Desperado days: Doing the “Lee Van Cleef Leer.” From left, great still-photographer Chuck Kuhn, Lee Van Cleef, me (and my bad yaser Arafat ’stache & beard) and Clark Griffin. Photo from Rick’s new book, How to Sell a Chicken.
By Rick Stanton
I’m sad. On the afternoon of July 19, 2020, my friend Chuck Kuhn passed away at the age of 75.
Aside from having the pleasure and honor of working with him over the years, Chuck was a fellow Bainbridger.
I can’t remember how many times we either rode into Seattle or back to the Island and would spend the 35 minutes complaining about how screwed up the advertising business had become.
Between the bean counters who don’t give a rat’s ass about creative excellence and the 20-somethings who think they know everything but don’t know anything, I’m pretty sure we ramped each other’s blood pressure up to dangerous levels.
We began referring to ourselves as “The Get Off Our Lawn Gang.”
We’d often stop at the wine department at Town & Country Market, exchanging thoughts on what to drink with duck or burgers, while talking about our favorite restaurants.
He loved Le Pichet on 1st Avenue in Seattle.
Chuck’s legacy as one of the great photographers—not only here, but nationally—is well documented.
But I was one of the fortunate ones who got to see and understand what a smart, gutsy, soulful (and at times a little crazy, in a good way) guy he was.
Many of us of a certain age agree that John Brown’s famous tagline for Nike, ‘“There is no finish line,” was great advertising, but we also realize that there is—in fact—a finish line.
My advice, especially in these screwed up times, is to be kind. Care about others. Wear a mask.
And call someone you haven’t talked with in a while and tell them you were thinking of them.
I’m thinking of Chuck. I’m so grateful I knew him.
And I’m sad.
Stanton On . . . Baseball
As the sports world has pretty much dried up, I’ve been watching the MLB Network, which features games and scenarios I’ve long forgotten or never saw.
So, in an odd way, it’s been like watching real-time stuff. This has been—and is— important to me.
Baseball has given me more gifts in life than anything else.
It taught me the importance of outworking others. It taught me how to be a gracious winner and an even more gracious loser.
At the age of seven, I was the starting catcher on my Little League team, composed of kids who all were older.
I was the only one unafraid of the ball, so that means you’re a catcher. It also meant you had to fight sometimes for respect.
Older guys were always a test. “You don’t belong here. You aren’t good enough. You’re too small.”
Au contraire, baseball allows kids to play who aren’t physical goons. You can be 5’6” and 160 pounds and get into the Hall of Fame if you’re good at your job. Phil Rizzuto comes to mind.
I remember playing third base in the Babe Ruth League in Longview. This was for boys 13 to 15.
Our pitcher gave up about a kajillion runs in the first inning and, as the team’s manager walked out to the mound, he pointed at me to join the conversation.
I remember this like it was yesterday.
He said, “Stanton, you’ve got a great arm. I want you to pitch until we can get someone loose. And don’t get cute, just throw hard, no curves, just throw hard.”
So, of course, when the catcher put down one finger for a fast ball, I shook him off.
I then proceeded to throw a lame, 56-foot curveball that bounced behind the plate and came straight up, hitting said catcher behind his cup.
They carried him off the field in a fetal position.
However it did allow time for someone who actually could pitch to get loose.
I played in high school, college and on some seriously good fast- and slo-pitch softball teams until I was 48.
I told my last team that I was throwing as hard as ever, it just wasn’t getting there as fast. And every joint in my body hurt, so there was that, too.
My point?
I miss never having seen the Seattle Mariners in a World Series.
I miss Jack Riley, my coach at Lower Columbia College. Best coach EVER!
I miss baseball:
But I’ve found a cure for what I hold so dear.
It’s called The Sounds of Baseball on the MLB Channel.
It features great announcers like Vin Scully. I’ve attached a link to his call of one of the all-time greatest baseball moments. Great announcers, like Mr.Scully, know when to shut up.
In watching these replays, my big takeaway has been how much their style added to the experience of listening to a ball game on radio or TV—unlike our local gameday voices, who seem to feel the need to never stop talking.
My advice to our local team voices is to listen to the link below and learn when to shut the hell up once in a while.
Respect the game and the moment.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4nwMDZYXTI
There’s a party going on somewhere above the clouds. Larry Hudson is in charge of food, so there’s plenty. Fred Hilliard is sitting in the corner, nursing an Oly. Mike van Ackeren and Pat O’Day are holding court, while Hal Newsom commands attention, without saying a word.
When Chuck Kuhn enters they stop and greet him collegially, then get back to telling old stories and talking about how screwed up the ad business has become. Thanks guys, from those of us who were part of Seattle advertising in the ’70s and ’80s. It was a special time.
With the passing of Chuck Kuhn, Seattle has lost one of its pioneering photographers from the golden age of advertising.
I had the pleasure to apprentice under Chuck for 7 years in the late 70’s to the early 80’s. Yep, I’m an old-timer! In those days, Chuck was “THE” advertising photographer in Seattle.
His work ran the gamut from studio to location. He shot product, fashion, editorial, and corporate. He had a knack for large location productions, which later led him into film directing work.
Back in the day, he worked for every ad agency in town, in addition to contributing to countless campaigns for some of the largest national ad agencies. As Rick mentioned, Nike being the most well known, he was “The Man behind the Jumpman”. https://www.sneakerfreaker.com/features/the-man-behind-the-jumpman-chuck-kuhn-interview
Effortlessly, he was able to tap into many markets and his promotional efforts helped garner national attention to the Northwest advertising community.
Indirectly, he helped every other photographer, art director, and ad agency in this area!
He just had this uncanny ability for bringing this Community together. The legendary parties he hosted in his Pioneer Square studio were the precursor to the annual “Block Parties” that came a decade later!
I remember a period, where every month he would randomly invite a dozen creatives from around Seattle (AD’s, CD’s, account people) to a catered dinner party at his Leschi home. Mind you, back in those days, there was very little networking between competing agency’s and many of these creative minds had never met one other. I was fortunate to witness a few of these cause I was the designated bartender. It was sheer brilliancy, to watch how he would introduce all of these talented people to each other, and also have a great time doing it!
Outside of his photography business, he had a zest for life. He loved getting out on the water as an avid boater and fisherman. I can still hear his yell, “Fish On!”
Many may not know, but he was also a very talented painter. When he retired from shooting, he turned his Bainbridge Isl office into an art studio and was prolifically pumping out oils, acrylics and watercolors. The creativity never stopped in him.
I miss you, Chuck
Let’er Buck!
Dale DeGabriele
PS: If ever there should be a “Marketing Immortal” for “Photography”, I would hope that Chuck Kuhn be included for his contributions to our community.
Please thank Rick Stanton for his thoughts on Chuck Kuhn. I was his Business Manger for many years, and his studio mates (+ many others) have kept in contact because of and through the relationships he fostered. Tight.
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