David Spade's Tiny Jacket

Sitting around the butcher block previewing SNL

Otis Fuentes with his friend David Spade. All photos by Chris X Carroll

275 Church Street was my apartment even while serving as a set for photo shoots by day. A structure in one corner contained my closet and bed, concealed behind floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains (which appear in the background of many a shot). Later, when I got married and Liz moved in, the apartment took on a more civilized vibe. But in the early days I wasn’t much for the domestic arts and devoted most of my space to photographic interests. The front wall was repainted so many times it was about an inch thick. The centerpiece of my shooting loft was a long butcher-block counter. We would set up the snack table here and it would serve as a sort of kitchen table. Crew, subjects, photographer—all would congregate here to view Polaroids, strategize about the next shot, or just grab a snack. I made the movers carry that freakin’ thing down four flights and hence into my basement here in Nyack. Still have it, with its ten feet of butcher block and the carved remains of the art deco pattern a roommate (God, Tony!) had carelessly inscribed ‘lo those many decades ago. 

I tried to maintain somewhat of a professional appearance (I knew photographers who literally hid the fact that they lived in their studios) but didn’t go too crazy on erasing evidence of my domestic presence. Yes, it would be aces to have a studio/office space you used only for work, but jeez, this is New York real estate we’re talkin’ here, who can afford that? Yes, professionalism is a laudable goal, and an approach I’ve found effective, but there is also a secret, homey sort of effect that can happen when one is welcoming subjects into one’s home to make their portrait.

I like the negative edge shown on this shot. I’d filed my backs out, the triangles at top left indicate this was shot on Back #2. This information would really only be useful if I had problems with backs, which I never did, but it is fun to reminisce.

An illuminating example of this is provided by the comedian David Spade. We worked together twice, both times shooting at 275 Church. Spade is an affable guy, without the angsty, melancholy quality that seems to characterize many comedians.  He was also a particular fan of Otis Fuentes, the enormous Lab-Rottweiler mix with the terrifying prong collar (and occasional bling). Otis would go on to be famous as wallpaper in Windows XP but back then he was just a regular dog. He was scary upon first encounter but was a big sweetie at heart. Spade had bonded with him the first time we shot, so he was excited to rekindle their acquaintance at the second. We’d had Otis a couple years by that point so when a stranger offered to keep up the petting he (and we) were delighted to comply. We hadn’t actually planned to shoot the two together but Otis followed us up to the front when we began to shoot, and invited himself onto set. I routinely shot a Polaroid of Otis with my subjects but generally shooed him back to his bed when the real shooting began. But when I started to eject him this time, a few strategic licks got his buddy David Spade to advocate. “The dog stays in the picture,” he joked, referencing the Robert Evans biography The Kid Stays in the Picture that had just come out. Kevin Bacon had nixed shooting with Otis,  but this time I thought, “Why not?” and went with it. 

After completing that setup, we were back hanging around the butcher-block island and Spade started telling work stories. For most of us, “work stories” involve that time the copier jammed or someone pulled the fire alarm. David Spade had tales of his office mate Chris Farley on the set of Saturday Night Live. The frenetic physical comedian shared an office with the cooler, more reserved Spade. They became fast friends and writing partners who shared an office at the legendary 30 Rock. Among other stories he shared was a charming ditty about Farley coming in, being unable to distract Spade from his work, so grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, shoving his arms into the comically tiny jacket. He then danced around chanting, “fat man in little jacket”. That’s it. Like literally nothing to it, a couple bored guys clowning around to pass the time between meetings. 

Two rabbits getting jiggy with it, as interpreted by David Spade.

I had first encountered this dichotomy between the private, intimate spaces and interactions which are involved in the creation of huge, open, public projects like magazines or TV shows back in my SPIN days. A couple of us worked for a few weeks, had a brutal closing, then three weeks later our work appeared on a quarter million people’s kitchen tables.Later, working for general interest magazines, viewership of my art was in the millions.  TV operated on an order of magnitude larger scale. Spade’s clowning in the office appeared on scores of millions of screens. This was before the internet, mind, when everyone has access to millions of strangers’ attention at all times.  It was jarring, to say the least, to watch Saturday Night Live that week (back then, pre-DVR, everyone watched it, live, or at least the first half hour and musical guests) and see Chris Farley perform the exact actions David had described, hilariously, sitting around that butcher block between shots. 

“Fat man in little jacket,” was the sketch, and it’s just what it sounds like. Farley would come into their shared office, find Spade’s blazer (remember those?) on the back of his chair. Farley, you’ll recall, was a giant fat man who would require at least another couple yards of fabric to be able to fit in the slight Spade’s jacket. And it is the height of hubris to think a stupid little pantomime performed to amuse one’s office mate might be suitable for the premiere comedy program of the last fifty years. But there it is. Hubris, boredom, desire to curry favor, they all come out around the butcher block, get chopped, sliced, and diced to end up art. Is “fat man in little jacket” Citizen Kane? Nope, not by a mile, but it is still funny decades later. And serves as a reminder both of what a fabulous treat it was to hang out with creative artists and how pedestrian everyday activities can be forged into compelling art. It takes an artist to turn the unremarkable into compelling artistic expression. Fat man in tiny jacket? Sure, but the dog stays in the picture.