Larry Janss
Since 1950
April 13, 2018
To Ansel Adams (1902 – 1984)
Via Air Mail, I suppose
My Dear Adams,
That’s how Stieglitz opened all of his letters to you… with “My Dear Adams.” How simultaneously formal and personal; I’ll be the same.
There is a story I want to tell you. I’d wanted to tell it to you when you were still alive, but you got away. Specifically, I wanted to tell it to you on that summer day in 1980 when I drove you to Yosemite in your big, old white “Zone V” Cadillac, but you’d fallen asleep. So, instead, let me tell it to you now, nearly four decades later. It’s the story of when I think we first met and how you first moved me.
It was 1955; I was five years old. Every winter my family and I would visit Yosemite, staying with Aunt Mary Curry Tresidder in her personal suite which was the entire sixth floor of the Ahwahnee, the highest floor! (Except it wasn’t the highest floor; More on that later!) Aunt Mary grew up in Yosemite. She was the daughter of Jennie and David Curry, who came to the Park at the end of the 19th century and founded and operated the first camp in the park, named (surprise!) Camp Curry. Later they organized the Yosemite Park and Curry Company and were granted the concession rights for all of the Park. Aunt Mary’s husband, Don Tresidder, was appointed to be the president of the Yosemite Park and Curry Company. It was Uncle Don who convinced the powers that be that the Ahwahnee should be built, or so I was told later when I was older.
I called Don Tresidder “Uncle Don” even though I never knew him; he had passed away in1948, two years before I was born. It’s kinda funny I guess; whenever we talked about him, I always called him Uncle Don. It made Aunt Mary smile. Aunt Mary was a wonderful, warm and special woman; she was my Godmother.
But then, m’friend, you know all that; Mary was your friend and Uncle Don was your boss.
On one particular winter evening back in 1955, the Ahwahnee was alive and vibrant with excitement and festivity. It was nearing dinnertime and I was hungry but mom and dad were taking a very long time getting ready to go down to dinner with Aunt Mary and us kids. When we’d all go down to dinner with Aunt Mary, right at 7:00, everyone in the dining room would smile at her. The men would give her slight, respectful nods and many of the women guests would sort of do little sitting curtsies as though she were royalty, the Queen of Yosemite. I think she was.
But this particular, special night was different. The grown-ups were really dressing UP. My Dad had on a tuxedo; my Mom wore a beautiful long velvet gown. I was excited until I was told that we kids weren’t going to be attending the big special Bracebridge Dinner party, that it was for grown-ups only.
We kids were pretty disappointed until we were told that we could:
1.) Come downstairs with the grown-ups and see the dining room, beautifully decorated for the Bracebridge Dinner, before the big evening celebration got underway.
2.) Run around all over the Ahwahnee (except for the dining room) all by ourselves, until 7:00 when we had to go back up to Aunt Mary’s floor to our Nanny, Yutta.
3.) Then, and this was the best of all…we’d get to have room service!!! Anything we wanted. “Boy,” we figured, “that Bracebridge must be really special.” That was the conclusion we wee ones came to because the bribes were so generous.
Well, that clinched it. We had a blast. We owned the Ahwahnee! We’d all grown up on Aunt Mary’s 6th floor and we knew every nook and cranny of the old hotel (or as Dad would say, “every Crook and Nanny”).
The Grand Dining Room of the Ahwahnee Hotel Transformed into Bracebridge Hall
The dining room into which we peeked that night was transformed. It seemed like the grand room had been moved here from another, older time. Everyone who worked there was all dressed up in beautiful old costumes that looked like some English King was going to show up. Geez.
We ran all over the hotel. We played Hide ‘n Seek and I totally won ‘cause I hid in my favorite hiding place, the Secret” Seventh Floor of the Ahwahnee Hotel, where all of the lifting equipment for the elevators lived, where big old iron wheels and pulleys and motors were always grinding and groaning as they lifted the guests up and down. This was the highest floor of the Ahwahnee. Nobody knew about it but me and whoever took care of the old elevators. I hid up there for what must have been an hour, finally got bored and came down. Brother and Sister had long since quit the game and our Nanny, Yutta, was a little distraught at not knowing where I was.
Speaking of the elevator, there was an old man named Robert who drove it, the elevator. All he ever did was push the elevator lever up or down to get us to our floor and close and open the metal gate when we got there. We could see the floors going up or down through the metal gate that Robert opened and closed. Robert always said the same thing, whether we were going up or down: He’d say: “Hello Children, ready to go up?” when we went up and “Hello Children, ready to go down?” when we went down. He was super nice and friendly. I liked him; he was a good friend … I mean, for a grown-up.
Late that night after we all had gone to bed and were asleep, I woke up. I had to pee and have some milk with Ovaltine, my favorite. Our nanny, Yutta, had been reading me a bed-time story ‘till I fell asleep and then I guess she fell asleep too ‘cause there she was in the same chair where she had been when she was reading to me, the little book on the floor, her head on her chest, she gently snoring. I didn’t have anyone to help me get my drink ‘cause Mom and Dad were still downstairs at the dinner party but that was no problem. Since I knew where they were, I’d just go and get mommy to help me.
So I popped out of bed, grabbed Sheepy, my little rag-doll sheep I slept with, peed and then headed out. Robert was a little concerned as he pushed the elevator lever down but I told him it was okay ‘cause I was just headed down to the dining room to find my Mom. For some reason he still looked a little concerned.
When I got to the dining room, I walked right on in. Ohhh! I was agog. Ohhh! The dining room I walked into was a different dining room from a different time. It was filled with celestial, angelic music; lords and ladies in their regalia; the smells…oh the magnificent bouquet … candles with clove, the fragrance of roast beef, a woman’s enchanting perfume. I wandered thunderstruck down the red-carpeted center aisle in my flannel Jammies with feet, dragging Sheepy, staring up, around, everywhere my little bug eyes would take me. Grown-ups sitting at the glorious tables festooned with candles and wine glasses and flowers looked at me, the Moms concerned, the Dads amused. I was transported.
Then a voice from the far end of the grand hall boomed ….
“IT SEEMS THAT A LITTLE LAMB HAS LOST HIS WAY. PRITHEE, LORD OF MISRULE, GATHER UP YON CHILD AND LET’S SEE WHETHER WE SHOULD COOK HIM UP OR SIMPLY RETURN HIM TO HIS PARENTS!”
Likkedy-split an enormous elfin man was upon me, sweeping me up into his embrace. He held me snug and looked well into my eyes and whispered “Don’t be afraid my little friend. We’re going to tease your mommy and daddy a little.” His face was craggy, his grey beard wisped across my face, tickling me. I felt safe…. and mischievous. My new old friend, I could just tell, was about to do something ridiculous and I was in on it!
Ansel Adams as the “Lord of Misrule”
The great man lifted me high above his head and I saw a view no other person alive has ever seen nor ever shall: The Grand Bracebridge Hall of the Ahwahnee Hotel from an altitude of 81⁄2 feet, held aloft by the Lord of Misrule.
The Lord slowly turned around three hundred and sixty degrees, displaying Sheepy and me for all to see. The guests were filled with merriment as my eyes took them in during my slow rotation of the entire great hall. And there was Aunt Mary – sitting like the queen that she was, next to my Mom and Dad, all roaring with laughter.
I waved at them – Aunt Mary waved back and the Jester bellowed… “M’Lady Tresidder, it seems you know the identity of this young interloper.”
“I do, my Lord,” responded Aunt Mary, “and I don’t really know whether you should cook him or return him to his parents. He is, after all, my Godson Lawrence. And his parents are here with me, trying to hide, I believe, under our table.”
Dad was delirious with laughter, his face bright red and ready to pop. Mom was, indeed, trying to crawl under the table, but overcome with merriment as well. I knew right then that I was not going to get in trouble.
You, Lord of Misrule, you lived up to your name that night. You delivered me back into my Mom’s embrace and she hurried Sheepy and me out of Bracebridge Hall and back to my cozy bed on the sixth floor. She made me my Ovaltine, tucked me in, kissed me and Sheepy goodnight and assured Yutta that all was well. (Yutta was mortified.) Then she swept out of the room, back down to the Great Hall, in shimmering Cinderella fashion, faery dust glittering behind her in the beam of the night-light.
~~~~
While visiting Aunt Mary every year in the winter, each day we’d all jump in the family automobile and drive up to the little ski area called Badger Pass (I never once saw any badgers passing.) There, we’d strap on our old leather, double laced ski boots, ratchet them into the bear trap bindings of our wooden skis and spend our days tangled up in the rope tows and T-bars. On the drives to and from Badger Pass, I, being five, was always relegated to the back seat of the automobile. I always made it my business to wrangle the starboard side seat for the morning drive and the port side seat in the afternoon, and for a good reason! See, there was this one particular stretch of road, straight as an Ahwaneechee’s arrow, bordered on both sides by a long stand of huge, towering pine trees which created a long tunnel like effect. About half way through this tunnel there was an opening in the hedgerow of pine trees, a turn out offering a spectacular vista of the full countenance of El Capitan for any tourist hearty enough to actually pull over, get out, and gaze upon that magnificent rock. Scant few did, including us as we hurried on to ski. So, I learned that by sitting by the window, starboard in the mornings, port in the afternoons, I could grab a quick glimpse of El Capitan as we breezed on by. Only later did I come to associate that glimpse with the click of a shutter and an image frozen in time. Every day, two times a day, with my little nose pressed to the cold window, making little puffs of condensing steam on the glass in anticipation of the brief moment that we’d pass the viewpoint, I’d intently watch for that quick click / glimpse, … and I’d get it. Like clock work. Every Day.
One particular night I was sitting in the Ahwahnee dining room with the grown-ups and my brother and sister. I was as bored as a stump, waiting to be asked (told) what I wanted for dinner, and so I plucked up a menu for something to look at. In those early days, the Ahwahnee dining room menus featured photographs on their covers and when I gazed upon the front piece, I saw IT. El Capitan. The exact same picture that I saw every day. The very image that went click for me twice every day. I was flabbergasted and, frankly, a little spooked. “Daddy” I said, tugging at my father’s coat sleeve “Daddy –this is what I see every day” I claimed. He nodded, a little dismissively. “NO DADDY”, I nearly shouted, “This is WHAT I SEE.”
Dad slowly turned at my outburst (I remember his slow turn with a lingering sense of dread even now – over six decades later) and faced me. He looked at me as he never really had before, and said…..
“What?”
So I told him my little, meek story of how I’d sit and watch every day, of how I’d organize my sitting schedule, starboard morning, port afternoon; of how I’d privately see this particular giant cliff every day, twice a day; and here it is right here on the menu – “JUST LIKE I SEE IT.”
Dad was quiet that night. The following day, on the way up to Badger Pass, Dad noticed where I sat, on the starboard side. On the way back, he noticed that I sat to port. That day, on the way home to the Ahwahnee, as we approached the magical place, an extraordinary thing happened. Dad pulled off the road, into the view turn-out and said…“Larry, if you’d like to get out of the car and see El Capitan, you may.” Brother and Sister groaned at the delay but, cloaked in the safety of my dad’s permission, I got out anyway and, terribly self consciously, walked to the front of the car and looked up at El Capitan.
There he was – the Captain – and in my little body and my little mind, I surrendered to that which I couldn’t understand – then or now – to the power and patriarchy of that grand rock. I felt confusion in the distinct feeling that I was gazing on my father in the being of that cliff, while I knew my corporeal father was sitting, patiently and mortally, in the car, waiting for me. I also somehow knew that I had to ignore my confusion and absorb the power and the parental embrace of the majestic granite rock.
Pretty quick my self-consciousness overcame my reverie and I returned to the car, to the taunts of my siblings and a perplexed look on Mom’s face. I did see, and it was my salvation that day, a knowing and sort of smug look on Dad’s face. He turned and asked if I’d seen enough?. Not knowing how to answer such a primordial and profound question, I mumbled a squeaky…”yes,” followed by an even quieter …
“Thanks Daddy.”
I was very quiet and reserved that night at dinner. We were back in the Ahwahnee dining room again. My brother and sister had grown tired of teasing me. Dad looked across the dining room and saw an old friend of his. He took my hand and led me over to a table filled with happy, noisy grown-ups, up to a towering man of whom I should have been terrified but rather, somehow, I felt a part of and close to.
Dad said, “Larry, please say hello to Mr. Adams. He took the photograph that you like so much.”
I don’t really remember this moment precisely, it shimmers in the edge of my recollection…like gossamer. I do remember an strong sense of warmth and surety, that I was in the presence of a wonderful being who understood an ineffable something that had no words and that all the other older people (and siblings) seemed to have somehow forgotten. I remember feeling safe and having a sense of belonging. When the big man turned and said “hello Larry, I’m very pleased to meet you,” I remembered the same voice whispering so softly in my ear the night before…“Don’t be afraid my little friend. We’re going to tease your mommy and daddy.” He was the Lord of Misrule! He had a name now and I knew him, Ansel Adams, the author of the photograph on the menu that jump-started my spiritual life.
I was, yet again, stunned. It was YOU….uh…it was HIM…. the man who held me high above the Bracebridge Dinner, giving me that unique and enchanting view of the Bracebridge gathering. You were the very same man who made the original photograph of my Click Place. I was smitten and speechless. I wanted so much to spill it all out to you, right then and there, to tell you everything that the Click Place meant to me, how powerfully the experience of being hoisted up high above the crowd by you at Bracebridge…. how, unbeknownst to me then, you had already taught me how to see and to embrace and not fear what I see ….and to be fearless in seeing and loving. I was paralyzed; I think I said “hello.” I do seem to remember a huge hand enveloping my tiny one. That’s all I recall; I was transported.
So, my old friend, that was our first meeting. It is the radiator of my spiritual being. I have many Ansel stories that I keep in my inventory of “cocktail party banter,” but that one is mine own.
And that’s not all. You occupy so many of my most special and impactful memories. I also recall…
- As a young, aspiring photographer, I’d attended so many of your annual summer workshops that you finally shooed me off, telling me that I was taking up too many spots and denying too many far more qualified photographers an opportunity to attend your workshop. My jaw dropped and a knot quickly stitched itself into my stomach…. until you sort of giggled and allowed that you’d invite me to tag along you if I’d assist you in setting up cameras and carrying stuff around. I believe I considered your proposal for the briefest of seconds before accepting.
When, during those sessions when I “interned,” you would ask me to set up your camera for demonstrations and, while you would be lecturing your students, I’d aim your camera at the subject you chose, focus and compose the subject as best I could. I’d study my composition carefully before you’d come over for your demonstration and reset the composition to your liking. After you finished the demonstration, I would have the opportunity to crawl under the cloth and study the difference – what you saw and how you composed your scene in comparison to what I saw and had set as my composition. I’d ponder and absorb why’d you organize your borders such, why exclude this rock while including that branch …and through this, my “theft” of your vision, you unknowingly taught me how to See.
- And one day up on Glacier Point during one of your summer workshops when you smacked me on the back and complimented me as being “as enthusiastic as a muddy puppy…” then adding…”and as clumsy too.” That’s my nick-name now, “M.P.” and I believe it’s going on my grave stone.
Probably my most poignant memory is of the wonderful opportunity I seized when your assistant, Andrea, invited me to chauffer you to Yosemite from Carmel that summer day in 1980 so you could participate in the documentary film that she was producing about you. Your cardiologist, I was told, was concerned for your ticker and Yosemite’s attendant altitude but had allowed you this one last visit.
Oh! but we talked, mostly you, as we tooled across central California in your old “Zone V” Cadillac, rising up and down over the hilly road like a barge at sea. You recognized and pointed out so many of your old haunts. You pointed an orchard where you’d thought you’d made a photograph of blossoming apple trees (or were they walnut trees?) You told me your story of the difficulties you had in making the negative of “Moonrise, Hernandez,” and how impossible a negative it had been to print until you gave it a selenium dip and that it was still difficult to print, but less so. You rambled on and on about Ed Weston, Alfred Stieglitz, Georgia O’Keeffe, Beaumont and Nancy Newhall, Dorotha Lange, Mabel Dodge. All these iconic (to me) names of your old pals rolled off of your tongue; you were in a reverie. As I drove your Zone V Caddy, attentively absorbing every delicious moment, I knew how rare this time was and how much I was in the moment with you.
As your old Zone V boat chugged up the mountain road into Yosemite, you quieted down a little, becoming reflective. You said to me, “Larry, this possibly could be the last time I ever get back into this valley. It has been very nice to have you drive me up here. Thank you.”
Oh my goodness… Oh dear… Ansel Adams had just thanked me for driving him on perhaps his final trip to his Yosemite.
As we approached the long tunnel of pine trees that was the site of my first and original epiphany, I studied how I’d tell you, this special old man sitting next to me, of my private, early and very emotional story of my original meeting you without seeming cheesy or overly infatuated. You saved me the trouble that day. As we approached El Capitan, I looked over at you. Your chin was on your chest, your eyes closed, your white beard all akimbo, gently snoring away in the deserved afternoon nap of the heroic and exhausted old artist returning to realm of his muse.
As we approached my special point, I slowed down and glanced up onto the face of El Capitan, that enormous, eternal, ineffable chunk of granite. Perhaps I heard a faint click, I don’t know, but El Capitan was again frozen in my experience as it had been, twice a day, six decades earlier. And then, in a twinkling, we had passed El Capitan.
I felt a sublime sense of irony and harmony then, in that place with you …that I was delivering you, Ansel Adams, back into the embrace of your valley that had nurtured you and to which you’d given a face, fully a quarter of a century after you had introduced me into that very same embrace on the face of a menu and in the air above Bracebridge.
If my memories of my personal legend are true, then I met you in 1955 and, insofar as I’m concerned, we have maintained a fine friendship ever since, with and without the convenience of you walking this mortal plane. You’ve moved me and motivated me nearly every day of my life. I’m hanging on to this personal legend of mine, a treasure chest filled with my beautiful memories and lessons well learned. When I saw your photograph of El Capitan on the menu that wintry night over six decades ago, I was a goner. You, and all you are, have held me in your thrall ever since.
In 1938, Stieglitz wrote you a letter that he closed with this blessing. He wrote, “I can imagine how driven and how tired you are. But it’s good for me to know that there is an Ansel Adams loose somewhere in this world of ours”.
To this day, I feel the same. So, old man, thank you. And in being your greatest and most loyal subject, I am… Janss
