he asks, already knowing the answer. "Not Roger," John says, face arranged in a carefully blank expression, but there's a smile in his voice, which breaks onto his face when Roger elbows him in the side. "Did you eat at all?" he asks, looking through the cupboard in search of coffee. "A bag of Cheese and Onion," Roger replies before throwing his whole body to the left to avoid crashing into another player. "Maybe you should get some sleep," he suggests, blowing at his tea. "I just need to win, just one more time." John keeps quiet, and races past the goal line. While waiting for the water to boil, Brian takes out his phone to check his university email. There’s a new one from one of his favourite professors, but he rarely ever writes emails. Curious, he opens it, leaning back against the counter while waiting for it to load. He glances at John and Roger who is finally turning off the TV, and when he looks at his screen again, a rather long mail has appeared. He scans the contents of it rather quickly, at once filled with excitement and quite a bit of nausea. “Fuck,” he whispers, just as Freddie enters the room, dressed in a kimono and drying his hair with a towel. “You alright, dear? You look terribly pale.” “No, I—” he begins, dimly aware of John and Roger turning to peer curiously at him as well, “my professor, he wants me to be a part of a team going to Tenerife.”

Next

[nostalgia-eh52]

1973 Shooting Stars: The Rolling Stone Book of Portraits

Jimi Hendrix

📷 Ed Caraeff

[chestnutpost]

Anyone Can Get Trolled — Even The New Yorker

This post was originally published on this site

On the evening of the midterm elections in November, The New Yorker published a short online profile of Jonah Rich, a “Trumphead” who claimed to have attended about 20 of President Donald Trump’s rallies. The 41-year-old Rich compared the rallies to the World Series or the Super Bowl. He said he’d met people who’d been to hundreds of them.

Rich had a familiar “Make America Great Again” backstory. In college, he’d been “indoctrinated” by “left-wing” professors, he said. Later, he’d been deprogrammed by Sean Hannity, Breitbart and Alex Jones. When the Trump train pulled up billowing nationalism, Rich jumped on board.

But that wasn’t why photographer Mark Peterson plucked him from the crowd at the Trump rally in Fort Myers, Florida, on Oct. 31 and posed him for a low-angle portrait. Rich stood out because of the sky-blue yarmulke on his head and his T-shirt, emblazoned with the Star of David and the words “Jews for Trump.”

Four days earlier, a gunman — allegedly a white nationalist — had murdered 11 people in the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh. Rich was at the rally, he said, to show Jewish support for Trump, despite his misgivings that the president’s rhetoric was fueling bigotry.

“I sometimes have visions of potential confrontations with Proud Boys, or with white supremacists, or with some other Trump supporter who might not appreciate having Jews around,” Rich told New Yorker writer Andrew Marantz, “but it’s never happened. To be honest, everyone I meet at the rallies feels like family.”

Jonathan Lee Riches Jonathan Lee Riches poses as Jonah Rich at a Donald Trump rally in Fort Myers, Florida, on Oct. 31, 2018.

This was good material. Too good, it turned out. Within days, the Rich article had disappeared from The New Yorker’s site. (It’s preserved here.) Eventually, editors put up a note stating that “the interview subject had misrepresented himself, and the piece was removed.”

The hoax was nothing to mock. Journalists today operate in an information environment crawling with right-wing propagandists looking to dupe the media so they can cry “fake news.” Not even The New Yorker, with its vaunted fact-checking department, is immune. 

And it wasn’t an ordinary shitposter who’d bamboozled the magazine. Like TMZ, Radar Online, the San Francisco Bay Guardian, SB Nation, BuzzFeed and other outlets, The New Yorker had been rolled by an OG troll. Jonathan Lee Riches was his name ― his given name ― but he had plenty of other monikers he’d created for lulz in the past: Johnny Sue-nami; the Crackpot Matlock Judicial Sasquatch; the “Patrick Ewing of Suing.” He was as warped as wet wood.

An underground menace long before Gamergate and the alt-right, Riches, who is not Jewish, hails from a time when trolling wasn’t the political blood sport it is today. It was wackier and funnier. More prankish, though still irredeemable.

(Want to know more? I interviewed Riches below.)

As a young adult, Riches got into phone phreaking, then phishing scams. He went to prison in 2003 for wire fraud. Behind bars, he became a world-class irritant by filing absurdist, frivolous pro se lawsuits. He filed thousands of them, against anyone and anything (e.g., the Kardashians and Kanye West, whom Riches accused of running a secret al Qaeda camp.) So prolific a litigant was Riches that he became a one-man burden on the federal court system, a troll tagging the docket forever. In 2010, federal prosecutors won an unprecedented and possibly unconstitutional nationwide injunction against him to prevent him from suing, claiming that if he weren’t stopped, the government would “suffer irreparable harm.” 

I was just creating a clusterfuck. That was my entertainment when I was in prison. Jonathan Lee Riches

Riches immediately bypassed the injunction by slipping a batch of suits to a soon-to-be-released inmate to file on the outside. The prison cracked down hard. No paper in his cell. No stamps. Riches went on a hunger strike in protest. After 22 days, the warden had him force-fed through a tube. Imagine one of today’s millennial edgelords showing such commitment to disinfo.

Riches was different. He trolled harder, unafraid to use his name and face, often shunning a keyboard in favor of real-world trickery. All of which made him a more effective hoaxer.

In 2013, I wrote a story about Riches for Details magazine. He was out of prison just long enough for me to have lunch with him at the King of Prussia mall. A few weeks later, he was back behind bars after violating the terms of his probation by crossing state lines to visit the site of the Sandy Hook school massacre, where he pulled off one of his more reprehensible trolls.

At a makeshift memorial to the murdered children — whose corpses far-right propagandists like Alex Jones have tried to convert into money — Riches dropped to one knee to pray. When a reporter asked him who he was, he mournfully said he was the uncle of shooter Adam Lanza. Soon, Riches was in the middle of a media scrum giving interviews, an early example of a bad actor creating “fake news.”

New York Daily News Archive via Getty Images Riches pretends to be the uncle of Sandy Hook Elementary School shooter Adam Lanza while visiting a memorial to the victims of the shooting.

Hartford Courant via Getty Images Riches, pretending to be the uncle of Adam Lanza, gives interviews to the media.

Riches and I stayed in touch sporadically over the years. I knew that when he next got out of prison, he’d enter a far uglier trolling landscape created by companies like Twitter and Facebook. On social media, racists and harassment crews roam freely, threatening lives, undermining democracies and radicalizing future Adam Lanzas. There’s nothing fun or funny about it.

As expected, Riches waded into the fray. He embraced the new weapons and gravitated, in particular, to Facebook, where he lures marks by creating fake pages connected to real events. Amid the media fracas over MAGA-hat clad boys from Covington Catholic High School in Kentucky facing off with a Native American elder, Riches and other trolls created several Covington-related pages — including a fake page for Covington student Nicholas Sandmann that bashed the elder, Nathan Phillips. (Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg continues to make lying like this on his platform alarmingly easy.)

Jonathan Lee Riches A fake Covington Catholic High School Facebook page set up by Riches.

But Riches’ real-world stunts continue to set him apart from the lumpentrolletariat. He attended the Bill Cosby trial in September 2016 and offered Cosby Jell-O every time the rapist entered court. He turned up in Florida with gubernatorial candidate Andrew Gillum as a Black Lives Matter demonstrator. A particularly successful ruse was posing as Muslim and attending political events. He did it at a Trump event in Manheim, Pennsylvania, on Oct. 1, 2016.

Jonathan Lee Riches Riches at a Donald Trump event in Manheim, Pennsylvania, on Oct. 1, 2016.

Three days later, he was front-row at a Hillary Clinton town hall in Haverford, Pennsylvania, representing “Muslims for Clinton.”

Bastiaan Slabbers/Alamy Riches, posing as Muslim, approaches Hillary Clinton in October 2016.

That appearance led to Riches being featured in the lead image of a Breitbart story attacking the Council on Islamic-American Relations, a Muslim civil rights and advocacy group that the political right has used as a bogeyman to whip up Islamophobia.

The photo is the very definition of fake news. It is still live on Breitbart over two years later. 

Breitbart Riches appears in Breitbart as a fake Muslim for Clinton.

Riches may be a Zelig-like figure photobombing America for his own twisted enjoyment rather than for any clear ideological purpose, but his shamelessness, narcissism and lack of empathy place him squarely on the political right in the Trump era.

Jonathan Lee Riches Riches moves in on former President Bill Clinton.

CactusJackTexas Riches photobombs a Michael Flynn court hearing.

He has found himself standing shoulder-to-shoulder at events with people like Jack Posobiec, the Roger Stone protégé who spearheaded the near-deadly Pizzagate disinformation campaign and has collaborated with armed neo-Nazis yet still has a platform on Twitter from which to sow discord and lies. 

In November, Riches released a book about his litigation exploits. One of his co-contributors also writes for white nationalist publications such as Counter-Currents and Arktos Media and last month appeared to endorse a political run by alt-right leader Richard Spencer.

What Riches has failed to grasp is that there’s little room left for the merry trolling of yore when truth is under assault in America. If your goal is to sandbag reality, you’re bedding down with grifters, foreign agents and an army of deplorables.

And Riches has no intention of stopping. This past weekend, he put on his “Jews for Trump” outfit to troll a benefit in Tampa where Rep. Ilhan Omar (D-Minn.) was speaking. Outside the venue, he helped provoke a confrontation that led to a woman being taken away in handcuffs.

Nevertheless, Riches might still have few lessons to impart ― about gullibility and how a newsy character in outlandish attire (a living meme, essentially) can slip past journalism’s antiquated defense systems. At a time of peak truthiness, he is here, above all, to remind us that skepticism is mandatory.

Note: After being contacted by HuffPost, a spokesperson for The New Yorker provided a more detailed statement about the fake “Jonah Rich” story. We are publishing the statement in its entirety here:

On November 6th, The New Yorker published a piece on its Web site about a man who claimed to travel the country attending Donald Trump’s rallies. The article was done in an as-told-to style, meaning that the interview subject’s own words formed the basis of the story. Though the subject of the piece was not able to speak with the fact checker before deadline, the checker took steps to verify the subject’s account, including conducting an interview with a woman who claimed to be the subject’s mother and who confirmed his story. We learned on November 7th that both the subject of the piece and his purported mother had deliberately misrepresented themselves. Upon learning this, we unpublished the piece. The next day, November 8th, after further reviewing the matter, we added an editor’s note. Reporting an as-told-to story involves both trust and verification; in this case, our trust was misplaced and our system for verification intentionally manipulated.

It is generally unwise to give trolls attention. A troll willing to explain his motives and tactics, however, can be worth listening to, if for no other reason than to understand how bad actors operate in an era when they are empowered by social media companies that do so little to combat disinformation. To that end, we’re including the following Q&A with Riches, from November. The interview has been edited for clarity.

How long were you in prison for?

Ten years, got out, and then I went to Sandy Hook and left the state without permission, so I violated [probation]. I got three years for a violation.

I actually went up there like a conspiracy theorist to see what was going on. I just thought it was fascinating to go there. I actually got on my knees and prayed at the memorial. Then, I got up and some reporter was in my face. Then I just winged it.

I just said, “My name is Jonathan Lanza. I’m the shooter of the uncle and I’m here to give respect to the victims’ families.” Then, next thing I know, I get bombarded by media people. “You’re the uncle of the shooter. Oh, my god. Oh, my god.” They’re putting cameras and microphones up in my face. I gave like a press conference there. I drive home. Next thing I know, my phone’s blowing up and everybody’s telling me I’m on the news as the [shooter’s uncle].

After the Sandy Hook stunt, you were in prison for three years?

Yup. At that time, I’d stopped the lawsuits and I shifted towards the Pennsylvania “right to know” law, which is like the Freedom of Information Act but on the state level. I just kept submitting them and submitting them, like “I want to know Taylor Swift’s educational record.” Every department in Pennsylvania. “I want to know how many gallons of milk your milking department made in the month of …” Just stupid stuff.

I was just creating a clusterfuck. That was my entertainment when I was in prison.

You got out of prison the second time in May 2015, which was coincidental because not long after that, Trump declared his candidacy.

That’s where I got fascinated, because Mr. Trump comes and then he just is not politically correct. He’s just a candidate that I instantly paid attention to. I was looking at the online reactions to him and stuff and then I trolled off of other people’s reactions.

So Trump was your entry point to political trolling?

Political and online trolling, yes. And real life trolling. Once he got the nomination, then that’s when I started. Especially in Pennsylvania, because Pennsylvania was a hotbed state. So I was going to every single rally with anybody that was a high-profile political figure.

I went to a Hillary Clinton town hall meeting and they placed me right behind Hillary Clinton, as a Muslim for Clinton. I shook her hand and everything. Sometimes the campaigns put people behind a certain candidate if you fit a narrative, whatever, like that.

My next troll is I’m gonna start running for political office. Like mayor, city councilman, sheriff in different elections. Like mock campaigns.

Tell me where and when that New Yorker interview happened.

It was at the Fort Myers Trump rally. I was just standing in line as “Jews for Trump” and this photographer came up to me, liked my shirt, and started asking me some questions, wanted to take my picture. He was directing me. He was telling me exactly what to look at, the way I should position myself. Which was strange, cuz I never had anybody do that. So he took my picture and gets my information and says a reporter is going to get back to me.

And you were wearing a yarmulke the whole time?

Yarmulke, “Jews for Trump” shirt, Trump shoes, shoes that have “Trump” on it. And then I just told that guy my name is Jonah. I just took a Jewish name, I figured Jonah was Jewish. Jonah Rich, I was gonna say Rothschild, but I just said Jonah Rich.

You were posing as a Jew after a massacre in a synagogue. Do you think there’s anything wrong with that when so much anti-Semitism is swirling around, and you’re not Jewish, and people might interpret it as you making light of a tragedy?

My mind at that particular moment, for that particular rally, was, go down there “Jews for Trump” and show that Jews do support Trump.

But you’re not Jewish, right?

No, I’m not Jewish at all.

So you were creating disinformation that in the wake of an actual tragedy could be viewed, especially by people in the Jewish community, as very disrespectful.

I’m just thinking of myself in the moment. With different rallies, I try to go with different themes. So I had that “Jews for Trump” shirt and I had the yarmulke for a while, and it was just an opportunity to use it at that time. Just the luck that the tragedy happened, I’m like, “OK, I’m going to run with the ‘Jews for Trump,’ because of the tragedy.” I don’t think about the long-term consequences as far as disinformation or offending anyone.

But I understand after the fact that people could be offended. My belief system shows no disrespect whatsoever toward that tragedy.

What did you tell The New Yorker reporter when he contacted you a few days later?

We talked about my life and I just created a whole story that wasn’t even true: I come from a Jewish family. I’ve been ostracized from the community, or from my Jewish community, for supporting Trump.

The only thing that was real that I told him was maybe close to my name, Jonah Rich, Jonathan Riches, and my age. I’m from Philadelphia. Other than that, everything I told him was complete bullshit.

I was telling him I was going to rallies I’ve never even been to. I was Googling Trump rallies from 2017 to get the time and month right so I could spit it out to him. He did ask me on the phone, “OK, so who’s your parents?” I’m also looking up the white pages and I just find some family [in Philadelphia] linked to a guy named Jonah Rich in their 60s. I shot him off their names so it backed me up.

How long was the story up?

The next day, I put a Facebook post up that said, “Haha, look at this, I trolled them.” And then that evening it was gone.

[Trump] knows what he’s doing. I think he’s trolling the presidency, to be honest. For what reason? I think he’s just getting a kick out of this, man.

In terms of effective trolling, how important is it for you to do things in person?

It’s like testing my own boundaries, testing my own limits. My next troll is I’m gonna start running for political office. Like mayor, city councilman, sheriff in different elections. Like mock campaigns.

Getting out diversifies my craft, it gives me confidence to do these feats. And I like to try to test the limits.

Social media has made it much easier to troll, right?

I think the tools are available now that can be exploited and it’s easy to get that message spread. The disinformation that I want, I can put out there. The next mass shooting, before they identify the shooter, I can set up 10 Twitter accounts looking like news sites and then create whoever I want as the shooter, and then use the other news sites to retweet that. Vulnerable, gullible people will see that, they think it’s from a news site and then they will copy it and tweet it out.

Whenever there’s disasters, I also set up Facebook groups and then just thousands flock into the groups. I encourage everyone to basically fight each other. I don’t censor anything.

Is Facebook aware of the groups?

Facebook is aware. Every single tragedy that happened in this country since, I would say, 2015, I got a group set up in that topic. I can create fake Facebook accounts under people’s names so I can be anonymous. If a mass shooting happens, I’ll create a video real quick and put whoever I want to identify as the mass shooter, put some music, photo edit it real quick and then throw it up on BitChute because I know that will be the searched word.

People think of trolling in a negative way for good reason, but can trolling have a positive effect?

I think if someone trolls, I think they should expose their troll to bring awareness. When I troll something and troll events, I go on my Facebook page and talk about the troll. Kind of like informing everyone what I’ve done. One, to brag, but also to wake people up. It provokes thought. It plugs the loopholes.

What do you believe, underneath all this? Do you have any firm beliefs? What are your politics?

I’m just an atheist from a Christian family. I don’t practice any religion. I don’t hate anyone for their religion. I might pretend I [belong to] a religion but not to disrespect it.

What about your politics?

I made a choice: Whoever’s in power, that’s who I’m going to support. I just try to go with the flow. Obviously, I was in prison and I strongly believe in criminal justice reform.

Do you think Donald Trump is a troll?

I would consider him the king troll. He knows what he’s doing. He knows what to say to provoke attention. He’s a showman. I think he’s trolling the presidency, to be honest. For what reason? I think he’s just getting a kick out of this, man. This might be some sort of bigger thing. Maybe with Russia or something. Create division. Because there’s no unity in this country. It’s getting more and more divided.

I don’t know what the future’s gonna be like. I just think that 2019 is going to be a bloody political [mess], right before the election again. It’s gonna be tense, man. And it depends on what Trump trolls around and tries to excite everybody with. I just know whatever is going on, I’m gonna be trolling. Whatever breaking news, you can expect me to troll it.

RELATED COVERAGE

The post Anyone Can Get Trolled — Even The New Yorker appeared first on The Chestnut Post.

from The Chestnut Post https://thechestnutpost.com/news/anyone-can-get-trolled-even-the-new-yorker/

[celinaclarkphoto]

Rankin Analysis

1) What is the name of the photographer? 

John Rankin Waddell was born on April 28, 1966, and is a British portrait and fashion photographer.

He founded the seminal monthly magazine Dazed & Confused with Jefferson Hack in 1992.

His body of work features some of the most celebrated publications, biggest brands and pioneering charities, including Nike, Dove, Pantene, Diageo, Women’s Aid, and Breakthrough Breast Cancer. He has shot covers for Elle, German Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, Esquire, GQ, Rolling Stone and Wonderland.

Working with the BBC, he has featured in a number of seminal documentaries – ‘The Seven Photographs that Changed Fashion’, ‘South Africa in Pictures’, ‘Shooting the Stars’, ‘The Life Magazine Photographers’ and most recently, an in-depth documentary into the modern approach to death in, ‘Alive: In the Face of Death’.

Rankin has published over 30 books, is regularly exhibited in galleries around the world, as well as his own London gallery. His museum-scale exhibition ��Show Off’ opened at NRW Dusseldorf in September 2012, pulling in over 30,000 visitors in 3 months.

2) What is the photographer’s motivation for being a photographer? What is the photographer’s motivation for taking / creating these types of images? 

‘I had my photograph taken when I was 17 by a hairdresser who did a really crazy hair cut on me, I just liked the idea of the glamour of it all at that point. I didn’t start taking photo’s until I was 21′

It first started when he got a crazy haircut and decided to document it for in the future.

3) Who is the person in the photograph? What are they famous for? Is there a relationship of any kind (i.e. family, friend) between that person and the photographer? Do you think that this relationship has influenced this photograph? 

The person in this photograph is Alex Pettyfer, he is an English actor and model. He has appeared in very famous films such as endless love and magic mike.I would somewhat expect to see him presented in the portrait as in most films or interviews he acts to portray himself in that way, he seems a little mysterious and rebellious. They have not got a particularly close relationship, they are not family nor very close friends. He was only modelling for Rankin, as he also models on the side of his acting.

4) Discuss the face that you see in the photograph. Consider whether any of the following elements are important in the photograph:

age

beauty

personality

flaws

perfection

emotions

the unexpected

The person in this photograph is Alex Pettyfer, he is an English actor and model. He has appeared in very famous films such as endless love and magic mike.I would somewhat expect to see him presented in the portrait as in most films or interviews he acts to portray himself in that way, he seems a little mysterious and rebellious. They have not got a particularly close relationship, they are not family nor very close friends. He was only modelling for Rankin, as he also models on the side of his acting. 

 In this photograph i think his emotions and beauty stand out the most, however also personality.The photograph suggests that the person is rebellious and likes to break the rules of society. I can infer this from the tattoos and cigarette which is stereo typically seen as a contribution to rebelism. We can see he is still quite young and healthy, you can also see that he may exercise to keep healthy.

5) Discuss the main technical or formal elements featured in this photograph? Look at the photograph and see whether you can identify any of the following things as being particularly important:

unusual composition

strong angles

shallow or deep depth of field,

blurry movement

negative space

strong colours or monochrome tones & shades

In addition, in this image you can identify the strong tones of black and white which is a monochrome effect, with deep shadows and this gives it more emphasis. Rankin focused on mainly his facial expression and arms as it is the most important aspect of the image he was trying to capture. The main subject appears to be the man, and the black space around him is the negative space.

7) Do you think that the photographer has manipulated this photograph using digital editing (such as Photoshop)? If you think that s/he has, then what impact do you think that this could have had on the way that viewers react and respond to the photograph. (Research to see whether the photographer is known for using digital editing). If he or she has written about this, then please add quotes to back up what you are saying

The photographer has not used a great deal of editing in this photograph, i do not think that that was the idea behind this image. However he may have edited it a little in viveza or airbrushed his blemishes to make his skin look more appealing to viewers. If he had i think it would have ruined the image, it was captured in the moment and focuses on the idea of him being a rebel and the emotion within the image. I think the monochrome tone fits very well and leaves an impact on the viewers.

‘Rankin proved that everyone can look like a magazine cover star as, for 7 straight weeks, he photographed people off the street, one every 15 minutes – retouching, printing and hanging the image within half an hour of the shutter being fired’

8) What is your personal response to this photograph and how does this photograph inspire or relate to your own work? Explain your response in some depth

Personally i admire this image, not only for the perfect moment he captured it in but also how the black and white tones fit so well and have such an impact on the viewer. It is a very strong image and reminds me a lot of the ‘greaser’ period in the late 1940s and 1950s, especially concentrating on the hairstyle and act of smoking. I am very interested in this period of time, especially the clothes and music and this is why this image appeals and stands out to me the most. I absolutely love the monochrome as i mentioned above in previous questions, as it fits so perfectly with the composition and to the idea which i think is behind it. I admire that his work has always endeavored to question social norms and ideas of beauty and this inspires me to do this in my future work.

[nostalgia-eh52]

1973 Shooting Stars: The Rolling Stone Book of Portraits  

1972 Boz Scaggs and Carmella

📷 Annie Leibovitz