The Americans, Part II: Slim Aarons

When it comes to the red, white, and blue, I’ve long believed Ansel Adams is to photography what Norman Rockwell and the Hudson River School are to painting; they comfortably reside in our collective conscience. Like apple pie and Fourth of July parades, we “get it.” And, similar to most Americans, my introduction to photography was through Ansel Adams. His black-and-white photographs of Yosemite and the Tetons left an indelible mark on me.

My grandfather, an accomplished photographer, gave me his Canon G-III in college. I learned photography with his camera on solo camping trips in the North Georgia mountains. Back then, I required little more than a tent, a few cans of soup, and a book. I’d spend the day roaming through the woods with my camera and reading fireside at night with a beer. I was falling in love with photography but hadn’t realized it yet.

Elton John’s “Chorus of Light” exhibit debuted at the High Museum in 2000, and I bought a ticket. Elton has one of the world’s largest privately owned collections of photographs. A majority of which hang in his 18,000-square-foot penthouse apartment in Buckhead. I was introduced to the controversy of Robert Mapplethorpe, the genius of Chuck Close, and the humanity of Annie Leibovitz. I even took a step in the X-rated section. Admittedly, some of it was a bit much. I read, “My favorite art is the art I don’t understand,” on a signpost in Aspen, and I wholeheartedly agree.

Fast forward a few years to when I was a banker in downtown Atlanta. As much as I enjoyed the views from the 27th floor of 303 Peachtree, it was a bit stuffy up there. I could only take the company of bankers for so long. By lunch, you’d find me reading in the Ritz-Carlton lobby or scouring through shelves at the Central Library, which, in the basement, housed the Exhibition Gallery, where artists and their work were showcased. And that’s where I was introduced to a photograph by Ken Heyman that profoundly impacted my life.

I’ll never forget seeing ‘Willie (Christ Pose) 1959’. I stared at that little boy for the better part of an hour. I was a few months away from the birth of my son, so it wasn’t surprising that this piece had me in its grip. However, I never had an experience like this with a photograph. And then I read about Willie, and my heart stopped. This beautiful little boy was left on his own on the streets of New York because his Mother was a prostitute who worked from home. His innocence and the hopelessness of his future weighed heavy on my conscience. I wanted to reach inside the photograph and hug him. I left the library with an appreciation for the art of photography.

Willie, 1969, Christ Pose

I continued to dabble in photography myself, convinced I was taking photographs worthy of an exhibition at The Met. You know what I’m talking about: when you believe you captured a potential masterpiece that required nothing more than pushing a button on a massively sophisticated computer you call a phone, and remarkably, you fail to recognize the billions of dollars in R&D that was spent on inventing the technology that convinced you, in a matter of milliseconds, that an undiscovered artistic talent lies beneath the surface of a lifelong artistic dunce. And thoughts like, “Maybe I should apply for a job with National Geographic,” cross the mind of a man who struggled with stick figures in kindergarten and couldn’t make an ashtray in high school ceramics. All other art is not subject to immediate delusions of grandeur, but give a man an iPhone, and who knows? He may be the next Ansel Adams.

Just look at me – National Geographic said to pound sand when I showed them my portfolio of Atlanta sunsets, barbeque plates, and bit loafers propped up in various golf clubs. I’m obviously ahead of my time, so I said to hell with those nerds and chased my real passion: scantily clad supermodels. That’s right boys – I submitted my opus to Victoria’s Secret. I’ve yet to hear back.

Several years later, I was browsing through a Barnes & Noble when I discovered Slim Aarons’ Once Upon a Time. I’ll never forget it because it was love at first sight. Slim did to my eyes what Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major did to my ears: pure joy.

Slim Aarons was an American photographer who made his career “photographing attractive people doing attractive things in attractive places.” In the world of aspirational living, he was Ralph Lauren before Ralph Lifshitz changed his name and sold ties. He was symmetry, framing, and detail before Wes Anderson was born. And he’s credited with creating the foundations of environmental portraiture.

Slim started his career in the military, photographing black-and-white images for armed forces magazines. He witnessed the siege of Monte Cassino and received a purple heart during the Battle of Anzio. He saw the atrocities of war and vowed never to photograph death again. “I’d wandered through enough concentration camps and bombed-out villages. I’d slept in the mud and been shot at. I owed myself some easy, luxurious living. I wanted to be on the sunny side of the street.”

When the war ended, he moved to Los Angeles and shot in Technicolor when most photographers stuck to black-and-white. The Kodak Lab in New York was the only color lab in the world back then. Think about that for a second: there was only one place on the planet to develop color photographs, and it was laborious and expensive, but Slim loved color. And who could blame him after being in the shit?

Armed with a charming personality, a 6’ 4” frame, and a carefully guarded lie about his tumultuous Jewish childhood, he befriended Hollywood power brokers and WASPs alike. Slim assembled a list of friends who would open doors that few knew existed. His ability to earn their trust allowed him to document their lives – with a splash of glamour.

Jet-setters, royals, and celebrities invited him into their inner sanctums. Be it Clark Gable and Gary Cooper drinking at a party, a Florentine Prince riding horses with his children, or après-ski with aristocrats in Gstaad.

He didn’t use makeup and didn’t bring lighting. Nor did he have a team of assistants. He requested that his subjects dress as they normally would and do what they’d do in their natural habitat. But Slim wasn’t opposed to rearranging furniture and adding a prop. He took it as a compliment when the lady of the house said she’d keep his furniture arrangement.

Maybe what’s most intriguing about his work is when it took place – post World War II through the ’70s, when leisure and glamour were en vogue, wooden tennis racquets were the norm, and the bikini was finding its way out of France and across the globe. Life was undeniably slower, a bit sanguine, and positively auspicious, especially for the lucky few in western High Society.

In the hullabaloo of the 21st century, who wouldn’t want to sunbathe nude in Capri, enjoy an unfiltered cigarette at a Roman café, or picnic on an English estate in tweed? Slim envelopes you in a euphoric palette of vintage colors from a bygone era, a respite from the existential vacuum. He captured the decadence of privilege without poisoning it with an agenda – just attractive people doing attractive things in attractive places. Enjoy a glimpse into la dolce vita.