From The Vault Of Art Shay: The Kennedys

By Art Shay in News on Nov 21, 2013 5:30PM

Campaigning in Cleveland in 1960, JFK thrilled the crowd as usual.

One hundred thousand farmers gathered to hear JFK perorate in Sioux Falls, SD, also in 1960. I was charmed by the new 140-degree Widelux cameras and bought two en route to the airport. <i>Time</i>'s use of this very first picture on the roll paid for them both. My main esthetic contribution? Moving those colored flags from five feet behind me to five feet in front of me to balance my image of JFK.

At the 1960 debate in Chicago with Nixon the Washington press corps grilled the candidates mercifully. JFK's win was a "3-gone conclusion."

At McCormick Place in the next campaign Lyndon Johnson, sitting with Chicago Mayor Richard J. Daley, invoked the ghost of his predecessor.

Nervously suspicious of cars since his brother's recent assassination, Bobby Kennedy slides into place for the run to McCormick Place. I had the honor of being thrown out at the request of (a wildly gesticulating) LBJ who was suspicious of my pistol-grip Novoflex 240mm lens—a proud product of Nazi-era German engineering that made it look like a small machine pistol.

Far in advance of a future election Teddy Kennedy, the prettiest of all Kennedys, was being pushed into the national spotlight. Had it not been for his extracurricular social life and the death of a lady friend driving his car, Teddy might have become President.

Even in those halcyon days the GOP opposition to the Democrats could hardly be taken seriously and prepared the way for the ultimate political schmuckhood of the McCain-Palin, then Mitt Romney's Looney Tunes express fueled by malevolent cupidity and offshore shenanigans.

(Legendary Chicago-based photographer Art Shay has taken photos of kings, queens, celebrities and the common man in a 60-year career. This week Art reflects on one of America's political dynasties as the nation marks the 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination.)

To understand the wonderful Kennedys we have to accept the shrug of the genitals verdict that they were dick-directed. Jack was; Teddy was; Bobby was; their father Joe was. Even a protégé like Bill Clinton would be dick-directed.

For years the Boston press refused to print the news that wheeler-dealer Joe—friend of the rich and mighty; dark horse presidential prospect and backstage financier—had dark dealings in the liquor storage and real estate trades. He was dorking actress Gloria Swanson on the side and even set her up in an ocean liner suite near his and wife Rose on the Kennedy’s Atlantic honeymoon as a designated fucker if needed. Joe even had an 18-year-old blonde Scandinavian au-pair as a live-in caddy at the Kennedy compound to help him on his favorite “course” (the gossip had it)- Intercourse.

They were all nominally good religious souls, generous contributors and benders of the knee, but followed St. Augustine's dictum: "Cure me of my wickedness, Oh Lord, but not just yet."

I learned this as a wide-eyed Washington staff reporter for Time and Life in 1948, the first year of Harry Truman's hegemony under Bess' unblinking, unforgiving Missouri eye.

There were certain stories we couldn't touch. No one wanted to risk losing Time Inc.'s third class mail privileges, as FDR had threatened when his wheelchair didoes were learned and on the brink of exposé. And we all knew about Eleanor's backstage cuddling and love letter correspondences with same-sex pals.

My first professional brush with JFK and his busy penis occurred at the McClurg Court studios of Chicago’s CBS affiliate for his first debate with Nixon. I was on my knees busy loading film when Kennedy asked me a simple question: "Where can a feller take a whizz around here?" I gathered he had to pee, but three Secret Service men rushed to lead him down the blue-curtained makeshift corridor to the potty. So I never got to talk to JFK, even to answer his vital question.

I would always envy the many White House photographers who serially reminisced and most of all Albert Woolson, whom I photographed at 108 when he was the last survivor of the Civil War. He told me he had been a bugler-drummer at 15 when his bugle summoned Abe Lincoln to a Ft. Totten, New Jersey breakfast of possum, which he abhorred but picked at to please Lincoln. Albert also told me his son of 85 wouldn't do the chores anymore.

published with permission.

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