garrison beau scott

Andres was unstoppable. Easily one of the more prolific photographers during my time at Brooks, which for those of you keeping score, was from May of 1993 until my graduation in February 1997. Hailing from Bogota, Columbia, Andres was more than a little different. Claiming to only need 4 hours of sleep a night, and by his sheer photographic output I believe him, Andres was always pursuing his passion. Always.

Some of the students at Brooks got frustrated with Andres, probably thought he was making them look bad. But I know it wasn’t like that. He was just making every moment count, which is a lesson we should all know by now but for one reason or another might take for granted. But Andres lived it. If an assignment required 3 prints, he’d turn in 6, if an assignment required only 1, he’d complete a personal portfolio with his spare time. I always looked forward to Andres’ appearance at the Redhallway parties. Not only because his smile and love of life lit up the room, but as a burgeoning collector I knew he’d show up with a couple of prints for the gallery instead of the obligatory single image.

Incredibly, Andres doesn’t have an internet presence, and so for those of you wanting to see more of his work, keep checking back as I have a more than a bit of it to share. For now, this will have to do.

Jason is another extremely talented photographer who I just so happen am lucky enough to call friend. His work while at Brooks was way above what most of his peers were able to do. The images he was producing had an immediate impact and it was quickly understood that he’d go on to do incredible work after graduation.

Fashion isn’t easy, it’s much more than pretty people pouting. Jason has always understood this and the pictures he makes transcend fashion with a stamp of style all his own. I think Jason was at every Redhallway party but the first one and as such, I have a pretty nice chunk of his work in my collection. I look forward to sharing it in the future. More here.

Maxxx. As provocative as those last three letters in his name implies. Rock Star. Avant-garde. The red line on a race car. That’s Maxxx. The image I’ve posted here is one of his quieter ones, illustrating the deft touch that percolates beneath his surface at all times.

Very talented while at Brooks, one of those people who gave you an immediate jump in cred should he call you a friend, but none of the posturing bullsh*t that comes with it. More here.

I met Pablo in May of 1993 during orientation for Brooks. At the time, Brooks was still privately owned and run by the family who started the school and class size was small. I think there were 14 students in that BA-1 class, but even in that intimate setting, Pablo was still a bit shy. But who could blame a kid from Guatemala for that? The thing that struck me about Pablo immediately after was how nice he was, probably one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known.

For the next four years, I’d have plenty of opportunity to get to know him as our paths at Brooks would run almost parallel. Even though the program was intended to last just 3 years, both Pablo and I took time off and found ourselves graduating together in February of 1997. One of Pablo’s trademarks was just barely getting his assignments in on time. You could often find him in the lab mere minutes before critique putting the finishing touches on his project, and then the Guatemalan Hurricane would dash off to crit. I have many memories of class having just started when the door would burst open, Pablo would enter with his print in hand, place it on the crit rack and then calmly walk to his seat. A look of relief and a bead of sweat replaced by that million dollar smile of his.

But my favorite memory of Pablo comes from the morning of graduation. True to form, he’s working up to the very last minute before the assignment is due, in this case, himself. Only this time he needs a little bit of help. He doesn’t know how to tie his tie. It’s in his hand and he’s looking around for someone to do it for him and then he spots me.

“Of course Pablo, I’d be honored to tie it for you.”

We talked briefly about how fitting it was that four years after we first met, with everyone from that original BA-1 class either graduated or dropped out that we’d both be standing there together with me helping him with his tie. Our conversation was about joy and satisfaction, the irony of the moment and a bit of the reminiscing that occurs on graduation day. Not once did we mention cancer.

On that morning cancer was the farthest thing from our minds, the cancer that would ultimately claim Pablo’s life was still a few years away and his million dollar smile was allowed to shine without the strain of life’s unfair test. I fixed his tie, giving it a dignified knot and then we walked into graduation.

I’d have contact with him many times after that day. We exchanged prints, spoke on the phone a few times and I even had to hunt him down once when a friend of mine saw a photo of his on my site and wanted to publish it in a book she was producing. That was the last time I spoke to Pablo. I could hear his smile, though I could also hear it being tested. We talked about a few things, including life since graduation, the tie, and then about cancer. He said he was going to beat it. I think that was the only time he ever lied.

Funny story.

As some of you may or may not know, back in college, I threw a party Friday every fifth week. The deal was, to get in you had to show up with a print of your photography, knowing you’d get one of mine in return. The story of this party deserves a book all its own, and one day I’ll get to that, but for now I want to tell you about this particular picture.

One of my dearest friends, Dave Arpin (aka the baby Dave) shows up one night with this beaut. I take a look at it and thank him for the image and tell him how cool I think it is. The print goes on top of the fridge with the rest of the photos and I continue on with my hosting duties. The next morning, after all the empties are tossed into the recycling and the kitchen has been taken off the list of disaster zones, I sit down to look at the previous night’s haul. I come to Dave’s and can’t help but laugh at the beauty of the image. I read the question posed by the picture and answer out-loud, “No Dave, no one feels like you do.” I set the picture into the pile that will make it to the walls for the next party and go on with my edit.

The truth is, I have no idea what this image is really about.

Forward the story about seven years. It’s morning and I’m in bed, the clock-radio wakes me, it’s set to a classic rock station. I’m about to hit snooze when from the depths of my slumber something strikes a nerve. The song playing on the radio grabs me and won’t let go. I wake immediately and lay in bed listening to a piece of music I’d never heard before that is blowing me away. I find myself muttering, “Sweet Lord” over and over and bust out laughing over how absurd this song is. It ends after what seems like an eternity and I grab the phone.

I begin a quest to call the radio station, taking note that Dire Straits’ Money for Nothing immediately followed the song I am now calling the “one.” I eventually figure out the radio station’s phone number and call in. I’m put on hold. After about a half an hour I’m finally connected to the dj who’ll tell me what song it is that started all of this. I tell him it was the one that came on immediately prior to Money for Nothing.

I can hear the dj going down his playlist looking for the song, muttering Money for Nothing, Money for Nothing. Then, all of a sudden, he’s quiet. After a second or two he asks, “Are you kidding?” I tell him in all seriousness that no, I’m not kidding and I’d really like to know what song was played right before Money for Nothing.

Again, he asks me if I’m kidding. Again I tell him that I am serious. He then asks me my age, I tell him I’m in my early 30’s. And then, he asks me a third time if I’m kidding.

“Look man, are you going to tell me the name of the song or not?”

I can hear him laughing to himself and then, finally he says. Well, the name of the song that I played right before Money for Nothing was, Peter Frampton’s “Do You feel Like We Do?” As soon as I heard him say those words my first thought wasn’t of why I’d never heard the song before, or that I’ve obviously never owned Frampton Comes Alive or that the dj made me fell as if I was asking him to tell me my own name, but that I needed to call the baby Dave and tell him how much I really really really loved his print and that though I’ve only been into it for a couple of minutes, I’m really into it.

And yes Dave, I feel like you do.