As Krantz himself would no doubt tell you - this is a true story.Krantz was from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. His family are descendants of 19th century Jewish immigrants. His father fought the Japs in World War 2 and survived to tell the tale - he believed that the H bombs were just retribution for their deeds. Krantz wasn’t so sure. He reckoned the civilians in those cities didn’t need to suffer for the sins of their masters.
I guess he was always known just as Krantz. Even Sandrine called him that. Of course I know his first name, but I’m not going to reveal it here. What’s the point?
The Krantz family lived in an old apartment block on the Lower East Side, a real melting pot. There were many other Jewish families, such as the Kellermans, who were neighbours. His mother had warned him that there was something odd about them. Despite this, Krantz became good friends with Daniel, until fate intervened.
Krantz was the youngest in the family, with two elder sisters. They were born in quick succession, in the period just after the war, the boom years. America was prosperous, and everything seemed to be going just fine. The 60’s began with a mood of optimism, with man in space.
When Krantz was fifteen he came home to find his mother sobbing. The president had been assassinated, and things would never be the same. Then the war in the Far East started, and Krantz started to feel politically motivated. The Beatles arrived, and Bob Dylan was in Greenwich Village. As Dylan stated, the times were changing. By now Krantz had taken up the vocation that would be his occupation, that of photography.
At sixteen his feelings for the Kellerman’s daughter, Esther, began to grow stronger. His mother warned him about getting involved, but love, as we all know, is blind. Soon it was the summer of love, and Krantz decided it was time to see America. He and Esther set off in an old Pontiac headed for the West Coast. Esther stayed out there and ended up in Hollywood.
By 1968 the war in Vietnam was going badly, and the military decided they would extend the draft to students. Danny Kellerman was one of those selected. For Krantz this was almost the final straw. He foresaw the end of the American Dream. In April Martin Luther King was assassinated and Krantz decided enough was enough. By the end of the month he had found a job on a ship headed for Europe.
In May he found himself on the streets of Paris. He was in the right place, at the right time. As a freelance, he followed the demos everywhere, and got many of the best shots. Soon his photography was appearing in Time, Le Figaro, and the Herald Tribune.
There was plenty of violence at this time, with police charging the students, and so on. But what Krantz recalled years later were the fervent political discussions in the cafes of St Germain. It was during one of these exchanges that Krantz found himself drawn to a radical female student from the University of Paris. She in turn was fascinated by the American photographer, and they formed a close bond.
The rest, as they say, is history.
I’ve never even been to America, and I don’t feel any close links. Krantz died when I was thirteen, and I’ve never met any of my American relatives. Maybe one day I ought to go to New York and track them down. Through my friend Helene I know a guy who lives in Manhattan, who has extended an invitation. His name in Saul and he works in film production, so he’s often on location elsewhere. But maybe we could do that sometime.
Krantz was an excellent driver. He once drove his beloved Citroen DS from Paris to Athens and back. So don't tell me the accident was his fault. My own theory is that he got too close to an expose of some important people. In all the years since, I’ve felt Sandrine’s presence many times. But Krantz has never contacted me. I wonder why?
