Cariou v. Prince

Filing 93

JOINT APPENDIX, Vol. 3, on behalf of Appellant Lawrence Gagosian, Gagosian Gallery, Inc. and Richard Prince, FILED. Service date 10/26/2011 by email, CM/ECF. [430299] [11-1197]--[Edited 10/27/2011 by HT]

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SURFERS
SURFIN' SANTA, RIDE THIS by Matt Warshaw

Surfers was conceived by a Frenchman and produced in New York City, and fo r a
genuine article of surf culture, it doesn't get much more strange and exotic than that. Yet
viewing the work prints for the first time , 1 briefly thought: how coma this book looks
familiar? 1 set the question aside and paged on .
And did so with some feeling of relief. These are, after all, busy times for surf world
curmud geons, and 1 shouldn't wonder at the incipient tendinitis in my right shoulder after
ail that righteous finger-pointing and hand-wringing over the tact that SOUl and CounterCulture are now registered surfing manufacturers' trademark names; that MTV has
designated surfing as an "extreme sport" along with suspension-bridge bungee jumping ;
and that Disney, Coke, Nike, and Perry Ellis (among a few hundred others) now buy, sell ,
and trade in the surf world's increasingly crowded business district.
Surfing itself-riding waves for fun , relaxation, challenge, peace of mind-is fine . It's the
presentation that seems to be in freefall. This might be proven quantifiably. 1 have a pair
of glossy \ surf magazines on the desk before me. Australia's Surfing Life, dated April
1997, has two photographs on the cover, plus 53 words (not counting the logotype),
divided into five blurbs, printed in eight different colors, using seven different fonts.
Surfer, dated June 1972, has a full bleed photo and a single-color logotype. Nothing
more. Big, clean , uncrowded images were the rule. As Surfer publ isher John Severson
would say, years later, the magazine "was trying to be an art piece." And it was. Which is
why 1 notice a droop in my vocational esprit each time 1 pull one or another surf mag
tram the mailbox these days and read coverlines such as: "WIN TOM CARROLL.:S
BOARD,""1 SURVIVED THE G-LAND TIDAL WAVE !" "SURFIN' SANTA'S HOLIDAY
GIFT ..
GUIDE," and "BIKINIS! BIKINIS! BIKINIS!"
Commercial forces have taken over. Surfin' Santa has upended his bag of SOUl and
Counter Culture TM products and shook it out tram one end of the beach to the other.
The art is gone, man. Weil, yeah , except. ..
Except soma pretty neat projects have turned up recently. Women are producing surf
videos that do net visually and aurally beat the crap out of the viewer. Surf installations
are turning up in California art museums. Surfer-writers Daniel Duane, William Finnegan,
and Thomas Farber have recently given the sport a much-needed literary retrofit. All
three promote surfing's virtues, but also ask difficult questions. Farber writes about Jack,
a 40-year-old surfer-salesman who feels as if the waves, always the abject of pursuit, are
now hunting him: "Jack wenders. At a meeting at his company, one of the managers
notices that Jack's monthly calendar is aise a tide chart, and teases him. Jack Gan read
the component of envy, of course', but still .. .is surfing enough to define-to defend-a life?"
Farber gays it is. The men and women in this book would agree. But as photographer
Patrick Cariou suggests-and his non-surfer status is helpful, maybe even necessary. in
this regard those featured here haven't earned this knowledge by way of the perfect ride,
the biggest wave , the world championship. or any of the familiar routes marked out in the
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surf media. The satisfaction cornes mostly from the smaller, daily grace notes of surfing.
And because surfing doesn't fit organically into the non-surfing world (or vice-versa), this
day-to-day process is bath difficult and satisfying.
It's a life, in other words, trying to be an art piece. Cariou honors this choice, and does so
by recovering a traditional visual style of big, clean, uncrowded images (that's what looks
so familiar), then situating himself within what might actually be called a new surfing
ideology. Elements of Surfers are connected to the past, but the book in its complete
form glides forward. As it should be with any surfing presentation.
THE SURFERS GAZE by DANIEL DUANE
Surfers don't look like other people. Their bodies-whether adolescent, statuesque, or
carnival esque-reflect the work they do, becoming mostly sets of paddling arms and
shoulders, with strong backs from arching up while prone. Likewise, the way surfers carry
themselves: aven huge men acquire a litheness that only water athletes ever Qat. aloose
nimbleness from so much dancing on a surging medium. And their faces carry traces of
what they've sean. Surfers like to watch-water, waves, weather, one another's play-go
their eyes reflect a lifetime's gazing. The world over, daily surf checks mean standing at a
particular piaf or breakwater or dune-or aven just in the room with the best window-and
staring out to sea: judging the waves, certainly, but aise looking into the inhuman vast for
something that might make the fast worthwhile. Thus, perhaps, the cairn, thousand-yard
stares of ail the sunburnt men in these portraits, men who've looked to sea for so long,
they seem still to be looking there, aven as their eyes turn inland.
Much of this cairn, no doubt, comas from surfing's unique joys. On the water, more time
passes in the waiting for waves than in the riding of them. Hours go by with surfers
immersed but not surfing, ffoating rather th an flying, and just drifting, talking. You get
attached to this-to walking or driving down to the beach, crossing the sand, and forgetting
commitments for an heur or two. Splashing around in the cool brine, breathing its fish and
seaweed smells, letting the salt wash off the day. Yeu get to itch for a IiUle daily time in
which the shore and ail its busy human con cems fall away, time in which the mare
possibility of a wave keeps your eyes fixed on a wild, silent space where you'll never see
anything but the products of storm and sea and sky. Even when someone finally catches
a wave, and you're floating nearby, you watch him carve a small wall under so much
space that the world seems, jf only for a moment, big enough for ail of us; the surfer's
arcing motions-and gO, by extension, ail human endeavor-seem sm ail undulations in a
world consumed by unimaginably larger cnes.
In the same way a rancher's evening ride on his Wyoming pasture has, no doubt, far
more purpose th an merely the bringing in of wayward sheep, so too the long horizons of
a liquid prairie bring a lot of peace to a life-a moment in every day when the walls of our
rives fall away. Throw in the wild, mindless play of the surfing itself, the summum bonum
of the dream, and it's ail more than enough non-linguistic data to distract your anxious
mind and bring your pulse and blood pressure back to normal-to keep your body fit and
mind more or less clear. You feel it long afterwards, too, as your equilibrium eases out of
the rise and fall of water, ebbs and flows for hours after-at home or at work or in bed, a
gentle surge and release.
Surfing is play, a source of joy like few people know, a bracing means to recurring,
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startling physical experience-even a kind of fountain of youth. So, perhaps, the passion in
many of these portraits. 1 once noticed a very beautiful woman-maybe twenty-five years
old, with reddish brown hair-walk past a group of male surfers. The surfers (1 was one of
them) were watching a dean, powerful set of waves peel off. 1 glanced over just in time
to catch a wry smile floating across her lips. She smiled, 1 imagine, in amusement at her
anonymity, at the speechless rapture of ail us boys, much like the distracted body
language of Cariou's subjects entranced by Uluwatu, Pipeline, or San Onofre: gazing at
their primary object of desire, they've become oblivious to themselves and their
companions.
This passion for wave and sport transforms the surfboard into a totem, from Laird
Hamilton's giant spear-like paddle board to the shortboards so similar across the globe,
rendering surfing a kind of warrior culture, and surfers the tribesmen flaunting their
mastery of the tribe's most lethal weapon. Notice the warrior poses in this collection:
innocent boy fighters on Hawaii's famed North Shore; a Tahitian kid's delight in holding
just half of a broken board; Laird Hamilton staged as the noble white savage in the palm
fronds in one scene and carving a longboard cut-back with the stylized lines of a Greek
sculpture in another. Witness Christophe Reinhardt, in France, sitting like the bull prince
with limbs thick and heavy, gaze surly, posing on a reed throne beneath big boards in a
scene reminiscent of Huey Newton under the crossed spears of the original Black
Panther propaganda picture.
If there's an independence and strength gained from locating one's primary object of
desire in the vicissitudes of ocean waves, there is also a jilted melancholy. Every life has
costs commensurate to its gains, things given up long before we knew we had them. For
starters, surfing is awfully hard to do. It requires months of floundering just to be
functional in the water, th en years to achieve any kind of competence. True mastery is
simply not available to those who don't start young.
And the conditioning-the tremendous paddling strength and lung capacity requireddemand constant maintenance. Acquiring the skill, therefore, will have cost net only a
great deal of energy,but everything you could've gained by using that energy elsewhere.
Perhaps more costly is the fact that rideable surf requires a truly rare combination of
underwater topography, offshore depths, distant storm patterns, and prevailing winds. It
only happens on patches of lucky land here and there-by no means ail the world's
coastlines. Which means that from Brazil to California, France to Moorea, surfers' lives go
down on stretches of coast chosen net for hotels, sunshine, or great nightlife, but for
purely physiographic factors. Not only are Chicago, Paris, London, Rome, Moscow, Hong
Kong, and Tokyo obviously out of the question, but the fickleness of surf means one has
to live in Montauk rather than Manhattan (one helluva commute), or San Francisco rather
than Montauk (no Wall Street), or even Santa Cruz, or North San Diego County or
Haleiwa. Places chosen first for their surf and last for the vitality of local job markets.
There are, of course, wonderful sides to surf towns. Like ski towns, jogging camps, and
university campuses, they take on the character bath of the desire invested in them and
the sacrifices made to live in them. Yeu feel the absence of things its denizens have
forsworn (good museums, bustling industry and commerce), and the others they
celebrate as trade-offs (great health, low stress). Cari ou captures the flat essence of
such places: the tawdry simplicity of a bullshit session at the funky Sunset Beach Store;
of a local on a concrete seawall in Peru (beside an umbrella advertising "Inca Kola"); the
cid functionalist housing prajects of Rio de Janeiro's surf ghettos; a meticulously restored
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cid surf car below a California bluff. At the Morra Bay power plant, a man walks away
from the parking lot and across the dunes, leaving industrial culture for a moment in the
wild. On Easter Island, it's the post-colonial incongruity of a chipped and faded cid saint
watching benevolently as someone trims a peeler before a cruise ship at anchor-surf at
the mar gins between worlds. These are places deeply loved by those who want what
they have, but quite forgettable to everyone else-places to visit, but net to settle. And jf
yeu grow up in one of these places-or move to them for waves-surfing may be the reason
yeu never leave, why you don't go off to a distant college or take a promotion requiring
relocation to a big city. Surfing might loom, then, as the one great drama of your life, the
one for which others were passed by.
More costly still: even in surf-blessed regions, good surf only happens when it happens;
distant storms and local conditions have to match up just right with local tides. Whole
months can pass in the heart of the surf season without a single good afternoon. Then,
unannounced, 9:30 AM to noon of a four-day stretch might turn out to be the year's only
Great run of classic conditions.
If you missed it, you missed the whole thing. The whole sport. Which means, in addition
to Great cities being off-limits, a surfer must also forgot the rewards of fixed hours, rigid
appointments, long work weeks-things that ail happen to be universal trade-offs for
membership in advanced industrial economies. Creative exceptions to the rule-doctors,
and other traditional professionals fight hard for the kind of flexibility surfing demands. But
you can be sure there are no truly committed surfers on the board at Goldman Sachs, or
even among the partners of the biggest L.A. law firms. They don't have the freedom to
reschedule their days based on the caprices of weather and water.
Ali of this rearranging of a life-around locale, free time, physical commitment-means that
even as the surfer indulges a hunger for freedom and for water time, he or she holds at
bay many of our culture's communal hungers. Our ritualized material aspirations have to
be ignored, or at least resisted in order to justify the decision net to pursue them; and for
that, our culture always makes you pay. No wonder, then, the fierce pride and
defensiveness born of giving your best years and your best energies to something
everybody's heard of and nobody understands, something that never gets you promoted
or married or anything else. Also no wonder, finally, the brooding wariness of Cariou's
subjects. No problem when the subject looks towards some distant object-when he can
gaze off like the ancient mariner-but when he must turn his eyes into the lens, a suspicion
appears. Just as Cariou captures the youthful delight and pride in his subjects' eyes, he
dwells also on the brooding inwardness awaiting these boys, the hunted and hungry
visages of eider men who've stayed put, chased a single passion, given up many things,
and claimed others without apology. And with that comes a worry-so deftly captured by
Cariou-that the subject's essence can be taken for the wrong reason, that a life with no
more nor legs net joy than your own is being seen as a type, a caricature. Cariou's North
Shore portrait of Buttons Kaluhiokalani is emblematic: Don't look at me that way. Don't rip
me off. Don't think you know what I'm about.

"... [Surfing is] the tierce pride and defensiveness barn of giving your best years and your
best energies to something everybody's heard of and nobody understands ... " -Daniel
Duane
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Photographer Patrick Cariou has traveled the globe, from the North Shore to Peru, from
Tahiti to Brittany, tram Long Island to Easter Island, searching out net only the world's
great living surfers and legends, but also the dedicated, unsung wave riders living on and
surfing distant shores and out-of-the-way breaks the world over.
In Surfers, his first book, Cariou nails it-with expert aid in the form of writer and surfer
Dan Duane and surf writer gadfly Matt Warsaw-distilling the inimitable surfers' drive, will,
and lifelong devotion to the sport, the tribe, and the way of life.
Surfers approaches the world of the wave with rare form: altemately stark and sinewy,
lush and haunting, Cariou's intimate duotone portraits feature the famed (Laird
Hamilton, Buffalo Keaulana, Sunny Garcia, Rabbit Kekai, Jack O'Neill, Greg Noll,
Joel Tudor, Brock Little, and Buttons Kaluhiokalani among others), and the plebian
(locals of every size and color, tram Uluwatu and Sunset Beach to Biarritz and Puerto
Escondido), and captures with unmatched and understated flair the sun, salt, and waveand what Duane aefines in his cool, detached essayas 'The Surfer's Gaze"-dissolving
legend and local alike into one poly-pigmented, wave drenched, and steely-eyed visage
of dedication and quiet, profound passion.
Mix in Cariou's surreal color seascapes and find yourself in a surfer's daydream (or in
Matt's Irrepressible intro "Surfin' Santa Ride This"), rich in colors of ocean mist and
coastaHight, anticipating, in filmic fashion, that climactic breaking doubleoverhead on your
elephant gun stashed away for far tao long; tao long for this job, for this life.
Evocatively designed by award-winning art director Sam Shahid, Surfers is a luxurious
and unique addition to the weil tread topography of longboard homages, and while
keeping with the tradition of classic art photography publishing, an authentic insider's look
into the surfer's zeitgeist.
Patrick Cariou, born in Brittany, France, is a former profession al volleyball player and is
currently a fashion photographer whose work appears regularly in leading fashion and
general interest magazines, including Marie Claire, GQ, Conde Nast Traveler and Conde
Nast Sports, Vogue Hommes International as weif as Australian Elle and French Elle.
Cariou lives and works in New York City.
Daniel Duane is the author of Caught Inside: A Surfer's Year on the California Coast and
Lighting Out: A Vision ofcCalifornia and the Mountains. He frequently writes for Surfer
Magazine and The Surfer's Journal, and his work has appeared in The New York Times
Magazine, the San Francisco Examiner, and the Los Angeles Times Magazine.
Matt Warshaw is the former managing editor of Surfer Magazine and regularly
contributes to The Surfer's Journal and Surfer Magazine. Warshaw has aise published
articles in the Los Angeles Times, the Los Angeles Times Magazine, Interview, Outside,
The Wall Street Journal, and the San Francisco Chronicle.
Sam Shahid is the former Creative Director for Calvin Klein advertising and has
designed photography books for Bruce Weber, Herb Ritts, Kelly Klein, Bert Stern, and
Ellen von Unwerth, among others. Sam is currently the Creative Director and President
of Shahid & Company, New York.

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pAGE
SPREADS

ESSAY BY DANIEL DUANE INTRODUCTION BY
MATT WARSHA W
PATRICK CARlOU

ORDER NOW

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HIGH UP in the mOlmtains and the forests resides the conscience of the world, bearded men
close to God, living offwhat God provides, praying. meditating, often thinking about what it's like
do\vn there, in Babylon.

The Babylon system, in which NOTHING is free.
In the 1940s, in the hills just north of Spanish T OW11 in S1. Catherine, Jamaica, a man named
Leonard Howell ran a community called Pinnacle, where he founded the Rastafarian movement.
On the one hand Howell was a travelled man of111e world, a business man with an office in
Kingston; on the other hand he provided a place where Rastas could live and work in peace.
In those days no Rasta could board a bus or enter a shop. Most people reacted to the presence of
a Rasta in their midst with the apprehension they might feel towards a ragged beggar. Or worse: a
ragged beggar who was also a lunatic.
A Rasta friend once described his astonishment at meeting a post MaJ.·ley lacksman and realizing
for the first time that locks could be a style, one that didn't invite rejection. The old man found this
so hard to believe because he had experienced nothing but scorn tram everyone but another Rasta
his whole life.
For the most pati Rastas from Pinnacle didn't wander far from home in those days. but those
who did felt like John the Baptist in Galilee: so wild looking were they, covered in dust from the
unpa\ed roads, that children would run from the sight of them. They pr~jected the humility of the
social outcast but bore the high stride of a visionary on the move. till they got back to the refuge
that LeonaJ.·d Howell had created at Pinnacle, where there was water f()r wa.<;hing, natural food to
eat, herb to smoke, and meditation to share.

The prime effect of ganga is to loosen the conditioning of the mind, aJ.ld as the citizens of
Pinnacle sat and reasoned together, they hmled the many doctrines of the day upside dovvn, ideas
accepted as gospel. Far tram accepting white supremacy in the days oftlle British Empire, the
Rastus not only refused to acknowledge the English king, they identified an African king whom
they began to worship, and whom they predicted would halt the advance of Europe into Ali'ica, a
prophecy which came true. Ras Tafari Makonnen, crowned Emperor Haile Selassiel, was revered
as the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, King of Kings, and could claim direct decent tram
David and Salomon, Kings of the chosen people.
But while the Rasta might be able to quote chapter and verse to justityhis beliefs, any young
British civil servant, had they served in India. would have confirmed that the Rastafarians in
Jamaica in the late forties an'd throughout the tifties were treated much more like untouchables
thaJ.l like Sahdus. Pinnacle was raided and destroyed, Howell was sent to the lunatic asylum, and
the scat1ered RaSia brethren went to live in a slum called Dungle along the waterfront on the
out..,kirts of Kingston. Here too they were bulldozed out of their shacks to become "wolves in
sheep's clothing" or "rcnt-a-dreads" at sunsplash concerts on the beach at NegriL But many
became ski lied craftsmen, artists, singers, and musicians. Some became businessmen, and some
preachers, even religious fanatics. But these are net the Rasta that Patrick Cariou sought out with
his camera. He searched for and fOlmd the brethren who left Pinnacle and headed for the hills.
In the mountains of Jamaica their descendants still live, close to nature and what nature
provides, reflecting on how happy they are to be living a lile in lion, where almost everything is
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ii-ce, the air is pure, the earth is rich, rainfall is abundant, and where one can build a bamboo home
big enough to house the largest family. Here is where they can grow the best food and ganga in the
world, and meditate in the way good herb often brings, thinking about what ifs like Jiving in
Babylon. where nothing is free or lllipolluted.

As a Rasta farmer says."\Vhen you consider that when God give you a seed it \vill produce a
iliollsand more seeds if you cafe for it, but when Babylon sell you a seed you still need chemicals
to grow it-drug addiction 1 And now they bring seed that give you back no seed at ail! Not even
one much legs a thousand!"
One of the several conceptions that Rasta established decades ago, before it became widespread,
was the idea of italliving as living the natural life. Rastafarians knew instinctively that pesticides
were poison, that fertilizer inducing false growth was lUmaturaL and that to place oneself at the
mercy of synthetics without control of the source of supply was dangerous. They also knew ilial
herbs and medicines extracted from roots and plants could cure more than the body: they could
sustain a physical and spiritual strength unknown to those addicted to mass-produced food. Long
before the ecological movement and the "Greens" took up the cry, Rasta \-vas preaching the ital
way of life as an article of faith, and invented a vocabulary to
express it.

Opposed to the ita! way of living and the concept of lion is Rasta's concept of Babylon.
Babylon was where mankind first stopped roving and buHt a city. Babylon, benvccn the two rivers
on the plain, was where man first accumulated more th,m he could earlY. Babylon was where
owning more than you could move led to such a piling up of treasures for the rich, such a display
of wealth and force to protect it, that mankind began to drift away from dependence on God to a
denendence on the material items that Babylon had to offer.
Babylon doesn't produce anything natural; it only uses up what's there, and as it reaches further
and further into the natural world, more and more of those who used to live in lion start to starve.
So where do they go? They go into Babylon as refugees, to a life they ncver planned fOT, to a lite
they don't understand, swelling Babylon, making it more desperate and greedier than ever.
Nuclear threat, industrial pollution... it's obvious to Rasta the highest authority is guilty of the
greatest crime, that for the most part rulers are a criminal class, and-needless to say-the ruling
class regard those with a meditating mind as due for some serious discipline.
Babylon is not just a ward to Rasta.
Babylon is not merely an idea, ~m abstraction tor Rasta.
For Rasta, Babylon is a brutal reality.
When Patrick Cariou got a taste of it he was flung into a tiny cell packed with humanity but with
no windows, with nothing to sit on or lie on except a floor caked with the accumulated tilth of
many years, with nowhere to relieve himself except in an open communal can, with only very little
revolting food to sustain hi m, pushed through a small slit in an otherwise solid iron door: one of
countless millions around the world held for doing nothing at ail to cause ham1, living tor a few
days what many others have to live ail their lives.
Most of those heads bowed in captivity are not bowed in shame, but in thought.
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Tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands and millions ail over the world, their bodies in
chains, their heads bent in captivity tlx having the revelation that the religious fimatlcs and the
political fanatics and the dass fanatics and the color fanatics are telling them they mLlst give over
their freedom to fulfill some ridiculous fantasy of maniacal devising.
The flmction of Babylon comes from the conditioning of minds crippled with dogma. The ones
who will lock you up for a beer in Tehran, and put you in a chain gang in Alabama for smoking a
splitT. The ones who'll arrest you in China for thinking your own thoughts, in Cuba for expressing
them. Communists, Fascists, Monopoly Capitalists.
For Rasta, the keeping alive of ganga in the wodd, known to them as herb, is a holy mission.
What else has helped as much as the spirit of herb to bring together people all over the world,
lmited in an experience and state of mind which encourages mankind to see and name and
confront evil? What else has enabled countless millions to ±loat over the divisions that divide
mankind. leaving behind the prejudice that has kept them penned up in their own little corners?
Vinat else has urged so many to think and act in the spirit of one consciousness?
We have one world trade and one world communication systems, but what we really need is one
world justice system; it Call be either a simple design worthy of wliversal respect or a monster of
debate and petty legalism. De minimus non curat tex.
If you CtUl be put in jail for ganga anyw;here in the world, why not two hundred lashes for
adultery, or ten years in the penitentiary for meditation 7 If one world justice system strengthens
petty law instead of universal freedom, the next century will be a long descent back into an
electronic. dark age, like the history we've just emerged tram, when rulers ruled through their
minions and everybody else was a slave to their whim and fancy, held in the grip of one dogma or
another for as long as anybody can remember.

World justice must not crush the imlocent, alld in places like Jamaica today there is a vast threat
to illiterate intelligence. It was understood for thousands of years that intelligence gained firsthand

from experience was at least as valuable as knowledge learned second hand from books. When
one considers that much of the progress of mankind over the ages was made by people who
couldn't read and write, it is outrageous that dozens of petty bureaucracies would cause a man or a
woman to lose their livelihood from the inability to fill out a form. Not ail the Rastas are illiterate,
by any means, but it is not disputed by mallY that illiterate intelligence is the most profound, as it
is leamed tram organic experience.
There has been no gro\>,,1;h in the economy of Jamaica for the past 25 years. The effect has been
one of increasing desperation, violence, and division for the ambitious. TIle result has been that the
a.ssumptions of the middle class have been shattered while the strengths of the simple Rastafarian
life have become more evident with each passing year.
Most people cower and wilt under the assault of the Babylonian forces of the whole world, but
the Rastas in Jamaica stand tall and preach repentance to the self-righteous.
I remember as a child of eight riding my horse to a building site where Rastas from Pinnacle
were working to build a house. and meeting ""lth maybe 20 of the two hundred or so Rastas in the
world. TIley made sandals out of old tires, and they looked as though they were straight out of the
Old Testanlent. They talked to me about the bible because in those days 1 loved bible stories, and
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the Rastas knew their stories towards and backwards. They looked terocious. but in fact were very
tricndly to the little white boy on a horse.

I have lived to see Rasta spread around the globe. Rasta music, Rasta hairstyle, Rasta food,
Rasta religion, Rasta flags, colors, and concerts. Rasta satellite broadcasts. Rasta as a world..vide
movement. I've seen all of the above spread from Jamaica to the other islands of the West Indies,
to England, to North America, to Japan, to France, Germany, Italy, West Africa, Southern Africa,
Brazil. Rasta is nmv all over the whole world.
The amazing thing is how fast it happened, how easily it happened. How it has caused a
revolution in the popular consciousness without shedding a drap of blood for ideology.

Bob Marley held a concert outside oLParis-one of the most ancient capitals of one of the world's
strongest religions-and he pulled more people together to hear him sing hjs "Songs of
Redemption" than assembled for the Pope two days later.

\\IllY did it happen?
Because Rasta doesn't represent just Rasta; Ra'>ta is a banner for a spirit worldwide.
The spirit offi'cedom, the spirit of pride, whether you're rich or poor. The spirit of relaxation.
The spirit of speculation. The belief of unification.
The spiritual home for this is still rooted in the mountains of Jamaica in these strong simple
people.
Yes Rasta

One Love
PERRY HENZELL
PAGE
SPREADS

YES RASTA ONE LOVE BY PERRY HENZEL

ORDER NOW

PATRICK CARIOU

GGP0043126

http://www.patrickcariou.comlrastas_text.htm

1/11/2010

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Condensed Transcript
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORK
PATRICK CARIOU,
Plaintiff,
vs.

Index No.: 08 CIV 11327
(DAB)

RICHARD PRINCE, GAGOSIAN
GALLERY, INC., LAWRENCE
GAGOSIAN, and RIZZOLI
INTERNATlONAL PUBLICATlONS,
INC.,
Defendants.

DEPOSITION OF
CHRISTIANE CELLE

Tuesday, January 26,2010
10:00 a.m.
Scbnader Harrison Segal & Lewis LLP
) 40 Broadway, Suite 3100
New York, New York 10005-1101

Reported by:
Bryan Nilsen, RPR

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A-716

Case 1:08-cv-11327 -DAB Document 48-28
Christiane CelIe

Filed 05/14/10 Page 2 of 20
January 26, 2010

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Celie
New York and the prints were in New York.
So I told him that I was seriously
interested. We had a conversation. He was
there actually a few days. We talk about
photography. He told me that he had been
collecting books about photography for years.
We talked about his favonle
photographer, that it was Mary Ellen Mark. a
wonderful woman. And he was here for a short
time, but he said, wen, if you go to Paris can
me, you know.
So later on I went to Paris
actually, not for him, for personal reason. And
we also had another - I call him again, I say
I'm very interested, I'd love to do the show.
So we also had coffee in the morning
at Cafe del Esplanade.
This is in Paris?
A. Yes. That's where I /ive in Paris.
O. Do you recall when that was?
A. I knew it was for sure after
September-october. I don't - I mean if you
need to know I can look maybe in my agenda.
But it was shortly after his visit.

o.

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Celie
Rasta in the portrait of-people.
And then I remember there was some
landscape. but there was a lot of marijuana
everywhere, so J remember I have two teenagers
so I was like maybe I have to be easy on that.
But. you know, I really like the
project and, you know, I show him a few things
that I like in the book. But nothing was like
settled and we didn't choose the photo that day,
you know.
Q. And you also looked at the Surfer
book at the same time?
A. We did.
O. And did you talk about putting
certain of the Surfer prints in the show?
A. Yes, the Surfer actually I ask him
and he told me that will be easy because he had
some copies also in New York. Jwas trying to
see when can I get them but, you know. he was what I remember also is at the time - I think
the reason also he was in New York, he was
preoccupied because he had done a project about
gypsy work and he was trying to find somebody to
help him to edit the gypsy work to tum it into

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Celie
I had to do a trip in France, so I took
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advantage to meet him. And we talk again. and I
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was trying to pressure him to have an agreement
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and say yes, because I was reaDy planning for a
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show in April probably. my opening of the
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gallery, because with construction I knew it
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would take at least six months.
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So I would have loved to have maybe
a commitment or something.
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So go back for a moment to the lunch
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meeting, was there a discussion there about any
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financial terms?
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A. Oh, yes. Yes.
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Q. What was ttuit discussion?
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A. The discussion was I was telling him
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usually the photographer give me all the prints,
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I don't pay for the prints, that's their
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responsibility, but I do all the framing, and
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then we split 50 percent each.
O. Did you discuss what photographs
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would be in the show?
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A. We had a copy of the book. Jhad a
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copy of both books actuany. We went through
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some of them. I was very interested in for the

o.

Celie
a book.
Q. Prior to the time you had your
first contact with Mr. Cariou had you seen the
Yes Rasta book?
A. I've seen the Rasta book, yes.
Q. Before then?
A. Before that, yeah.
O. So is there anything else at the
lunch conversation that you haven't told us
about that you and Mr. Cariou discussed?
A. No. Basically I was, you know. the
gallery trying to, you know. pursue the artist
to do a show. And he was interested. He wanted
to do a show. So it was a matter of. you know.
when I will be ready. when he will be ready.
And, you know, he was interested~
Q. Did you discuss with him doing a
solo show or a group show. or how did thatA. n was a solo show. And we were'
planning April or May If the gallery will be
ready.

O. Of2OO91·
A. 2009.
Q.

And did you discuss how long the

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Case 1 :08-cv-11327 -DAB Document 48-2i3

Filed 05/14/10 Page 3 of 20

Christiane Celle

January 26, 2010

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show would last?
A. I don't remember If we discussed
that But usually H's a month or six weeks
that I know.
Q. And the proposal to make it a sofo
show, was that your proposal or his?
A. It was my proposal.
Q. And why did you propose that?
A. Because 1thought the material was
very strong in the book. I thought about also
the timing, you know, like this is a subject
that you think about people going out, and H's
not a winter show, it's like surfing. it's a
summer show.
And I usually do sofo show most of
the time. And because, as I said, I really
loved the material in the book, I thought. you
know, it was worthy. And also because of the
subject, I knew I had a lot of people in the
entertainment business that wJ1l be very
attracted to that.
Q. And the Surfer photographs you
talked about doing, were they portrait-type
photographs as well?

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Christmas because I was telling him that the
time was running, and after Christmas I felt
like, wow, Christmas, you know, everybody -nobody don't do anything.
So I wanted to pressure him to try
to come before the end of the year so to give me
really the material and we could pick together
the show.
Because I didn't know if he had
everything printed, we might have to print extra
thing, and then you need the framing. So, you
know. irs time consuming.
You know. I wanted him to commit.
And he told me that he will probably come back
in November.
Q. Come back in November of '08?
A. Of 2008. November-December he will
corne back.
Q. And did he
back in November
of2008?

come

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Celie
Yes, portrait of surfers. I mean
beautiful image of like some of them - one is
Joel Trudeau, as a young surfer, who Is now like
in his 305. but he had photographed him in
probably 2000. So it was a very, you know, it
was a long, long project.
Q. So the idea was to do a show of
portraits by Pabick Cariou?
A. It was - the Surfer I couldn't do
portraits only because he had a lot of beautiful
photos of the surfer in the wave, so it was
mixed.
Q. And then back to, if I could, the
meeting in Paris -- which I understand was the
next meeting after the lunch meeting in
New York?
A. Yes.
Q. What was discussed there?
A. What was discussed there was that he
wm try to come before the end of the year in
New York to get all the prints together.
Q. Before the end of 2008? '
A, Yes.
Q. Okay, go ahead.

A

No.

When did he next come back or when
·did you next have contact with him?
Q.

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I saw Patrick actually recently
I think because he came to do his deposition
he told me.
Q. From the time that you had this
meeting in Paris - which was sometime in the
faD of 2008, correct?
A. Yes.

A.

Q. When did you next speak to him?
A. When I next saw him after thatrm trying to -- I think I saw him once.
Yeah, I think he came in New York.yeah. he came in New York because of this
situation we are here today.
Q. Because of the lawsuit?
A Yes.
In the summer maybe. I can't
remember.
Q. Summer of '09. 2oo9?
A. I can't remember. He came In 2009.
I know he came to the gallery because he saw my
show. but I can't remember what time exactly it
was. I think it was in the spring. I think the
gallery was open.
Q. The gallery was open in the spring

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