It must have been back in 1999 when good fortune caught me staying at The Inn on Spanish Bay just up the road from the links at Pebble Beach. Few places offer more breathtaking vistas and opportunities for relaxation. When you next stay there, I greatly recommend the squid special, black ink and all, and that bagpiper chap playing at sunset, praying a gust of wind will not disclose all.

Anyway, as is the wont of ladies in overpriced neighborhoods, my better half went shopping (ouch!) while I strolled the few yards from the front door of the Inn to the grandly named Weston Gallery. A very sincere young man, schooled in the world of sales, immediately buttonholed me and asked my interest. I did not have the heart to disabuse him of his evident belief that Ansel Adams should replace at least one, maybe two, members of the Holy Trinity, so rather than saying ‘Anything But Adams’ I ventured that I rather enjoyed American landscape photography of the west. Noblesse oblige, and all that.

Well, drat, it didn’t work. I was marched over to the Adams Collection, the salesman doubtless eyeing my less than pristine Levi Button Fly Shrink to Fit Jeans, and wrongly concluding that I was another in a long string of Silicon Valley venture capitalists off for a day or two to blow some serious coin. Sadly not the case. Yes, it must have been 1999, for memory suggests that 2000 was not the happiest in history for Silicon Valley, and I was feeling pretty happy at the time, pre-ticker shock.

Now, I first began to smell a rat, nay a giant size capybara, when this smug twit pulls on a pair of cotton gloves, proffering a matched set to me. Now I know that parting photography collectors, excuse me, investors, from their hard-earned dough requires something akin to surgical precision, but I was a tad confused as to what the devil I was to do with these gloves.

Kind of when a friend asked me to belt up in his racing Cobra. I looked at the darned belts with confusion, having seen nothing like them before. “Standard Simpson racing belts” he intoned with the bored air of one who has seen it all before. Do I knot these things together or what? I remember thinking. Only when he made a dive for my crotch – a troubling moment indeed as I never suspected he was one of Those – did I realize these things come up through the legs and buckle together from all directions over the very part my old mum used to afford me sustenance through before I first saw this wonderful world.

Anyway, being offered those cotton gloves caused that same momentary look of fear to cross my face. Was I going to be asked into a dimly lit back room next? Mercifully, El Twit donned his by way of example so I dutifully followed suit, making nary a complaint that my fingers were about two inches too long for what was offered. Discretion, in this case, was surely the better part of valor. I think I sort of pulled it off by affecting an air of insouciance while struggling in a manly way with the wretched gloves.

So there we are, The Twit and I, standing in the Weston Gallery, cotton gloves and all, when he starts pulling prints from a drawer. Each, you should know, was some 5”x7”, matted with acres of white and separated from its neighbor with a sheet of something. Acid Free, I was immediately assured Oh! says I. No hallucinogens in this joint, even when it comes to the price tag. Bother!

Now much as I would die happy never seeing one of these again, there they all were. Half Dome, the fake Moonlight Hernandez (you know, the one taken in broad daylight with poor old AA spending hours dodging and burning in his darkroom, but forgetting to get rid of the shadows cast by the gravestones in the bright sun), the one of Bridal Veil Falls, the absurdly over-filtered Monolith, and many others I shudder to recall. You would think the purifying qualities of monochrome would at least filter out the worst lapses of taste, but Adams managed to hurdle that barrier with supreme ease. Can you say Monochrome and Garish in one sentence? Because, believe me, seeing these ‘originals’ made me realize he had accomplished something his books only hinted at. Loud Monochrome. How so poor a collection of over-manipulated fakes could manage to fit in one drawer boggles the mind, but El Twitto was saving his best, his killer sales line, for last.

“And here Sir is our finest masterpiece from the Ansel Collection”. Needless to say, it was yet another print of Half Dome. But wait a minute, how do I break it to this chap short in grey matter that the print was yellowed and faded? Now I liked the look – at least half the garishness had almost disappeared. “Seems a bit different from the one you showed me earlier”, I offered. “Yes, Sir” responds the sycophantic nonentity, “this print was made by Mr. Adams himself, no less”.

“Oh”, says I, “How do you know?”. Well, that was a bit like calling the Queen German. It may be true, but it is not said in polite company.

“Sir, please”, he intoned, wrist held just so, “It’s our job at the Weston Gallery to know”.

Well, in true civilized manner, I quickly steered the conversation to the weather and isn’t it really lovely here and where would you recommend for dinner?

Sadly, he wasn’t buying it. “Well, sir, what do you think of the Ansel print?” A familiarity available only to those who have never met the famed subject of their dreams. “At $15,000 we think it very attractively priced for an investor like yourself who obviously appreciates fine art.” And to think I could get the really garish one for a mere five large.

Now you must understand that this Weston Gallery is not a place to admit to color lightly. White walls, El Twitteroony all in white, white flowers even. When you see that much white you know sticker shock cannot be far behind. Nonetheless, the vivid shade of green I had just acquired contrasted quite nicely with the foul yellow of this appalling print held in Twitterino’s becottoned manglers.

Home of The Twit

So I quickly pulled out that old line which is a curse to salesmen everywhere. “Oh! it’s really quite special, I agree, but let me check with the wife and get back to you”. The power of agency. Always blame someone else. I would love to, but…. Look, I Really love it, but the old ball-and-chain, you know. Got to check with the little lady. Can’t rob the grocery money. So I leg it out of there, shedding cotton gloves right and left and quite possibly setting a new World and Olympic record for the 100 metres.

Why, oh! why, do fully half of all art photographers want to imitate something so bad? Have they not the courage to recognize poor darkroom work and worse photography when they see it? Or is it just the comfort of hordes? Don’t rock the boat and no one will notice. The way to fix art photography? Ban all cameras from Yosemite.

Look, if you love Adams’s work well and good. Ask yourself why and don’t expect everyone else to.