One of my favorite brief episodes. A few years into their relationship, in 1897, Laurence decides he wants a photograph of them together. I like this because it shows Dylan’s stubborn, argumentative personality and Laurence’s amused way of getting him to cooperate. And oddly, it's the younger man who is against progress ... in anything except music. Another quirk of Dylan's personality!
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One summer day Laurence caught Dylan off-guard by saying, “Do you realize, my grumpy monkey, that we haven’t had a photograph taken together since our first year? That was nine years ago! And I’m so much handsomer now.”
“I suppose that means you want to. Why? You’ve got me in the flesh. You know I don’t like cameras.”
“Oh, bother. You’re so set in your ways I’m surprised you don’t carry a sundial instead of a pocket watch. We’ve an appointment with the photographer at three o’clock today, so you may as well stop fussing. It won’t kill you to be photographed.”
“Only if I can wear my boater.”
Vexed, Laurence thought an interest in style was not one of Dylan’s qualities. He was unaccountably attached to a disreputable-looking straw boater he’d purchased on their holiday to Greece. It had not aged well, especially since Dylan was careless where he laid it and it had been stepped on at least once.
The photographer’s studio was jumbled with cameras, tripods, flash pans, prop furniture and bicycles, flowers, drapes, columns, statues. Bucolic backdrops with trees and flowers and misty fountains, some with dogs or horses, others of the base of the Eiffel tower or the steps to the Louvre were stacked against the wall. When the photographer saw the boater, he went pale. He explained with many gestures that it was out-of-keeping with the way the two gentlemen were dressed, with their cravats just-so, and their attire in general so stylish. Dylan insisted on the hat. The photographer relented enough to let him hold it against his chest with one hand. “Ridicule,” Dylan said.
“Artistique,” retorted the photographer, placing Dylan’s other hand upon a prop walking stick. He had Laurence stand and Dylan sit, Laurence’s left hand on Dylan’s shoulder. Next, the photographer placed Laurence’s right hand at his lapel, gripping it.
“Does he think someone’s going to steal your coat if you don’t hold on to it?” Dylan asked.
“Be still,” Laurence said without losing his fixed, somber expression.
“Am I not allowed to have an opinion about this?”
“No, you are not.”
“Am I allowed an opinion about anything?”
“No.”
“Move not so much as an eyelash,” directed the photographer as he hid himself beneath the drapery at the back of the camera.
“I feel silly holding this hat,” Dylan announced. “I want to wear it.”
The photographer screamed, “Non! Non! I forbid!”
“Dylan, don’t you dare,” Laurence warned.
An instant before the camera clicked and the powder exploded in the flash pan, Dylan clapped his hat on his head at a rakish angle and grinned at the photographer’s moan of “Ruined!”
“Perhaps not,” Laurence said, spluttering with laughter. “If there is any image at all, print the picture. I’ll be happy to buy it. Would you take another if I can get the creature to cooperate?” The photographer agreed. Dylan, having proved his point, sat for the second photograph looking smug. When Laurence saw the pictures, he was delighted with the one where Dylan wore his hat. It was more Dylan than any stiff, formal photograph could ever be: a large, mischievous elf with an audacious grin and a deep dimple.
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