THOMAS: So what was happening in London in the early 1960s that made it so special? BAILEY: It was the first time in England that the working class had a voice in what was going on. But it wasn’t political. It was cultural, and it just happened. Unfortunately, after 1966, Swinging London became a caricature of itself: “Groovy, baby,” “Austin Powers.” Everyone today thinks the ’60s stopped, which isn’t true. We just adapted to it. We’re still living in the residue of the ’60s, really.
That means Cool Britannia? Cool Britannia is politicians trying to cash in. Spin doctors creating a slogan. There’s always been an energy in London, like New York.
Why did you become a photographer? I always used to draw and paint because I can’t read and write. Dysgraphia, dyslexia–I’ve got them all. I went to the silly class–the school for idiots–and they used to cane me when I couldn’t spell. It was quite tough knowing that you’re smart and thinking you’re an idiot. I started taking pictures when I was about 10. I didn’t know it was artistic, I just liked working with all the chemicals. Then when I was 14, I wanted to be Chet Baker and took up the trumpet.
I went to Singapore and Malaya for national service, in the Air Force, and since cameras were so cheap there, I bought one. And somebody stole my trumpet. That was fortunate! One day I saw a Cartier-Bresson picture–of four Indian ladies looking over a valley in the Himalayas–that really pushed me over the top. About the same time I saw some paintings Picasso had done of Dora Maar. It was like getting religion. I suddenly realized there were no rules. Just Picasso.
You are perhaps best known for your fashion pictures with model Jean Shrimpton. How did that collaboration begin? There was a photographer named Brian Duffy shooting something for Kellogg’s cereal, and I looked in the studio and saw this girl who just knocked me sideways. I said, “Duffy, who’s that?” And he said, “Forget it. She’s too posh for you.” And I said, “We’ll see about that.” Jean was the democratic beauty, the beauty that everyone could understand and love.
Then came Catherine Deneuve. We met when she was making “Repulsion” with Roman Polanski. He kept going on about this girl who was made for me. I said, “She’s too short.”
But you married her anyway. Yeah, it was quite good being married to a froggie. I was so outrageous, so alien to her. She was alien to me, too–she tried to get me to wear brogue shoes! I guess that was the attraction. She had a great sense of humor, like all of my wives. When women’s libbers attack me, they’re crazy, because I have always been with the strongest possible women you could think of. They’re all Rottweilers with lip gloss, really.
Your other famous model-muse was Penelope Tree. How did you meet her? My English Vogue editor, Bea Miller, said, “We’d like you to photograph this girl from a very important American family.” They made such a fuss about her. Straight away my curiosity was up. It was love at first sight for me, and I think for her as well. Deneuve saw an Avedon picture of Penelope and said, “You’re going to run off with this girl.” I said, “Which girl?” And she said, “This girl in American Vogue. She’s your type.” But I didn’t run off with her. Nobody really leaves anybody. You leave each other.
What do you think of fashion photography today? I’ve never really been interested in fashion, you see. I like girls, and I like photography. And fashion is a good way to explore photography.
But you’ve said you were bored with photography. I’m not really into photography as such. I know that sounds silly, but I don’t really care about composition and back-lighting. It’s about whether the emotion’s right. When you look at my pictures I hope you see the person and not say, “Oh, it’s a great composition.” That’s rubbish.
You once said you were a styleless photographer. Yeah, I hate style. I think Avedon is styleless, but someone like Helmut Newton is not. You can’t copy me, or Avedon–not that I’m saying I’m as good as Avedon–because there’s no defined look, it’s more about the people. Helmut is always going to be in a Berlin brothel, or a Lake Como villa or swimming pool, and he’s the most copied photographer of all. I prefer photography you can’t copy because it’s about the person, not the photography.
Is there a secret to fashion photography? I try to make the girl look as important as the dress, because if the girl doesn’t look important, then the dress doesn’t either. And I always figure you should see the dress. Otherwise I think it’s masturbation. If you can’t see a frock, what’s the point of doing the picture?
Do you find the fashion business superficial? Oh, yeah, it’s Chinese whispers. There are a lot of people who are successful–but shouldn’t be–because so many who don’t know anything say, “He’s great! She’s great!” and it gets passed on. You can last four or five years just on that.
How do you keep your sanity? Among all that superficiality? I think when you are a photographer or a filmmaker or even a painter, you’re a bit outside, and you’re kind of observing more, you’re a voyeur. I think that keeps your sanity.
I remember Don McCullin, the war photographer, telling me that when he came back from the Congo, it was when he was printing the pictures that he threw up. That explains photography, really. You don’t see the pictures until the printing. Photography helps define life, doesn’t it. Once you photograph something, you understand it more.
