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| William Klein: 'My pictures showed everything I resented about America' | William Klein: 'My pictures showed everything I resented about America' |
| (8 months later) | |
| William Klein is a man of two cities: New York and Paris. The film-maker and photographer was born in the former, but has lived in the latter for more than 60 years, where I meet him at home. Now an octogenarian – and quick with a quip – he has lived for four decades in the same apartment, perched above the Jardin du Luxembourg. In his living room, books are heaped on the floor and on shelves, along with maneki-neko lucky cats, tribal masks and a stray baseball. | William Klein is a man of two cities: New York and Paris. The film-maker and photographer was born in the former, but has lived in the latter for more than 60 years, where I meet him at home. Now an octogenarian – and quick with a quip – he has lived for four decades in the same apartment, perched above the Jardin du Luxembourg. In his living room, books are heaped on the floor and on shelves, along with maneki-neko lucky cats, tribal masks and a stray baseball. |
| Klein has a gravelly voice and a playfully ornery manner. I ask him about his most recent body of work. Brooklyn + Klein spans images of painted murals in Williamsburg, lounging bikini butts on Coney Island, dancing Hasidic men at a Jewish wedding, a Jamaican pride parade, and neon signs for halal meats. | |
| As Klein used a digital camera for the first time, the pictures are flat and bright. “Everything can be set to automatic, which is what I did. I took a lot of photographs. For my [original] New York book, there was the physical problem of being out of film.” | As Klein used a digital camera for the first time, the pictures are flat and bright. “Everything can be set to automatic, which is what I did. I took a lot of photographs. For my [original] New York book, there was the physical problem of being out of film.” |
| The images seem aeons away from the aforementioned book, Life Is Good & Good For You in New York: Trance Witness Revels (later retitled William Klein New York 1954-55). The brut, black-and-white images are close-ups of restless kids, clusters of wan, dapper men, fragments of blared advertisements. In his introduction, Klein described the endeavor as “pseudo-ethnographic, parodic, Dada”. | The images seem aeons away from the aforementioned book, Life Is Good & Good For You in New York: Trance Witness Revels (later retitled William Klein New York 1954-55). The brut, black-and-white images are close-ups of restless kids, clusters of wan, dapper men, fragments of blared advertisements. In his introduction, Klein described the endeavor as “pseudo-ethnographic, parodic, Dada”. |
| Klein’s fidgety gaze upon urban street life hasn’t changed; he has the same sly eye for offhand moments. The frenetic crackle of the 1950s now feels absent –which perhaps says more about the calibre of New York street life than Klein. | Klein’s fidgety gaze upon urban street life hasn’t changed; he has the same sly eye for offhand moments. The frenetic crackle of the 1950s now feels absent –which perhaps says more about the calibre of New York street life than Klein. |
| Klein has no native affection for the place, however. Asked if he still feels connected to New York, he retorts: “Disconnected is the word!” | Klein has no native affection for the place, however. Asked if he still feels connected to New York, he retorts: “Disconnected is the word!” |
| He officially left the US at 18 for army service. As part of a Franco-American friendship deal, soldiers were allowed to stay on and study in Europe, and Klein went to the Sorbonne in Paris. It was his first time living outside New York: “I realised there are other ways of making a city,” he said. Compared to Paris, New York was “really uncomfortable, and a headache”. (This is the mildest of his criticisms.) | He officially left the US at 18 for army service. As part of a Franco-American friendship deal, soldiers were allowed to stay on and study in Europe, and Klein went to the Sorbonne in Paris. It was his first time living outside New York: “I realised there are other ways of making a city,” he said. Compared to Paris, New York was “really uncomfortable, and a headache”. (This is the mildest of his criticisms.) |
| Early in his stay, he met a French woman and got married aged 19. Spouses of soldiers could automatically obtain a visa and a free trip stateside, so the newlyweds went to New York for a few months. Klein had the idea of doing a book on the city, but his frenetic visualisation didn’t fit with the prominent view of New York as a cosmopolitan cultural centre. Klein presented his images to local editors: “They thought the photographs were anti-American, and shitty in general. I thought I’d have more luck in France, and I did.” | Early in his stay, he met a French woman and got married aged 19. Spouses of soldiers could automatically obtain a visa and a free trip stateside, so the newlyweds went to New York for a few months. Klein had the idea of doing a book on the city, but his frenetic visualisation didn’t fit with the prominent view of New York as a cosmopolitan cultural centre. Klein presented his images to local editors: “They thought the photographs were anti-American, and shitty in general. I thought I’d have more luck in France, and I did.” |
| He showed his work to Chris Marker, then working at Editions du Seuil in Paris, who championed the project. “He introduced me to Alain Resnais who said Look, you’ve done a book, now you could do a film. So that’s how I got to do films.” Klein’s first movie drew from New York street life too, yielding the flickering, feverish Broadway by Light, an amateur short on Kodachrome. | He showed his work to Chris Marker, then working at Editions du Seuil in Paris, who championed the project. “He introduced me to Alain Resnais who said Look, you’ve done a book, now you could do a film. So that’s how I got to do films.” Klein’s first movie drew from New York street life too, yielding the flickering, feverish Broadway by Light, an amateur short on Kodachrome. |
| “They were my guardian angels,” Klein says of Marker and Resnais. “We were very close, but over the years we drifted apart. Which usually happens.” He identifies with the French cinema crowd, but says that French art photographers left him cold. “I thought they were sentimental, and the accent on humanism was not my thing.” | “They were my guardian angels,” Klein says of Marker and Resnais. “We were very close, but over the years we drifted apart. Which usually happens.” He identifies with the French cinema crowd, but says that French art photographers left him cold. “I thought they were sentimental, and the accent on humanism was not my thing.” |
| When asked if he feels French, Klein says he does not. “But I’m at home with the French. Hanging out with Americans: for me, that sucks.” As if the idea just occurred to him, he says: “I think it’s about time I get a French passport. What do you have to do, as far as being French is concerned?” | When asked if he feels French, Klein says he does not. “But I’m at home with the French. Hanging out with Americans: for me, that sucks.” As if the idea just occurred to him, he says: “I think it’s about time I get a French passport. What do you have to do, as far as being French is concerned?” |
| Despite his pilgrimage to Brooklyn, Klein’s prejudices against New York have remained intact. “My feeling for the city hasn’t changed,” he asserts. “The photographs I took were a corroboration of everything I resented in America and in New York.” | Despite his pilgrimage to Brooklyn, Klein’s prejudices against New York have remained intact. “My feeling for the city hasn’t changed,” he asserts. “The photographs I took were a corroboration of everything I resented in America and in New York.” |
| He was lured back to document Brooklyn’s burgeoning economic and cultural regeneration. “I grew up in Manhattan. For Manhattanites, Brooklyn was the sticks, a second-rate civilization. My friends and I, we were so snobby. Living in the Bronx or Brooklyn was incredible … for me that was like a foreign country.” | He was lured back to document Brooklyn’s burgeoning economic and cultural regeneration. “I grew up in Manhattan. For Manhattanites, Brooklyn was the sticks, a second-rate civilization. My friends and I, we were so snobby. Living in the Bronx or Brooklyn was incredible … for me that was like a foreign country.” |
| He recalls: “My grandfather and his wife came to America at the end of the 19th century from Hungary. Everyone started out on the Lower East Side. They became embourgeoisé and would move to the Upper West Side. Then if they’d make money they’d move to Park Avenue. Their kids would become artists and move down to the Lower East Side and the Village. There was a triangle. That’s the story of New York.” His own family lived off Broadway near 110th Street, and he went to City College on 137th Street (“No campus, no girls, just gothic buildings,” he laments). | He recalls: “My grandfather and his wife came to America at the end of the 19th century from Hungary. Everyone started out on the Lower East Side. They became embourgeoisé and would move to the Upper West Side. Then if they’d make money they’d move to Park Avenue. Their kids would become artists and move down to the Lower East Side and the Village. There was a triangle. That’s the story of New York.” His own family lived off Broadway near 110th Street, and he went to City College on 137th Street (“No campus, no girls, just gothic buildings,” he laments). |
| So why did he gravitate toward Paris? “As a kid, I wanted to be part of the Lost Generation who came to France. Hang out at the Coupole with Picasso and Giacometti.” | So why did he gravitate toward Paris? “As a kid, I wanted to be part of the Lost Generation who came to France. Hang out at the Coupole with Picasso and Giacometti.” |
| Klein met Picasso once, in Antibes. “He thought I was a travelling salesman with a suitcase,” he recalls. “We had rented a villa in a village on the Mediterranean. Picasso had a house nearby, and was working there. In the morning, I would see him sitting at a café. One day I got the courage to show him what I was been doing. I had a big suitcase, and I said, Mr Picasso can I show you something? And he goes, ‘What’s in the suitcase?’ And I say, ‘My paintings’. And he said: ‘Oh, I was afraid you were selling something.’” | Klein met Picasso once, in Antibes. “He thought I was a travelling salesman with a suitcase,” he recalls. “We had rented a villa in a village on the Mediterranean. Picasso had a house nearby, and was working there. In the morning, I would see him sitting at a café. One day I got the courage to show him what I was been doing. I had a big suitcase, and I said, Mr Picasso can I show you something? And he goes, ‘What’s in the suitcase?’ And I say, ‘My paintings’. And he said: ‘Oh, I was afraid you were selling something.’” |
| Picasso looked at his paintings. “And he said, ‘What can I say? You’re a painter. Paint!’ And I said, ‘You think I’m a painter?’ He said: ‘Yeah, I think you are’. That was a big plus! I never went to see him after that, because the shockwaves of having done that … was very pretentious, on my part; taking up his time and asking his opinion.” | Picasso looked at his paintings. “And he said, ‘What can I say? You’re a painter. Paint!’ And I said, ‘You think I’m a painter?’ He said: ‘Yeah, I think you are’. That was a big plus! I never went to see him after that, because the shockwaves of having done that … was very pretentious, on my part; taking up his time and asking his opinion.” |
| There are paintings (penguins, owls, blue skies, pillowy clouds) covering a wall of Klein’s living room. I ask who did them. “My wife,” he says (Jeanne Florin, who died in 2005). “She was not a professional painter. But she would sit down at the easel. In the morning I would leave, and I would come back in the evening and there would be a painting. There’s a Japanese editor who’s going to do a book, William and Jeanne. Half the book my photos, half the book her paintings.” | There are paintings (penguins, owls, blue skies, pillowy clouds) covering a wall of Klein’s living room. I ask who did them. “My wife,” he says (Jeanne Florin, who died in 2005). “She was not a professional painter. But she would sit down at the easel. In the morning I would leave, and I would come back in the evening and there would be a painting. There’s a Japanese editor who’s going to do a book, William and Jeanne. Half the book my photos, half the book her paintings.” |
| That’s quite romantic, I note. “It is romantic,” says Klein. “Our relationship was the love affair of the century. We met when we were 18 and we were together for more than 50 years. That’s Paris.” | That’s quite romantic, I note. “It is romantic,” says Klein. “Our relationship was the love affair of the century. We met when we were 18 and we were together for more than 50 years. That’s Paris.” |
| A bit more meditatively, he says, “I think a lot about her these days, for some reason. I think about her more these last few months than in a long time.” | A bit more meditatively, he says, “I think a lot about her these days, for some reason. I think about her more these last few months than in a long time.” |
| Klein didn’t continue painting after studying under Fernand Léger; his career took off in fashion photography. Alexander Liberman, the art director of American Vogue, saw a show of Klein’s abstracts and called him, eventually giving him a contract for special projects. “That financed my book on New York. It was a time when Condé Nast was very generous, and experimental. It was a godsend because of course it takes money to get photographs developed and printed and so on. It was like a government grant!” To boot, his experience with the magazine fuelled his droll, on-point fashion film, Qui Etes-Vous, Polly Maggoo?, featuring a ballsy send-up of Vogue’s irrepressible editor Diana Vreeland. | Klein didn’t continue painting after studying under Fernand Léger; his career took off in fashion photography. Alexander Liberman, the art director of American Vogue, saw a show of Klein’s abstracts and called him, eventually giving him a contract for special projects. “That financed my book on New York. It was a time when Condé Nast was very generous, and experimental. It was a godsend because of course it takes money to get photographs developed and printed and so on. It was like a government grant!” To boot, his experience with the magazine fuelled his droll, on-point fashion film, Qui Etes-Vous, Polly Maggoo?, featuring a ballsy send-up of Vogue’s irrepressible editor Diana Vreeland. |
| Klein, flipping through his old New York work, recalls playing stickball in the streets, and snapping parties thrown by Elsa Maxwell, a gossip columnist and society hostess. “In those days people thought these photographs were too harsh,” he notes, paging through images of boys wielding toy guns and women in bulky coats milling in front of Winston cigarette ads. | Klein, flipping through his old New York work, recalls playing stickball in the streets, and snapping parties thrown by Elsa Maxwell, a gossip columnist and society hostess. “In those days people thought these photographs were too harsh,” he notes, paging through images of boys wielding toy guns and women in bulky coats milling in front of Winston cigarette ads. |
| “Memories”, he exhales, in a rare non-wisecracking moment. “That’s the thing about photography. I look at the contact sheet, and it brings back everything. Whether I was tired, whether I was full of beans. It’s like, you know … Who was this writer in France with the madeleine?” | “Memories”, he exhales, in a rare non-wisecracking moment. “That’s the thing about photography. I look at the contact sheet, and it brings back everything. Whether I was tired, whether I was full of beans. It’s like, you know … Who was this writer in France with the madeleine?” |
| Proust, I volunteer. | Proust, I volunteer. |
| “Proust!” He laughs. “A contact sheet is a like a madeleine. Brings back every single detail.” | “Proust!” He laughs. “A contact sheet is a like a madeleine. Brings back every single detail.” |