Vince

The formality of this portrait, and something about the pose of the subject, his regality, recalls to me early portrait photography from the 19th century. I think of old politicians, businessmen, that sort of thing. Let's just ignore that it's a dog with a runny nose for a moment. This was Vincent, or as we called him, Vince.

When I moved to Los Angeles, John was one of the first people I met, bonding over David Lynch and Woody Allen movies. John had an enviable artistry and talent that didn't come from education or upbringing. He'd dropped out of university, lived on the beach carving juggling sticks, followed the Grateful Dead around selling his wares, played on a professional Mexican basketball team and apprenticed with a local carpenter, amongst many other things. Most recently he learned computer graphics and then landed a job at the same company as I did around the same time. He had a talent for casual, brilliant exagerration (I take everything you say and divide it by three, someone once said to him). It didn't take long for him to climb to the top. In him I saw a true American story, Californian reinvention at its best. I didn't know anyone like that in England (and come to think of it, I still don't). He didn't drive, an anomaly in LA, and although he would take the bus to and from work, when we worked late he would ask for a ride home. I would take him to his flat on the beach in Marina Del Rey, and we would take Vince out for a walk in the dark, trying to avoid the beach cops ticketing locals for doing this very thing, as everyone flaunted the dogs-must-be-on-a-lead rule.

To recover from one of our shared film projects John took a flat in Paris for a month. When he came back it was with a new fiance. Nine inevitable months later, a baby. Within a year he had found a great job in Chicago, and with his now perfectly demographically formed family he decamped to the suburbs of Illinois. It was during a bitterly cold December visit to them in Downer's Grove, Illinois, in 2000 that I snapped this picture of Vince. I'd always loved this picture, but as with any piece of art or music, it's interesting to see how some pieces lose their appeal over time, while others seem to deepen. Improbably, it was only a few weeks ago that I noticed that his nose was running!

A couple of years ago I got a hush-hush email from John, asking if I would be a reference for a job he was going for, this time in Australia. Of course, I answered. He was offered the job, and again decamped with the family.

Vince had followed John all around North America on his various adventures, but was not destined to accompany him to Australia. His heart gave out somewhere over the Pacific. I'm wary of becoming maudlin especially with stories of faithful pet companions, yet the relationship that develops over those years is a real one. To this day John has not been able to talk to me about what happened. When I walk past the picture of Vince every day in our flat he looks back at me, his expression inscrutable. I feel as if he's trying to tell me something, but I can discern what it is. Then again, he is a dog, after all.