Edward Wallowitch (1932-1981)

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The photographer Edward Wallowitch was a native of industrial South Philadelphia, growing up in a family with more than its fair share of creative talent. Both sides of the family hailed from late nineteenth century Lithuanian immigrants. The Wallowitch parents ran a delicatessen in the shadow of the Atlantic Oil Refining Co., later to become Sonoco.

Three of the children gravitated to New York City in the mid-1950s where they quickly became part of Greenwich Village bohemia. Edward’s brother John Wallowitch studied music at Juilliard and became a celebrated songwriter and cabaret performer. His first album This is John Wallowitch!!! (1964) featured cover art by Andy Warhol – who trained as a commercial artist. Although not credited, the photos on which the cover art is based are likely to be by Edward Wallowitch.

This is John Wallowitch!!! (1964), with cover art by Andy Warhol

This is John Wallowitch!!! (1964), with cover art by Andy Warhol

John Wallowitch performed ‘Hillary, Oy Hillary’ in support of Hillary Clinton’s bid for the US Senate. With his life-long partner, Bertram Ross, Wallowitch was a staple of the American entertainment industry on television and stage. The New York Times in its obituary described him as “the dandified embodiment of a traditional piano man and [he] seemed to know every obscure show tune ever written.” Anna Mae Wallowitch, the only girl in this family of four children, posed for Warhol and acted for a time as his agent.

Edward Wallowitch pursued his talent for photography early. He began taking photos when he was eleven and at seventeen was the youngest photographer ever to have three prints in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Two of them were taken with a Brownie box reflex while he was still at high school in Philadelphia.

Edward Wallowitch, self-portrait, 1960s

Edward Wallowitch, self-portrait, 1960s

In the mid-fifties Edward too made his way to New York City. Robert Heide describes the seminal scene:

Edward was then living in Greenwich Village with his brother John at 8 Barrow Street in a Bohemian style floor-thru basement apartment that became a kind of salon for artists, writers, musicians, actors and singers. John composed and played his own songs and became a well-known cabaret performer himself. One night, when I was invited to a makeshift potluck dinner, Eartha Kitt and Alice Ghostly performed songs with John pounding the ivories. Others who showed up at the Wallowitch salon at which Andy and myself became regulars were actors Colleen Dewhurst, George C. Scott, George Segal and a coterie of cabaret chanteuse-style singers, including Lovelady Powell, Joanne Berretta, and Jo Ann Worley, who performed at Jan Wallman’s ‘Upstairs at the Duplex’ when it was on Grove Street.

Portrait of Edward Wallowitch by Andy Warhol, circa 1961

Portrait of Edward Wallowitch by Andy Warhol, circa 1961

Warhol and Wallowitch were lovers for a time in the late 1950s. Andy Warhol – born Andrej Varhola – hailed from a similar east European immigrant background. Brought up in industrial Pittsburg, his parents were first generation immigrants of Lemkos ethnicity – a sub-cultural grouping from the Carpathian mountains in the Ukraine and present-day Slovakia.  Andy was famously passive, preferring to watch rather than do – in a 1980 interview he described himself improbably as a virgin. The jury’s out on that one.

Edward, for his part, had problems with drink. Biographical details are sketchy and on-line copies of his work are rare. But he has a wonderful eye for the grimy industrial landscape of the nineteen-fifties, and for children.

Urban children, circa 1959, photo by Edward Wallowitch

Urban children, circa 1959, photo by Edward Wallowitch

 

Photo by Edward Wallowitch, circa 1964

Photo by Edward Wallowitch, circa 1964

A large trove of Wallowitch photos, dating from 1953, exists in the Urban Archives of the Temple University Libraries. It would seem that Wallowitch was on assignment for the Housing Association of the Delaware Valley to document living conditions among the mostly poor black population of South Philly.

Roller skating on Lawrence Street (Philadelphia), 1953

Roller skating on Lawrence Street (Philadelphia), 1953. Photo by Edward Wallowitch

These early photos taken in Philadelphia show that the twenty-year-old Wallowitch had a tender eye for both composition and texture. A number of them recall the work of Vivian Maier, especially the shot of two boys below, where we can see the photographer’s outline reflected in the glass.

914 West Master Street, Coleman family, 1954

914 West Master Street, Philadelphia, Coleman family, 1954. Photo by Edward Wallowitch

 

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914 West Master Street, Philadelphia, Coleman family, 1954. Photo by Edward Wallowitch

 

Unidentified boys, 1954

Unidentified boys, 1954. Photo by Edward Wallowitch

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914 West Master Street, Philadelphia, Coleman family, 1954. Photo by Edward Wallowitch

As far back as 1958 he had suffered from an unspecified nervous problem which required treatment at an institution on Long Island. Perhaps it was the drink. His friend Andy Warhol, notoriously tight-fisted, wouldn’t help out with hospitalisation costs. In 1966 Wallowitch collaborated on a photo book about the Appalachian Mountains titled My Appalachia by the children’s writer Rebecca Caudill. He ‘retired’ south to Florida sometime in 1967 to concentrate on his work. The writer Connie Houser, wife of artist Jim Houser, reports that Wallowitch was a habitué of her husband’s studio.

Ed as a friend has been an artistic benefit. His New York City mores kept our small town studios aware of the big time. All the fashionable names in art have become very real to us through him. Andy Warhol’s factory-like silk screening mostly done by others from his designs…I’m sure all the rules seem backwater to Ed. It’s no wonder his shutter is popping all the time. Guess he earns a good living free-lancing and being his own boss.

Perhaps the frenzy of Warhol’s Factory had begun to get to him. Perhaps he felt Warhol’s noise was drowning out his own visual work. Certainly, as Daniel Blau has identified, a number of Warhol’s early 1950s drawings are based on Wallowitch street photographs.

Portrait of a beggar on a street corner. Photo by Edward Wallowitch

Portrait of a beggar on a street corner. Photo by Edward Wallowitch

 

Edward Wallowitch with an unidentified priest, circa 1950s

Edward Wallowitch with an unidentified priest, circa 1950s

The late set of portrait photos below is difficult to date. They document teenagers in Florida towards the end of Wallowitch’s life, but they may in fact have been taken earlier. Pencil marks range from 69 to 72. One print bears the inscription ‘Used in W handbook 1970-71’. All eleven photos in the set bear the photographer’s stamp. He was preparing a retrospective of his work when he died in Lake Worth in 1981 at the age of forty-eight, cause of death unknown.

Teenager, photo by Edward Wallowitch, c. 1969-72

Teenager, photo by Edward Wallowitch, c. 1969-72

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Teenager, photo by Edward Wallowitch, c. 1969-72

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Teenager, photo by Edward Wallowitch, c. 1969-72

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Teenager, photo by Edward Wallowitch, c. 1969-72

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Teenager, photo by Edward Wallowitch, c. 1969-72

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Teenager, photo by Edward Wallowitch, c. 1969-72

It is a pity Edward Wallowitch’s artistic career is drowned out by Andy Warhol’s louder and more publicity-minded one. At the very least the photographer deserves a monograph and some attempt to decently catalogue the fine work he did in his curtailed life.

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Les rencontres d’Arles (2): Bailey’s Stardust

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NPG P952; Mick Jagger by David Bailey

David Bailey’s show at the église Sainte-Anne is on tour from The Portrait Gallery in London. It’s a retrospective – a Greatest Hits if you like – titled Bailey’s Stardust. There is a lifetime’s worth of mug-shots of the famous in the pop, rock and art worlds, with a concentration of sixties stars running through it like the Milky Way. The Mod Squad, Celebs, as we’ve come to know and grow up with them. Like dowager aunts they get tedious at the end, they repeat themselves. I like the French term for this class: le vedettariate. They don’t age well – not many of us do – and Bailey’s look back often makes that point.

The show is arranged around the sides of the deconsecrated church, in alcoves that resemble side chapels. The hanging works. Photos of different sizes are grouped by theme. You get the feeling as you move from the famous photographers to the famous Stones, on round the side altars – East Enders, media celebrities, fashionistas, more Brit Pop, the inevitable Mandela – that you’re doing the stations of the modern cross, with Mick below as Veronica Wiping the Face of Jesus.

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Here are the apostles – Stones, Beatles and Co.  – with four or five miracle albums to their names, a decade in the limelight, and Great British Artist thereafter. Perhaps that’s the most we can hope for. Here’s the Garden of Gethsemane – London’s East End. There’s Vivienne Westwood – Jesus Meets his Mother.

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I liked the big prints of London’s East End decline, East End Coronation tat. There’s one portrait of a drinker with full lips, for once not pouting at the camera, and holding aloft a pint glass of beer. (Did people have fuller lips in the sixties or were they just more leery?) The snot-rag (no other word for it) round his neck is pure Dickensian. That East End lived on to the end of the Chatterly ban, kept alive, so to speak, by the Kray brothers (here too in this goons’ gallery) and rationing. The Kray brothers look suitably thuggish, clean-cut wide boys who could almost be on television in our age, walking us through the Blitzed ruins or teaching us how to make bubble and squeak.

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Are the Kray Brothers a band? A firm of accountants? A criminal consortium? One of my favourite lines from Dylan is: “Steal a little and they put you in jail, steal a lot and they make you king.” It makes renewed sense now after the financial crisis, and puts a bit of larceny and the Great British Train Robbery in the shade. The East End got tarted up, the kings – high finance – moved in. Iain Sinclair has chronicled this bring and buy of high finance in the eighties and nineties. I kept thinking about gentrification while walking around this show.

Who ever knew that Yoko Ono had good legs? – not the Japanese strong card, by and large. The rest of her I could take or leave, but here they are sheer for all to see.

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Patti Smith is no stranger to celebrity photographers. Her trademark dishevelled hair, wanton-waifish looks and crucifix in the cleavage grow tired on me. Her Horses was one of the wake-up albums of the summer of punk, 1977 – I took it to the Sahara desert and played it to the bedouin. The triteness of the iconography in some of the photos began to wear. Rock celebs begin to look like attitudinising saints showing off stigmata on a rococo ceiling.

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The portrait of Dylan seems nonplussed. Like the Queen (Her Majesty is missing from the show but we get Queen instead.) he always looks bigger, more imposing than he actually is. Short people do that – they muscle up to the camera. Legs splayed, Davy Crockett jacket, cowboy-outlaw costuming, piercing eyes – 1986. About the time of Desire, Durango, all that south of the border nonsense. When American rock stars reach for roots it’s usually some form of cowboy myth. When Londoners do it you get the Kray twins. The skin on the right hand side of his face has already gone parchment-like.

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Alice Cooper with her snake and what looks like a caesarian scar on a very hairy mid-riff. Who ever knew that Andy Warhol had such a porous nose and pitted skin? Smallpox in that Andrej Varhola Pittsburg childhood. Or that the Rolling Stones are so phenomenally ugly? There seems to be always some feature not quite in proportion, pouting at you.

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Bailey has taken such cliches of them – anything to avoid the word iconic – we forget the wrinkly futures of us all. But there is a good deal of wrinkly here nonetheless, to the point where I thought the human animal is not a pretty sight. Vivienne Westwood – Ho! -, Marianne Faithful et al. Frights the lot of them! Frights in fancy threads.

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Models with rubber dollies. Models looking sultry. Pouting models. The glam look of old Roxy album covers. The English ageing female seems to turn into a cross between Matron and a dominatrix in a Soho doorway.

On the high altar are six almost life-size nudes from 2004, arranged where the choir stalls would be. Ninette Finch, Bernd Kho, Belinda Selby, assorted actors, media people and models.  Three memento mori from 2009 – a skull with blue roses, a skull with some sort of thistle, a skull with gourds – almost had me genuflecting and crossing myself.

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This is Bailey being profound. While you could say that the photographer is making a comment about the transience of all things – with no resurrection in sight – it struck me as mostly album covers and fashion shoots for the glossies done large.

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Bailey prefers the pure white background and a close view, tattoos, piercings and all. We came to the chapel of the fashion designers – Ecce Homo – Karl Lagerfeld’s pre-Ludwig look, captured in front of his French château. John Galiano, half flying through the air, looks like a cross between a falling angel and a pirate from Penzance. Cecil Beaton mincing again, cosying up to the beautiful Rudolf Nureyev in 1965.

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David Bailey is the Cecil Beaton of our age. Beaton did the bright young things and the royals, the shits in the shuttered châteaux – Willy Maugham, the Duke and Duchess, Noel Coward. The comparison highlights the uncertain status of this kind of celebrity photography. Would you look at them twice if they weren’t famous? Or dead famous?

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These are the goons. This is our goon show. Assorted minstrels at the court of Elizabeth. Sundry nancy boys in the high-end rag trade, thread merchants. Scene shifters. Already the bloom is off them. The women look as though they’ve tagged along an eternity. They’re past their first youth. They have the pouty attitudinising, the puckered lips of adolescents who know what’s what, and how much it costs. The lines are on their faces as they sing of small foreign wars and falling stars. They crooned and shot and painted their way out of rationing into the bunga-bunga years, the long decades of post-war peace in our time. Sic transit gloria mundi.

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