243 Vallejo Street

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After fifteen years of struggle, Hal’s photog­raphy busi­ness had finally estab­lished itself by the late 1950s, and he was getting enough busi­ness from ad agen­cies to start looking for a bigger studio. He found it at 243 Vallejo Street, in a 7,500 square-foot former indus­trial building within easy walking distance from Camp­bell-Ewald, BBD&O, and his other regular clients. Hal’s dear friend Jerry Flax helped with the financing and Hal soon had a large, bright, empty, building of his own. He moved in at the end of 1959.

Since the bulk of his busi­ness at the time was food photog­raphy, a large kitchen was constructed in the center of the space. Around it were added three huge dark­rooms, one for processing film, one for printing 8x10in nega­tives, and another for medium-format printing. It was the première adver­tising photo studio of its day.

A loft area was left over from the previous owner. This was adapted to serve as a prop storage space to house plates, serving dishes, and exotic glass­ware of all shapes and sizes. There was, Hal said, over $10,000 worth of glasses alone up there.

Over a few years, the studio evolved into a sort of museum, gallery, saloon, and working space. Hal was accu­mu­lating a very large number of awards at this time and rather than frame them, he just stapled them to the walls, one next to the other, sort of like wall­paper. When the walls were covered, the awards were stapled to the ceiling. My world, and welcome to it!

On the west wall were displayed a wide range of found objects, excel­lent paint­ings, and a rather large portion of a plum tree. An orig­inal Atget photo­graph of a Parisian pros­ti­tute was in there, along with a rail­road crossing sign, and an assem­blage of other objects. While this may sound chaotic, the effect was entirely other­wise — balanced, textured, charming, complete.

Below this display was a 10-foot antique table surrounded by old chairs and an 8 foot table liber­ated from the sailor’s union hall before it was torn down to make way for the Golden Gateway. In those chairs, starting around 4pm on weekday after­noons, you would often find a happy congre­ga­tion of San Francisco’s creative commu­nity — Ansel Adams was a frequent guest, as was William Garnett, Gene Tepper, Tony Smith, Jack Keeler, Maggie Waldron, Bruce Butte, Lowell Herrero, Bill Hyde, Imogen Cunningham, Al Weber, and many more. Drinks were served gener­ously, conver­sa­tion flowed apace, and the survivors stag­gered home or off to New Joe’s for dinner around six or seven. The most noto­rious excuse was “waiting for the traffic to die down.”

But until 4pm, the place was all busi­ness. The careful compo­si­tions for which Hal became famous took days to assemble. If the prop loft didn’t have what was needed for a layout, people went shop­ping for props — at Gumps, at antique stores the once existed on McAl­lister Street, anywhere. These props were care­fully arranged, some­times in many vari­a­tions, and test photos made and deliv­ered to the client.

When the time came to make the photo­graph, it was usually done with a huge 11 X 14 inch Dear­dorff camera using an 8 X 10 inch reducing back, all mounted on a 10-foot stand. These photo sessions were tremen­dously intense events. Every­body present was required to stand perfectly still during expo­sures measured in minutes, not seconds — even air currents could create move­ment of elements of the photo that ruined the expo­sure.

The studio was gener­ally a happy and creative place, despite Hal’s often volcanic temper. He was as serious about making a photo­graph promoting a bottle of brandy as Ansel Adams was about photographing a land­scape — both were worthy of careful construc­tion, compo­si­tion, illu­mi­na­tion, and preci­sion. Hal’s adver­tising work was intended to be artwork with commer­cial over­tones, and he put as much into a photo­graph for an ad as any land­scape photog­ra­pher, maybe more.

The United States Post Office raised the postage rates for maga­zines in the early 1970s, a deci­sion that helped kill the great weekly and monthly peri­od­i­cals of the post-war era. Life, Look, Saturday Evening Post, and many others quickly went out of busi­ness as a result. Those maga­zines were the venue for the ads that Hal illus­trated. Ad agen­cies suddenly found them­selves without clients or clients without budgets. The demand for high-end photog­raphy evap­o­rated. That coupled with the year Hal took photographing the Mineral Book for Arthur Court as pieces of sculp­ture while turning away other assign­ments helped turn the key one last time in the lock.

Hal closed 243 Vallejo Street in 1974. The big cameras were given away because there was no market for them — most other adver­tising photog­raphy studios were closing, too, and photo gear was suddenly worth­less. Most of his nega­tives were thrown into 55-gallon drums and sent to a recy­cler for their silver content. All the awards were pulled off the walls and most thrown away into the dump­ster out front. As were most of his tear sheets and prints.

But there was one last, huge, legendary party before the door was locked. The whole commu­nity of creative people in San Fran­cisco showed up for a last drink and for a wake for a place that had been very impor­tant to a lot of people for fifteen years. Cabbies said that every cab in town was coming or going from 243 Vallejo that night. Then, some­time after midnight, the last drunk was pushed out the door and an era ended. [/​column] [end_​columns]