Obituaries mark with increasing insistence the evanescence of my own memories. A notice reminds me of this musician or that scholar or politician or athlete. On Friday, November 29, 2024, the day after Thanksgiving, it was the loss of the great photographer, Paul Caponigro. He died on November 10, at home, in Cushing, Maine.
The Photography Gallery
Paul in 1987
It was late winter in 1984, or maybe early spring. I was working at The Photography Gallery in La Jolla, California. A phone call came through that Paul Caponigro would be stopping by on route to Monterey and a gathering for Ansel Adams. For whatever reason, I was the only one there.
Presently, this lovely, barrel-chested, black haired man strolled in, smiled and joined me.
Those eyes. Those sea-foam green eyes rimmed with sooty lashes. They exactly matched the hue of his chamois shirt. As we talked I realized I was staring into them, mesmerized. Eventually I was able to look away, I hope with a modicum of grace.
Renge-Ji Temple, Kyoto
Paul’s buddha, 1976
I stayed in touch with Paul after taking a job as Education Curator at the Des Moines Art Center. The purchase of a photograph provided another reason to exchange gossipy letters. The one I wanted was an image from 1976 of a seated buddha, covered with lichen, the rim of a shiny coin just visible in his lap. I had loved his stories about Japan, which he had visited on a Guggenheim Fellowship in the seventies. This was such a personal image.
It was also a way to remember a fine Japanese dinner in San Diego when Paul had teased me for my poor chopstick technique.
Aaron Siskind/Fifty Years
In the fall of 1986, DMAC hosted the extraordinary retrospective, Aaron Siskind/Fifty Years. It inspired some wonderful programing and Paul came in for a week-long workshop with local photographers.
Rock Wall no. 2, 1959
A couple moments stand out in my memory. The first was jitneying him around Des Moines, with my then four-year-old son, Jonah. Jonah was a chatty little guy, had questions for Paul, wondered where he would stay while in town. As I recall he said something along the lines of, “You can stay at our house, you can sleep with my mom.” Thank heavens I didn’t crash the car. I think I responded with assurances that comfortable lodgings had been arranged, not to worry.
Paul remembered that, too. In a note from January 3, 1987, he wrote,
How is your little one…besides needing improved manners? It will be a hell of a job for you to put manners in place of a direct and clear spirit…manners is for educated adults. Teach him beauty instead and something like manners or respect and love of the outer world should take care of itself.
The other was an early morning during the workshop, a quiet time for me to get things done. As I settled into my office, I could hear a piano, and followed the notes to the auditorium. A couple maintenance guys had moved the piano out onto the stage so Paul could play. I found a seat. A few more colleagues drifted in. It was absolutely magical. There was a time when Paul, like Ansel Adams, had had to choose his art and had finally opted for photography rather than music.
Road Trip to Maine
cosmic apple, 1964
I was working at the Currier Museum of Art in New Hampshire in the mid-nineties and Dan came up for a visit now and again. One such time we decided to head to coastal Maine, to stop by the Winslow Homer studio in Scarborough, check in with artist-friends Condon and Georgeann Kuhl who had retired to a cliff-top dwelling in South Harpswell, see my uncle and aunt, Jerry and Doffy, in Damariscotta, explore the Farnsworth Museum, and generally make a holiday of it. The Farnsworth is in Rockland, and I knew Paul lived near there.
And he was in. It was our last visit.
The Weight of Memory
To see that someone you once cared about is gone, is painful. The wish that you could have had just a few minutes more, a hug, the chance to say out loud how much you loved and admired them is inescapable.
For a few years, Paul was on my Christmas card list. I should have not lost that contact.
I never, however, lost the beauty he taught me.