Review: Elliott Smith by Autumn de Wilde

The main thing that surprised me about Elliott Smith, Autumn de Wilde's book of images of the singer/songwriter (Chronicle, 2007) was that it was even published. I love Smith's music and have ever since I was first introduced—as millions were—via his astoundingly poignant contributions to the soundtrack for the film Good Will Hunting. For me, "Between The Bars", "Angeles" and "Miss Misery" told director Gus Van Sant's story nearly as well as Matt Damon and Robin Williams did.

But Smith was never one of those Rolling Stone-posing "beautiful people"—something quite evident when he showed up at the Academy Awards in 1998 to play "Miss Misery", which was nominated for Best Original Song. Perhaps it was the purposeful intimacy of so much of his music that made Smith look a bit out of place on that grand stage, a white-suited misfit who somehow snuck in among the puffed up and primped (Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic edged "Miss Misery" for the Oscar.)

Because of Smith's penchant for avoiding flashbulbs, I wondered how much de Wilde's book would reveal about a guy who seemed to spend a lot of time hiding behind metaphorical and literal curtains. As if confirming this question, even on the book's cover, Smith's face is obscured by a giant balloon.

But inside, De Wilde's photographs reveal a Smith both disarmed and disarming. De Wilde, who collaborated most prominently with him on the artwork for Figure 8 and the Red Balloon-inspired video for single "Son of Sam", clearly had an unequaled photographic rapport with the artist.

The pictures also show—unsurprisingly—that Smith was not as constantly tortured as his songs could lead one to believe. His lighter, playful side is on display, especially in a series where Smith tweaks his own "musical outcast" reputation by posing with a rueful smile above the word "FREAK" spray painted on a sidewalk. Elsewhere, he sports fake moustaches and makes muscles.

Interspersed with the shots are interview transcripts with roommates, friends, and fellow musicians. Chris Walla (Death Cab for Cutie) and Beck Hansen discuss the nature of a musician placed in front of the camera lens, providing insightful context in which to view the Smith photos. The inclusion of their conversation also seems self-serving, since Walla and Hansen spend a lot of time doing nothing more than extolling de Wilde and her work.

Naturally, it's not all warm and fuzzy Elliott memories. De Wilde confesses to being "an obsessed fan...who had to grapple with the reality of the real man, which was sometimes amazing and sometimes incredibly disappointing."

In another conversation transcript, the photographer and Ben Gibbard explore the "tortured artist" stereotype used so often in describing Smith and his 2003 death, ruled a suicide. Says Gibbard: "It's not because (Elliott) was a drug addict and an alcoholic that made him a great songwriter...people look to (artists') substance abuse problems as part of their inspiration and reason for their genius. And that's just wrong."

From Jeff Buckley to Nick Drake (whose name Elliott is often invoked alongside), it seems that praising a formidable artist who leaves us too soon often results in their wholesale canonization, based mostly on presumptions of their lost genius. But this manner of glorifying unrealized talent can tend toward the crass and insubstantial, and often comes at the expense of the work the artist actually produced in their lifetime.

Fortunately, de Wilde's book falls victim to no such displays. Instead, Elliott Smith presents itself plainly, in pictures and words, as a reverential labor of appreciation from a dear friend, and a fond farewell from one artist to another.