In Pace Requiescat, Bill Jay
Tonight, after returning home from work and changing clothes, Zozer and I headed outside to enjoy the fine weather. She pedaled her trike out of the garage while I moseyed down the driveway to the mailbox. M's at the All-Star game, and I was looking forward to a Girls' Night and then some relaxation.
The mailbox contained the familiar craft cardboard envelope bearing the Lenswork masthead. Perfect timing! I was ready for a night off, and here was a brand new issue of my favorite publication (it's so much my favorite that it's the only one that has escaped my steady elimination of anything that doesn't directly contribute to my enjoyment of life - I only wish I could cancel my bills with the ease that I've stopped all superfluous magazine subscriptions).
As I walked back up the driveway with Zozer rolling along, I zipped off the end of the envelope and pulled out the issue...and nearly stopped breathing.
The cover shows a side profile of a grizzled older man wearing sunglasses and a dark straw hat. This is not in and of itself strange: there's always a photograph on the cover, and then words along the bottom that explain whose portfolios are included in this issue, and always, in the lower right, "Endnotes by Bill Jay." Bill's Endnotes quickly became something I looked forward to with every issue. Despite the fact that they were always at the end of the magazine I, like many readers, flipped back there first to read his words before devouring the rest. His ascerbic wit and cut-to-the-bone analysis of the world of fine art photography is spot-on, and funny as hell. Over the years I've come to really respect and admire this man. Last year I purchased a signed copy of his book, Men Like Me, which is a stunning compilation of images depicting the homeless men who wandered his California town. It's a persistent favorite in my growing photography book collection. Despite the one-sided communication (I read his words and bookmarked his site and admire his photographs of old men, whereas he knows nothing of my mere existence), I, like so many adoring pop star fans, have come to think of Bill almost like a friend. His humor resonates with me. He's a guy I'd like to have a beer with.
So when I pulled out this issue of Lenswork and read, "Bill Jay 1940-2009" my heart quivered.
Took me a minute to fully grasp it. I saw, "The Best of Endnotes" and, in the upper right corner, "A Special Tribute Issue." I tried to stay the panic by telling myself that perhaps Brooks (the editor of Lenswork, and another one-sided communicatory "friend") had simply decided it was time to compile all of Bill's witticisms into one issue. Maybe he just retired. Because no way could he be dead. I haven't bought him a beer yet.
I flipped through the book until I found the words that actually said it. He passed away. Shit. I'll admit tears sprung to my eyes, although I quickly wiped them away in an effort to avoid a preschooler inquisition. How do I explain Mommy's grief for an older gentleman she's never met?
I didn't cry when Michael Jackson died. Or Farrah Fawcett. Or Ed McMahon or Karl Malden. Although saddened by the loss of these artists, their work simply does not resonate with me as much as the work of someone who is, to the majority of you reading this anyway, unknown. So I guess you could say I shed a few tears for a curmudgeon whom I consider an old "friend," and for the loss in the world of photography. Lenswork, a fine publication in its own right and a consistent highlight in my day, just will not be the same without Bill's words.
Rest in peace, Mr. Jay. Thank you for your contribution to my wonderful life.
The mailbox contained the familiar craft cardboard envelope bearing the Lenswork masthead. Perfect timing! I was ready for a night off, and here was a brand new issue of my favorite publication (it's so much my favorite that it's the only one that has escaped my steady elimination of anything that doesn't directly contribute to my enjoyment of life - I only wish I could cancel my bills with the ease that I've stopped all superfluous magazine subscriptions).
As I walked back up the driveway with Zozer rolling along, I zipped off the end of the envelope and pulled out the issue...and nearly stopped breathing.
The cover shows a side profile of a grizzled older man wearing sunglasses and a dark straw hat. This is not in and of itself strange: there's always a photograph on the cover, and then words along the bottom that explain whose portfolios are included in this issue, and always, in the lower right, "Endnotes by Bill Jay." Bill's Endnotes quickly became something I looked forward to with every issue. Despite the fact that they were always at the end of the magazine I, like many readers, flipped back there first to read his words before devouring the rest. His ascerbic wit and cut-to-the-bone analysis of the world of fine art photography is spot-on, and funny as hell. Over the years I've come to really respect and admire this man. Last year I purchased a signed copy of his book, Men Like Me, which is a stunning compilation of images depicting the homeless men who wandered his California town. It's a persistent favorite in my growing photography book collection. Despite the one-sided communication (I read his words and bookmarked his site and admire his photographs of old men, whereas he knows nothing of my mere existence), I, like so many adoring pop star fans, have come to think of Bill almost like a friend. His humor resonates with me. He's a guy I'd like to have a beer with.
So when I pulled out this issue of Lenswork and read, "Bill Jay 1940-2009" my heart quivered.
Took me a minute to fully grasp it. I saw, "The Best of Endnotes" and, in the upper right corner, "A Special Tribute Issue." I tried to stay the panic by telling myself that perhaps Brooks (the editor of Lenswork, and another one-sided communicatory "friend") had simply decided it was time to compile all of Bill's witticisms into one issue. Maybe he just retired. Because no way could he be dead. I haven't bought him a beer yet.
I flipped through the book until I found the words that actually said it. He passed away. Shit. I'll admit tears sprung to my eyes, although I quickly wiped them away in an effort to avoid a preschooler inquisition. How do I explain Mommy's grief for an older gentleman she's never met?
I didn't cry when Michael Jackson died. Or Farrah Fawcett. Or Ed McMahon or Karl Malden. Although saddened by the loss of these artists, their work simply does not resonate with me as much as the work of someone who is, to the majority of you reading this anyway, unknown. So I guess you could say I shed a few tears for a curmudgeon whom I consider an old "friend," and for the loss in the world of photography. Lenswork, a fine publication in its own right and a consistent highlight in my day, just will not be the same without Bill's words.
Rest in peace, Mr. Jay. Thank you for your contribution to my wonderful life.
posted by Amy at 9:00 PM
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