The visual legacy of Luis Alberto Spinetta: a photographic journey with Eduardo Martí

The crackle of a lighter is heard. On the other end of the line, Eduardo "Dylan" Martí (Buenos Aires, 1950) takes his time answering Ñ 's questions about Spinetta , his friend Luis Alberto 's voluminous photography book. A luxurious co-release by the record label Sonamos and the specialized publisher Vademécum, it took several years to prepare.

A photographer and musician, Martí worked in the editorial laboratory of Abril in the late 1960s and from there he expanded his focus to the country's most important print media. With his band, Pacífico, he recorded the LP La bella época (1972). He didn't release anything until last year, when Buscando oro en el lugar errores (Looking for Gold in the Wrong Place) and Centrifugados por la ola (Centrifugated by the Wave) appeared, two EPs featuring other Spinetta-ian cosmonauts: Javier Malosetti, Hernán Jacinto, Nico Cota, Fernando Lupano, and Sergio Verdinelli, among others. In between, he portrayed the different aesthetic incarnations of Luis Alberto Spinetta , his friend and partner, with whom he had the luxury of writing two songs from Kamikaze (1982): Almendra (Almendra) and Quedándote o véndote (Quedating or Going).

– How was it for you emotionally to work with this material again?

–Right now, after seven years of work, I'm receiving the first printing of the book. And now I realize it's not a book, it's a phone book! Because it has so many photos that it's almost uncomfortable because of how big it is. It's as big as everything he did; it seems like we're trying to live up to it.

– Was the selection very difficult?

–More or less. I've kept all the things I've done journalistically and professionally organized. And the book has a chronology: it starts with the first photo of Almendra at the 1969 Pinap Festival and ends with one from another time, in another place, spanning various stages of her life. Although it doesn't include her entire life: it includes the part we shared.

– Is it a visual biography, or a multi-part portrait, made by you?

–It's a photo album of two friends. One friend has basically been with the other throughout his career, and has witnessed different stages of his artistic life.

– Did you meet as musicians?

–I met him through Machi Rufino, when they were finishing recording Invisible 's first album in 1974. I started working with them on their second, Durazno Sangrando (1975). That's the first thing I did for Luis. From then on, we continued working together throughout our lives.

– Your photos maintain an aesthetic coherence with Spinetta 's approach, linked to craftsmanship and domestic surrealism. How did you translate that approach into photography?

–The vast majority of the things we did were handcrafted. Because we didn't have the resources we have now. Today, any moderately skilled kid can grab a computer and make the cover I made for La la la (1986) in five minutes, and even better, with more quality and more precision. Because the tools have changed a lot. Back then, if you imagined something, you then had to put it into practice by building the means to achieve it, to materialize it. And in that process, we followed a path that was uncertain; we often started with an idea and ended up with something completely unexpected.

– It seems that Spinetta liked that amateur way of approaching artistic creation, without any kind of paraphernalia.

Luis was committed to everything, even the smallest details. He was a genius. He wasn't passive; he was involved and very demanding. He wasn't a star, never was. He was a galaxy, rather: all the planets and worlds he visited with his records, with the countless situations and scenes he imagined with his music and lyrics. And the photographs were part of that process. Like in The Garden of Presents (1976), which was one of the first things we did together: we shot it in the backyard of the house on Arribeños Street, with a friend, a rubber swimming cap, and some paint. We were very influenced by the films of Ingmar Bergman and Werner Herzog, the cinema that was seen at that time.

– Have you ever proposed a scene to Spinetta that he wouldn't have anticipated?

–No, because all the work was done as a team, and ideas kept changing. As you explore and experiment, everything shifts. Not everything always stemmed from your music. I gave El jardín de los presentas its title, but that's not really relevant; the album is a work of genius, and where the idea came from doesn't matter.

– What was it like to encounter the changes in aesthetic orientation he made, for example with the creation of Los Socios del Desierto?

–That's when a rawer, heavier rock vibe emerged. Because of all the activities I had and their characteristics, and because of those of my job, we shared a lot. We managed our time, so we hung out a lot. A lot of things came up that are reflected in the book. And we were even able to make music together, which was the first passion that united us: our love of guitars and music.

– Did you already share an interest in the aesthetics associated with rock?

–Of course! Think of the things the design collective Hipgnosis was doing: two men holding hands in a parking lot, one of them on fire, on the cover of Wish You Were Here (1975). Any greater inspiration than that? That image is incredibly powerful, and we were influenced by all those things.

–Spinetta had a divergent outlook even before then: his career began with an LP featuring a drawing of his own on the cover, something unusual for the time.

–Luis was a terrible drawer. And it's not like he was doing nothing all day. He had free time that he transformed into many other things, because he didn't just make music and rehearse it, he also drew, cooked, and wrote. So, in reality, he didn't have much free time… The number of drawings he left behind is inexplicable. Of super-dreamlike, deformed worlds, with characters that were half car, half human. He was very imaginative.

– How has your model changed over the years, with the transformations in your figure and the passage of time?

–I don't know. We did a lot of things almost casually. Maybe we were in the studio, recording with him, and it occurred to us to take a photo. There are no photos of Luis's private life in the book. Everything has to do with his work, his music, his press photos, his album covers.

– Isn’t there any reason why you didn’t take those photos or why you preferred to leave them out?

–Because he was my friend, and I wasn't up to breaking into his house to take a picture of him as if I worked for Caras . Like Jorge Fontevecchia did, when he sent a photographer to a sick person, whose days were numbered, to take a photo by force and then run away.

– Unfortunately, that photo is the last image of Spinetta.

–Well, we have Fontevecchia to thank for that. And I have nothing against Perfil : I've worked for them and I have friends at that publishing house. But it was a terrible thing.

– What was the last session you did with him?

–I'm not sure. But one of the last things we did was the music video for "Mi Element," the song included in Un Mañana (2008).

– Do you have a favorite period of his work?

–The album I like most of his was made before we even met. It's Artaud (1973). I had seen him perform at the Di Tella Institute, at the Teatro Coliseo when they premiered Muchacha (Ojos de papel), but I hadn't met him yet. And with Artaud , I think the tone of music in general changed. There were guys here who marked milestones in music. Litto Nebbia, Luis, Charly. The list goes on, but I'll name the key ones. And that was a moment of great rupture in composition, in the way of saying things.

– How do you remember the days of Las Bandas Eternas?

–I think he gave his last bit of energy there. Because it was a huge physical effort. He rehearsed with three different bands in one day. He gave it his all. It was exhausting for him, but he carried it out with great courage. Imagine the level of concern and commitment, given the number of people involved. It was a huge responsibility for an artist who wasn't that popular either; it wasn't certain he could fill a football stadium. That's how it is in this country.

– Do you think he suffered more than he enjoyed it?

–He would get pretty tense every time he performed. But I guess it happens to anyone: the responsibility of getting up on stage in front of so many people, making sure everything works the way you want it to. It's not easy. I wouldn't get up on stage; I make music at home. But don't even talk to me about the stress of getting up on stage. He would get tense at first, but then he enjoyed it as things developed well.

– If you had to choose one photo you took together, which would it be?

–They all have a memory, it's hard to choose. But I find the photo I took of him in a hotel in Santa Fe very iconic: he's carrying the hotel staff's belongings; a bucket on his head, a uniform. We took it with whatever we had on hand.