488: THE BOOK
The great narrative and portrait photographer Paul Aniess died on May 13, 1970. There was a large decrease in the number of professional photographs taken on Long Island the morning of his funeral, as 100 cars driven by Paul’s colleagues joined the procession in Queens. Paul Aniess produced hundreds of photo books—each a day-in-the life gem—but not one was reviewed or placed in a bookstore or library, for each was a limited edition of one. I am the possessor—and subject—of an Aniess book, which, after 62 years, shows few signs of age despite countless viewings.
Early Saturday October 8,1960, Mr. Aniess arrived—wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie—and turned our house into a studio. He unzipped his black bag, revealing a portable backdrop, two Nikon cameras, lights, batteries, and rolls and rolls of Kodak film. Since he wouldn’t be returning to the house, Mr. Aniess shot the closing picture first. I would later learn that movies are often shot out of sequence, which can be a challenge for actors. I think I nailed it.
490: PAUL ANIESS, AS TOLD BY HIS SON KEVIN
A couple of years ago I became curious about Paul Aniess, but he had virtually no digital trail. I did find a Kevin Aniess in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and emailed asking if he was related to Paul. Kevin’s response was stunningly moving and expansive. Here it is, lightly edited:
Yes, he was my dad and photography was his life. He first became a photographer in the Air Force during WW2, however he never talked about it. It wasn’t until years later we found large aerial pictures of Paris as well as pictures of stacks of dead bodies, which appeared to be from Germany. [note: stock footage, not by Aniess]
After the war he got married to my mom. They opened up a studio in the Bronx and sometime in the early 1950’s moved into a Levitt house in Wantagh where our living room was converted into a photography studio. Then in the 1960’s they built a custom home at Merrick Ave in East Meadow. We lived on the top floor, and the bottom floor was a large studio, sales area, darkroom, and a finishing room. He spent every night in the darkroom printing pictures the old fashioned way.
Mine and my older brother’s Bar Mitzvahs were both held in our house. All of the furniture was removed and a caterer came in with tables, etc. I always wanted a big Bar Mitzvah at one of those fancy catering halls but I think my dad wanted it just the opposite since he was there every weekend. I guess being thrifty was also high on the list as we never had much money but remember never doing without anything. We were the first of all my friends to buy a Magnavox color TV when I was 13. I remember the remote control was attached with a long cord and you continuously had to kick the TV because the color would suddenly change to B&W. That was the same TV we watched the JFK Assasination, the Moon Landing, and of course the 1969 Mets.
During those years he photographed hundreds of weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. He rarely was home on the weekends at night. As a young teenager I attended many of those holding the auxiliary light. I was thrilled as we were usually seated for dinner with the band (I don’t think DJ’s existed then) and if lucky the groom or his father would give me a dollar or two. I also remember every weekend big shiny limos pulling in front of our house as those days most brides, grooms, the wedding party, as well as Bar Mitzvah boys would come and take portrait pictures between the morning ceremony and the nighttime party. On Sunday mornings tons of young girls came to our house dressed like brides who I later learned were confirmation girls. My dad’s specialty was portraits of young kids and babies and they smiled when he would act like he was turning his nose and then squeak it.
I also remember all the local politicians of both parties as well as some B-List celebrities came to our house for publicity pictures. Our neighbor facing our back yard was the Bonanno Family, of Mafia fame. They had all their pictures taken by my dad and unusually insisted on buying their proofs by cash. Maybe 20 years ago I did a Google search of my dad’s name and a listing popped up for a book of the life of Bill Bonanno that credited my dad as taking one of the pictures.
Chucky (Charles) was my best friend for a while. He was the only adopted child of the Bonannos. They escaped a rival Mafia gang in the middle of the night and I never got to say so long. We heard the house was riddled with bullet holes inside after they left. When the book Honor Thy Father came out we learned how bodyguards slept on the floor next to the parents’ bed. From our little deck we used to watch groups of men sitting around the pool smoking big cigars. We never knew who they were. One day the swimming pool was covered in wood and what we were told was they were afraid one of the kids would drown. Never did find out the real reason. Also read in a book later written by Bill Bonanno how he had an affair with the young lady who rented a room in the house right next to us with the dental office. She also escaped in the middle of the night.
When not doing affairs my dad was mainly a portrait photographer. He was an officer of the Long Island Professional Photographers Association and won tons of ribbons at their conventions. One was for a self portrait of a huge Great Dane with its paws on my dad’s shoulders giving him a kiss because he had a dog treat in his mouth.
I remember the Dog’s name was Nevr-Dull of Jonah. The owner was George Basch, who owned the Nevr-Dull cleaner company.
Basch lived down the block from us and we considered him rich. For several years he would drive a new Cadillac and after a couple of years my dad would buy his used car and we would drive around looking rich. My dad’s license plate was 19-PA. The PA was for Paul Aniess. I remember when I was little we were riding along the Parkway and I had to pee real bad. My dad stopped on the side of the road and a cop pulled behind us with his lights flashing. He asked what was going on. My dad explained and then the cop looked at the car and the low license plate. He must have thought my dad was a big shot and walked away apologizing like crazy.
Another ribbon was awarded for a full length picture of a beautiful girl that my dad mounted on a widow shade, which was sent to her husband in Vietnam so it could be rolled up before the Sergeant came in the barracks. I remember she wanted it to be nude but my mom had none of that; I think she wound up wearing a full bathing suit. This was the 1960’s. [Update: When I got your latest email I searched my closet and found a memory book about my dad that I hadn’t seen in at least 45 years. It included the window shade girl. I remembered her wearing a bathing suit but the pic shows it was a sun dress which I guess was sexy at the time.]
My dad was never sick a day in his life but at a photographers convention at the Concord Hotel in 1970 he had a heart attack. A few months later he decided to get an aortic valve transplant, which we were told was not real risky. He died the next day. It was quite a shock and I was only 15. His funeral took place in Queens and I recall that almost every photographer on Long Island attended and the car procession was maybe 100 cars long.
Several months later my mom had a tag sale where many of those same photographers came and bought all his equipment. Somewhere around that time I went in the attic and there were envelopes with the proofs from hundreds of weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. They only had names and no addresses and I went through phone books to try to match them up. Then I hand-wrote many postcards to say we had their proofs and I would sell them. If I remember it was $25.00 for all the proofs. Possibly you received one but I don’t remember. Maybe 10 or 20 people responded to my mailing.
I think about my dad almost every day. You are the only person who has contacted me in maybe 50 years so it is nice to know someone else remembers him. I would be honored if you wrote about him.
491: MORNING SHOOT
Mr. Aniess guided us through a series of poses, establishing the “becoming a man” narrative.
Today I pretend to become a man so I pretend to shave. No blade.
Today I pretend to become a man so I pretend to drink whiskey. With the cap on the bottle.
Posing four people of different sizes on steps requires precise positioning.
We were not a hand-holding family—I didn’t notice this detail until recently.
Shari Lewis’s Lamb Chop: I didn’t remember we had you. Now I miss you.
Like Fay Wray reacting to a nonexistent (yet) King Kong. I think I nailed it.
When shooting an old-fashioned double-exposure, make sure there are no objects in the middle.
492: PRE-CEREMONY
Because no photography would be allowed during the service, once again I posed out-of-sequence.
For more about Rabbi Saperstein and the lead-up to my Bar Mitzvah, see: Bar Mitzvah Blues.
A mensch.
All I remember from my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew is the blessing over wine.
493: THE SERVICE
I was pleasantly shocked when these turned up in the album. Not easy to be stealthy with a big camera.
After the service, I overheard Rabbi Saperstein tell my father that he had been worried about me. My crest started to fall until the Rabbi went on to explain that because three boys were involved (instead of the usual two), he had to utilize all three Torahs, and he had entrusted me to carry the extra-heavy one.
494: RECEPTION
Yes, I remember, they used to call me Al, and I was the kid with the drum. I played the snare drum in the marching band (I can still tap out cadence #2 with my fingers), but this was my first time playing a whole drum set. Based on the crowd’s reaction, I nailed it.
Today I pretend to be a man, so I pretend to smoke.
No need to pretend.
In the back on the right is my father’s uncle from Chicago, whom I hadn’t met before and never saw again. I know who he is due to his resemblance to my grandfather, a career criminal (specializing in safe-cracking), who had died several years earlier:
For a lot more about my father’s relationship with his father, see Observation Deck. For my grandfather’s rap sheet, see Grandfather resume.
My parents poker game. (See Poker Faces)
The dais. Everyone has a story. Here are a few snippets:
Richard Jacobs (upper left): Walk-to-school friend and political ally. Senior year, we brokered a deal to co-chair Class Night.
Jacobs was a fine athlete. When we set up a makeshift wrestling ring in Abby Terris’s (lower right) backyard, I tried fighting him once, then opted to be the announcer, improvising witty (I hoped) commentary. In the mid-70s, my mentor David Ignatow introduced me to his open-secret lover, Virginia Terris—poet, scholar, and Abby’s mother! She said, “I used to watch you in the backyard. What a clever boy.” Robert Middleman (lower left) and I did the folk music scene throughout high school and beyond, playing guitars together, scooping up folk albums as soon as they hit the Sam Goody racks, hitching to Boston and Cape Cod, and even playing a Hoot night at Gerde’s Folk City. We are Facebook friends, and mourn the mounting deaths of our folk heroes while celebrating the ones who endure.
Conga line, close to reaching dominoes territory.
My father giving me an assist.
My mother’s father saying the Hamotzi blessing, which is, essentially “God gave you this bread and all He asks is that you wash your hands before eating it.” Click here for my fantasy of my grandfather hanging out with Max Jacob and Picasso Grandfather in Paris
495: A TALE OF TWO CLASSMATES
Another Aniess setup: Paul Guyer distracts me while Bobby Humphrey administers a hot foot. Two friends whose paths diverged to opposite ends of the psyche.
In fifth grade, Bobby Humphrey presented me with a silver mesh “friendship ring.” I liked wearing it. One day, I noticed Bobby didn’t have his on. He said he lost it and would buy a replacement. He never did. By senior year, we presumed Bobby was gay. He was the only boy working on the costume committee for the Class Night skit, and he lent me a blue shirt because Richard Jacobs and I were cops. Bobby died in July 1968, apparently of an overdose. Five years later, while clearing out my childhood closet in Lynbrook, I found a manila envelope on which my mother had written “Bobby’s shirt. To return.”
Paul Guyer—known as The Brain—called me meathead a decade before All in the Family.
One Sunday I was at Paul’s house and he invited me to go to the beach with his family. Paul’s mother asked him to “pack the book review.” I didn’t know what that meant, and I was puzzled when I saw it was a whole section of The New York Times. I could imagine someone reading a review of a book, but an entire publication with nothing but book reviews? And to bring that to the beach?! Paul and I remained friends and co-founded a fraternity when the cool fraternity turned down all of our friends. Paul was valedictorian, and I visited him at Harvard, but we gradually lost touch. Six years later, I was working the decollating machine on the night-shift for the Consolidated Computer Company (while writing during the day) and was taking the 3 a.m. train to Lynbrook when I ran into Paul, who was returning to his parents’ house after attending an academic conference. My hands and clothes were ink-stained; Paul was wearing a three-piece suit. He said he was doing his dissertation on “Kants Aesthetics,” which I heard as one word and asked if he was learning physiology. Paul held back a laugh as he explained he was studying Immanuel Kant, probably wondering how I had failed so miserably to live up to my potential.
The writing thing worked out for me, and the Kant thing worked out for Paul.
But the world thing didn’t work out for my brief best-friend Bobby.
497: POSTSCRIPT
On May 4, 1970, I am walking on campus, dazed, having just heard the news. “What’s wrong?” a classmate says. “They just killed four of us at Kent State,” I reply. A few days later, we huddle around a fuzzy television screen and listen to Walter Cronkite narrate the memorial service. In the background, amidst the static, I can make out the mellifluous intoning of, “All they were saying was give….peace….a ….chance.” It is the cadence I tried so hard to emulate nine years earlier. “I know him,” I say with pride. “You know Cronkite?” “No, the Rabbi.”
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Author: Alan Ziegler
