When I was a kid I had been interested in the chemistry of photography, and I had my mother’s Box Brownie [camera]. I used to process down in the cellar, but I never thought of it as an artistic thing, although the only things I could do at school were paint and draw. They used to cane me for not being able to spell. In those days they just thought you were an idiot [if you were dyslexic].
Then I discovered Chet Baker and I wanted to be him desperately. So I sold my bike and bought a trumpet. But [during military service] I lent it to an officer and he stole it. Then I saw a Cartier-Bresson picture–it was three or four ladies overlooking the Himalayas–and I thought, “S–t, I am going to start doing photography again.”
I am not a nostalgic person. The only thing worse than people talking about the ’60s is people talking about football. But it was a time full of energy and optimism. It was the first time in this country that the underclasses had a say in things. You can’t believe the snobbery there was in the early ’60s. When I first went to Vogue, one of the editors sort of patted me on the head and said, “Doesn’t he speak cute?” I kind of objected to that. I had my revenge very quickly. I used to park my Rolls-Royce in front of the managing director’s Ford or whatever it was, and he would have to phone me up to get his car out. [Anyway] by the end of the ’60s an accent like mine was almost compulsory.
The first time I brought Leo to Andy’s studio, Andy came to the door wearing a mask. All three of us had to wear one–I think Andy was basically self-conscious about his complexion. Andy was playing rock-and-roll music very loud. But it was the same song over and over: “I Saw Linda Yesterday.” He told me that I had to listen to it, that there was an important message in it. Leo thought Andy was very peculiar. Leo said, “Oh, look at these very American works. They look like the artist we’re going to be showing, Roy Lichtenstein.” Then Leo whispered to me, “I think I ought to buy a couple, out of courtesy.”
