e-500 134mm 1/200 f/4.3 iso 640

I discovered about an hour ago that james barber died over the weekend, and I immediately dug back into the photo archives because I had the pleasure of photographing mr. barber a couple of summers ago in action. I chose today’s picture from hundreds, deciding on this one because it showed the old man’s passion with a bit of, well I think it was oregano, but it may have been sage or thyme or parsley. He was making an Italian peasant soup on stage, I got to try it after and it was fantastic, especially so since he made it in about 15 minutes, and not for a moment did he take anything seriously save his repeated sermons on how when cooking one must never take things seriously, and there was not a single ingredient or spice that was exotic. Mr. barber, may he rest in peace, took not being serious very seriously indeed.

James barber impressed me at that show, and he impressed upon me a real sense of freedom in the kitchen as well as a validity in the way I cook. And the capacity crowd was easily the most enthralled of any over folkfest, and I know what i’m describing since over ten days I shot over 30 chefs, of every type, on that same stage. He was close to a cult icon, and I spent more than a bit of his hour taking pictures of barber connecting with his fans which I later sent to each via email.

He died, if all accounts are true, sitting in a chair at the table reading a cookbook, with a pot of soup simmering on the stove. Absolutely proper to my mind, and at 84 years old, not such an unjust time.

He’d also become a bit of a dirty old man by that point, it’s worth noting that in several pictures I took of him conversing with women, the women are talking to him and he’s very obviously staring at their breasts. And some of his comments on stage were just a bit blue, but you know they were blue in a way that made sense, and they were never offensive, though on a couple of occasions they came close. An expert showman, I’d say, and maybe when I’m 82 I’ll get the same license, if when I’m in my ninth decade I care about breasts and such at all.

I think he died a happy, accomplished man, and I think that’s a wonderful thing. How he affected me, well, he validated the approach I already had towards cooking, and he’s made me even braver than before while doing it. Ogling eyes and a rare candor notwithstanding, I think he had a good life, and certainly, even in my most brief encounter, he changed mine just a little, and for the better. I love to cook, he did too, and even more. local legend dies. he lives on.