Ansel Adams (54 page)

By the late 1970s, photographs that Ansel had once sold for a few hundred dollars were commanding thousands in the resale market.
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In 1979 alone, it was estimated that combined sales of his photographs amounted to half the total of all fine art photographs sold that year.
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Museums had been slow to get on the bandwagon—a number were just beginning to form photographic collections in the late seventies—and Ansel was concerned that he would not be represented in the permanent collections of many since his photographs had become priced out of their market.
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In the form letter that he sent out in 1976 to those who tried in vain to order photographs from him, Ansel mentioned that he intended to print sets of up to three hundred of his most important images specifically for museums and similar institutions.
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Maggi Weston, owner of the Weston Gallery, proposed that her gallery represent this project, but Bill Turnage insisted that Harry Lunn must be included in any such arrangement. Maggi and Harry were thus appointed the sole agents for the Museum Sets, although before long Harry bowed out.
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Margaret Woodward Weston is just as much a legend as Harry in the world of photography dealing. She is a Weston by marriage: her first husband, and the father of her son, Matt, born in 1964, was Cole Weston, Edward’s youngest son. Although a native of England, she was sent to live in South Africa for safety’s sake during World War II. After enduring a nightmarish childhood, like some fairy tale princess, she became a popular singer in South Africa, arriving back home in England to perform at such venues as London’s Palladium. Her next stop was the United States, where she appeared on
The Ed Sullivan Show
in New York. She also performed in Las Vegas and Los Angeles and was hired to play the lead in a Monterey production of
Pipe Dream
, directed by one Cole Weston. With love and marriage to Cole, Maggi placed her singing career on permanent hold.

Later, following their divorce, Maggi debated whether to return to show business, and turned to family friend Ansel for advice. Instead, he persuaded her to open a serious photography gallery in Carmel, promising to consign a broad selection of his own prints. Using her life’s savings of two thousand dollars, Maggi opened the doors of the Weston Gallery in 1975 with photographs not only by Ansel but by other friends as well, including Imogen Cunningham, Wynn Bullock, and Brett Weston.

In addition to her other qualities, Maggi is gorgeous, with a tumbling mane of red hair, and always beautifully dressed. It is advised to enter a museum opening or restaurant behind her, because she sweeps into a room with dramatic flair; heads swivel, and everyone knows she is
someone.
In the photography business, Maggi is most respected for her unerring eye. When her bidding paddle goes up at an auction, competitors have been seen to break out in an unbecoming sweat because they know she will not stop until she gets what she wants. In 1979, she made the pages of
Newsweek
when she bought her former father-in-law’s
Shell
, 1 S, 1927, for ten thousand dollars, the most ever paid for a single photograph at auction at that time. (Edward Weston had originally sold the print for ten dollars.) Soon after,
Moonrise
broke that record. A vintage print of
Shell
, 1 S,
sold at an auction at Christie’s New York in 2010 for $1,082,500.

As the deadline for final print orders from Ansel drew near at the end of 1975, Maggi decided that she must buy a substantial inventory, bravely mortgaging her house to raise the necessary funds.
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Ansel was impressed by her willingness to place her financial future on the line because of her belief in his work, and he never forgot it. She earned a very special place in his heart. The Weston Gallery has flourished, becoming one of the most successful photography galleries in the world, known for its collection of rare nineteenth-century prints as well as its exceptional selection of images by Edward Weston, Paul Strand, and Ansel Adams.

Every Museum Set contained the same core of ten famous images (
Moonrise; Winter Sunrise; Monolith; Clearing Winter Storm; The Tetons and the Snake River; Mount Williamson from Manzanar; Sand Dune, Sunrise; Tenaya Creek, Dogwood, Rain; Aspens, Northern New Mexico
[vertical]; and
Frozen Lake and Cliffs
), plus fifteen variables to be chosen from a list of sixty possibilities. The few who bought all seventy prints received, in addition,
Surf Sequence
, Ansel’s 1940 five-print masterpiece.

It has long been standard practice in the commerce of art to sell entire portfolios for substantially less than the various prints would command if sold separately. A twenty-five-print Museum Set could be purchased in 1980 for fifty thousand dollars, far under the market value of its individual photographs.
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By 1981, the price had been raised to seventy-five thousand.
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On Valentine’s Day 1979, Ansel had had open-heart surgery that included a valve replacement and a triple coronary bypass. Appalled to learn that he had received no instruction for rehabilitation following the surgery, “Nurse Mary” quickly found the patient a new doctor and then ordered Ansel to begin an exercise program. Our enforced afternoon walks together, along the country roads of Monterey County from Big Sur north, gave me an opportunity to ask Ansel about his life and preserve his answers with a small tape recorder that I carried in my hand. Unfortunately, sometimes wind noise overpowered his voice, but he did get some exercise, and at least we had started work on the autobiography.

In June 1980, we flew to Washington, D.C., where President Carter was to present Ansel with the Medal of Freedom. The ceremony was conducted on a stage erected on the lawn of the White House. It was a hot and sunny day, and the audience of family and friends fanned themselves with programs as they waited for the event to begin. Ansel, sweltering in the heat in his only good suit, British-made of wool, sat facing the audience with the rest of the fourteen honorees, who included Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, Admiral Hyman Rickover, and Beverly Sills. Lady Bird Johnson, Muriel Humphrey, and Mrs. John Wayne were there to accept posthumous awards on behalf of their husbands.
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One by one, each was called forward. When his name was announced, Ansel stood and walked slowly to the podium—his head held high, chest slightly puffed out, and bent nose as straight as it ever had been—where President Carter placed the handsome, beribboned gold medal about his neck, proclaiming,
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After an interminable receiving line, a festive luncheon was served at large round tables that filled more than one White House room. The Johnson family’s table was right next to Ansel’s, and soon after Ansel was seated, former First Daughter Lynda Bird Johnson swooped down on him, her big brown eyes full of admiration and adoration. Ansel loved the attention and autographed her program with extra embellishments. The festivities proceeded with course following course and wineglasses kept constantly replenished. Afterward, the guests were bade welcome to explore the rooms on the main floor, and President Carter obligingly offered a peek at the Oval Office. As everyone slowly gathered momentum to leave, Tennessee Williams, upholding his reputation for inebriation, had to be carried out in a horizontal position on the shoulders of spirited friends. Still, nothing could dampen the day, or Ansel’s spirits, which were sky-high.

But the month was just beginning. After leaving Ansel’s employ the previous year, Andrea had undertaken to produce a movie on her former boss for public television, along with a coproducer, John Huszar of FilmAmerica, who was also to direct. Shooting was scheduled to occupy much of June.
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Ansel was not convinced of the importance to history of this movie, but he did want to help Andrea. As with the autobiography, he questioned how interested people would really be in his life as distinct from his art, and he self-consciously fidgeted throughout the filming. It might seem likely that a photographer would be good at posing for the camera, but Ansel rarely relaxed in front of another’s lens; most portraits of him look mannered.

The crew arrived on June 1 and filming began in Carmel the next day. One scene had Ansel in his darkroom making prints, while another required his old friend Rosario Mazzeo, a retired Boston Symphony Orchestra musician and amateur photographer, to interview him as he sat at his old Mason and Hamlin piano. Unbeknownst to Ansel, Rosie had been directed to get him to play. Time and arthritis had bent Ansel’s fingers; where once he had enlivened every party with his playing, he now only rarely allowed anyone to hear him perform, and only late at night after a number of martinis. He had always been noted for his exquisite touch, but his arthritic fingers could no longer physically produce the quality of sound that his ears still required. Nevertheless, as directed, Rosie cajoled and prodded, and finally Ansel relented. When he saw the finished video, Ansel was greatly pained by that scene. Not only was the music itself flawed, but Huszar also had zoomed in on his gnarled hands; Ansel felt it made him seem old and infirm.

Filming moved next to his birthplace, San Francisco, where during a break he took me to the spot where he had made
The Golden Gate Before the Bridge.
Almost at once, we were off to Albuquerque, where we rented a car and headed for Santa Fe. As I drove, Ansel grew increasingly restless, until he said resignedly, “I just feel punk.”

We checked into the La Fonda Hotel for a good night’s sleep before the next day’s shoot in Abiquiu with Georgia O’Keeffe. At six-thirty in the morning, I was awakened by a phone call from Ansel, who said he wasn’t feeling well. I pulled on some clothes and went to his room. His anxiety was evident as I wrapped my blood pressure cuff about his arm, plugged a stethoscope in my ears, and assumed my nurse’s role. Although he was resting in bed, his blood pressure was elevated to 182 over 80 from his normal 134–140 over 58–62, and his pulse was racing at 110 rather than his usual 60. But even more significant to me were his complaints of tightness in his chest, dizziness, and difficulty in breathing.

When I woke up Ansel’s doctor back home to get a referral in Santa Fe, he agreed with me that he should be seen right away. On rousing Andrea and Huszar to let them know that I was taking Ansel to the emergency room of Saint Vincent’s Hospital they became extremely upset and accused me of encouraging Ansel’s easily stimulated hypochondria, not to mention destroying their shooting schedule and blowing their tight budget. I could understand their immediate reaction, but the film could not be the priority, Ansel was. Only two days of filming had been budgeted for New Mexico, which included a scene with O’Keeffe, one with Beaumont, and a third at the little village of Hernandez, where Ansel had made
Moonrise.

When Ansel and I arrived at the hospital, we were engulfed by a ready staff of Adams fans. An EKG showed no new damage to his heart; the consensus was that Ansel was suffering from the effects of an abrupt change in altitude, from sea level in Carmel and San Francisco to sixty-eight hundred feet in Santa Fe. Doctor’s orders were to return to the hotel and rest in bed. If Ansel felt well enough, he could participate in filming the next day, but only so long as he felt up to it. Always a trouper and conscientious about (most) deadlines, Ansel was showered and ready early the next morning, Stetson and bolo tie in place. With only one day to shoot, the question on everyone’s mind was, could everything be accomplished?

The first stop was Abiquiu. Ansel and O’Keeffe had maintained a friendship since their first meeting, in 1929. The script called for the two to stroll arm in arm in the courtyard of her home and then to sit down and reminisce about their travels together and about Stieglitz. Ansel’s arm was needed because O’Keeffe was nearly blind, her sight terribly diminished by the decade-long progress of macular degeneration. She had no central vision, only peripheral; whenever she addressed someone, she would look at him or her not directly but rather sideways, in an attempt to see even a bit. Likewise, when painting, she turned her face oblique to the surface of the canvas.

After all these years, Ansel still held O’Keeffe in awe, and he squirmed throughout their scenes together, scenes that did not seem to reflect the participants’ real personalities. The image of the two longtime friends talking and walking may have made for a sweet vignette, but O’Keeffe was by design not a sweet woman. Directed to sit side by side with Ansel as they reminisced, O’Keeffe stared straight ahead so as to better see him with her peripheral vision, but on film it looked as if she were refusing to make eye contact with him. While it is a treat to view these two great artists together, the film recorded the unreality of the occasion.