Beck "was the one who told me I should stop saying I wasn't really a photographer," Autumn de Wilde says.
(Autumn de Wilde)
When Jack and Meg are ready for their close-up
Autumn de Wilde puts indie musicians at ease, then she puts them on film
Beck "was the one who told me I should stop saying I wasn't really a photographer," Autumn de Wilde says.
(Autumn de Wilde)
LOS ANGELES - There's a proof sheet in Autumn de Wilde's new book, "Elliott Smith," a handful of photos taken during breakfast the morning after de Wilde, a photographer, met Smith, the late musician. It was the mid-'90s, the pair had been up most of the night drinking and talking, and de Wilde grabbed her camera on the way to the coffee shop. She took only five pictures of Smith that day, and the images aren't the best or the most evocative in the book, or even especially revealing. But they are a window on de Wilde's singular niche as an indie-rock documentarian.
"I put the proof sheet in because I wanted to show how my early photos were like that: I was with someone, we talked, and I took some photos," de Wilde says over sushi downtown. "The interaction was more important than the photos. Basically, I wanted to be around brilliant minds. And they let me take their picture."
Smith and de Wilde went on to become close friends, and de Wilde's book, a collection of intimate photos and conversations with the musician's confidantes and collaborators, is an uncommon portrait of the artist. Both artists, actually.
De Wilde, 37, has become the go-to photographer for a who's who of young rock musicians, among them the White Stripes, Death Cab for Cutie, Rilo Kiley, Fiona Apple, Spoon, the Decemberists, Tegan and Sara, Eels, and Beck. Some of her best-known images are on album covers, including the Stripes' "Icky Thump" and Beck's "Sea Change."
The photographer loves music, and she loves musicians. Years ago, when de Wilde became friends with the LA rock band Whiskey Biscuit, her camera was a decoy - she realized she could stare a little longer if she was looking through the lens.
But her fandom has been fueled by an almost academic curiosity about one of the art form's great conundrums: how to navigate the gray area where the creative process and the cultivation of image collide.
"I was fascinated by the indie musicians who were afraid to show that they cared about a photo," de Wilde says. "They didn't want to look like they were modeling. But if I'm trying in some abstract way to visualize the music they're creating, they're interested in that."
Her apartment, in LA's Echo Park neighborhood, is a working shrine of sorts. A strikingly gentle portrait of the fierce Yeah Yeah Yeahs singer Karen O hangs over the sofa, near a photo taken 40 years ago by Autumn's father, Jerry de Wilde, of a blissed-out, half-naked woman at a Who concert. There are rows of vinyl albums, overflowing boxes of negatives, and stacks of books on the floor. A tiny dog named O. Henry roams the four rooms de Wilde shares with her 8-year-old daughter, Arrow, who has recently filled a plastic photo album with pictures of her school friends in the front and her mother's rock 'n' roll rejects in the back. Halloween decorations are piled in a corner next to a pair of Jack and Meg White custom cameras: "Jack White's a marketing genius," she mutters.
This warm, cluttered home is a far cry from the cool, clean studios where most professional photographers set up shop. De Wilde doesn't have a studio and rarely rents one. She'd rather use a house or a street or a castle or a forest - a place where her subjects have actual contexts, bona fide backdrops, and, most critically, something to look at besides the photographer.
"Autumn has a natural gift for storytelling," says Karen O. "Bands appreciate her imaginative approach, especially after doing most of their shoots in front of a wall. She's also terribly insightful. Autumn said something like, 'People look their best just before a kiss,' and I thought, 'Wow, that makes too much sense.' "
Artists are drawn to de Wilde in part because the tedium that's typical of photo shoots is transformed into a facet of the creative act when she's at the helm. De Wilde insists on long conversations, in person, with young artists prior to taking their picture. She'll hunt for ideas but also memorize the way a person's eyes move and the way they smile at a joke, so that when she's standing behind the camera she'll be able to recognize what's real, no matter how surreal the setting or high the concept.
"The most important part," she says, "is for an artist, no matter how much they're posing, to look alive within that pose."
But there's a more elusive quality that sets de Wilde apart, something that starts with who she is as a person and has become a fundamental feature of how she approaches her job. De Wilde creates a comfort zone. She feeds her subjects, and the food must be delicious. If the budget is only big enough for
"I wasn't used to having so many pictures taken, and it's pretty easy to feel like an animal in a cage in that situation," says filmmaker Miranda July, who first met de Wilde on a promotional shoot just prior to the 2005 release of July's debut feature, "Me and You and Everyone We Know." "I didn't know Autumn at all, I was obviously uncomfortable, and she just helped me. You know how with someone you know very well you'll show a side of yourself, more playful or whatever, that no one sees? She builds that kind of intimacy. And you don't feel like her interest is fleeting. It doesn't have to do with fame. I was not well-known. I think artists really trust that, because it's so rare, and I think people ask for her because you feel like you got something, not like you gave something away."
De Wilde was born in a log cabin in Woodstock, N.Y. "They wanted to have me in a beautiful setting. It was part of their travels," she says of her parents, who settled soon after de Wilde's birth in the Los Feliz neighborhood of LA. Jerry de Wilde, a photographer who chronicled the counter-culture and music scene in the '60s and '70s and cofounded a Los Angeles artists' enclave known as the Farm, showed his young daughter how to use a camera as casually as other parents taught their kids to jump rope. He couldn't be more pleased that Autumn has maintained his love of film in a digital world.
"Ansel Adams said, 'There's nothing like a sharp image of a fuzzy concept.' That's what I wanted to imbue Autumn with," says the elder de Wilde. "What are your pictures about?"
Her mother is a sculptor and painter, and growing up in a bohemian home where the door was always open to an extended family of artists inspired de Wilde to look for her own creative community. First came ballet, which she studied for years, but her dream of becoming a professional dancer imploded when she grew to 6 feet 2 inches. She switched to acting, attending theater school and immersing herself in the local performance community.
Meanwhile, de Wilde was hanging out with musicians in LA's burgeoning alternative music scene, camera in tow. She became friends with composer and producer Jon Brion, who taught her how to play guitar and says that de Wilde appeals to artists because "she's not like everyone else doing her job, filled head to toe with [expletive]." She also befriended a newcomer named Beck.
"I didn't have a job with Beck until I documented the [1998] 'Mutations' record, but he was a very important confidence builder for me," says de Wilde. "He liked my photos, he invited me to shows, and it was an opportunity to document things. He was the one who told me I should stop saying I wasn't really a photographer."
She did stop saying it, in the late '90s, and her career took off almost immediately. De Wilde also directs music videos: She was at the helm for Elliott Smith's last video for "Son of Sam," as well as recent efforts from Spoon, Death Cab for Cutie, Rilo Kiley, and Rilo Kiley frontwoman Jenny Lewis. De Wilde speaks reverently of Lewis. She and Karen O represent the fascinating fusion of authenticity and facade that has become the photographer's life's work.
"Jenny does create characters, but they're honest. She understands how many sides to herself there are," says de Wilde. "Karen isn't obsessed with this or that body part. She just wants to make sure the picture has feeling. The photos make you wish you were there to see what happened next. For me, that's the whole point. Someone will see a photo and wish they were there."
Joan Anderman can be reached at anderman@globe.com. For more on music, go to boston.com/ae/music/blog.
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