By design, I’ve met few celebrities. I figure, they have enough on their plate. But there was a time in 1973 when painter-turned-photographer Johnny Donnels invited me to spend Mardi Gras at his studio in the French Quarter in New Orleans. Confession, they say, is good for the soul. Here’s mine.
I should have been studying for my senior exams at the University of NH when the call came. I also wrote reviews for the campus newspaper. Long story short, I penned a glowing review of a photo exhibition by Mr. Donnels, who happened to be touring New England with a new book. He liked what I wrote. On my 22nd birthday, the phone rang at the Newmarket house I shared with seven other students.
“Come on down!” Donnel’s shouted into the phone. Clearly, the party had already begun.
“Hey, man,” another voice chimed in. “It’s Rambln’ Jack Elliot, here. You do not want to miss this!”
It was my first plane ride. Penniless and wearing heavy winter clothes, I arrived in Louisiana in early March, and melted. It was like a terrarium. Donnel’s Vieux Carre studio was populated that week by the likes of actor Peter Graves (from the original Mission Impossible tv series), and trumpet icon Al Hirt. Playwright Tennessee Williams was known to drop by, but I missed meeting him.
Celebrities and hangers-on played ping pong and imbibed cocktails in the second floor studio. We threw cheap plastic necklaces from a wrought iron balcony to the surging crowds below. We were wandering the streets during a parade when Johnny snapped this picture of yours truly with legendary clarinet player Pete Fountain. I knew of him from the Lawrence Welk Show, my father’s favorite. Fountain was grand marshal of the parade that year. I still have a golden plastic coin from the Mardi Gras embossed with the image of Mr. Fountain. We had bags of these coins that we handed out to throngs of tourists.
The figure on the right, according to a note from Donnel’s, is identified as the “Lord Mayor” of New Orleans. This photograph proves the dream really happened. It arrived by mail at my apartment weeks later.
I spent a few days in New Orleans, sleeping on a couch in the Donnel’s studio at 634 St. Peter Street. I’m sure there were other people camping there. The only one I recall was Jim Cornfield, then editor of Peterson’s Photographic magazine. Jim sort-of hired me to canvas the streets for people wearing the wildest costumes. My job was to coax them back to the studio for a portrait. Jim was testing a new Polaroid film that produced exquisitely detailed posters in minutes. A few of those pictures still hang on my wall in Portsmouth, further evidence that the trip really happened.
Johnny Donnels had a unique system. He sold only 17 x 22-inch black and white prints in his first floor shop, but preferred to hang upstairs playing pool with his celebrity guests. He monitored the customers below through a video camera. His scenes of the French Quarter were all mounted and shrinkwrapped. They were arranged in wooden bins like record albums. Everything was $20.
When a customer wanted to buy a print, he rang a bell that sounded upstairs. The buyer was instructed to hold the selected photo up to the closed circuit camera so Johnny could log the sale. The buyer then held his money up to the camera and deposited it in a cup. It was essentially an honor system.
Once, when Johnny was out during peak tourist hours, I managed the shop from downstairs. By the time he returned, I had collected $400. Johnny took the cash and handed half back. For an English major, the $200 commission was a king’s ransom. I spent every nickel on more trinkets that we tossed from the balcony to the party-goers.
My most vivid memory is riding on the handlebars of Johnny’s bicycle, weaving through muggy city streets, as he greeted passersby by name. He was a big shot. I was just along for the ride. A painter, sketch artist, and unflappable bohemian, Johnny Donnels died in 2009, but he captured some striking images of the Big Easy, many of which are included in his rarely-seen book New Orleans/Vieux Carre. Pete Fountain passed away at age 86. His funeral in 2018 followed a traditional jazz parade through these city streets.
© J. Dennis Robinson. All rights reserved.
SEE ALSO: Stalking the King
The Day We Shot an Elephant in Our Studio