Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven’s
claws
Jim Morrison, An American Prayer, 1978
The Lizard King. Mr. Mojo Risin. Dead in a Paris bathtub, July 3rd, 1971.
The Doors. Venice Beach. UCLA film school dropout who could write, who could sing, who looked like a Greek god and sounded like he was channeling something ancient and dangerous. Leather pants, no shirt, poetry and rock and roll and sex and death all wrapped up in one beautiful, doomed package.
He wanted to be a poet. A serious artist. Instead he became a rock star, which meant everyone wanted a piece of him and nobody gave a shit about the poetry. The audiences wanted the spectacle, the arrests, the controversy, the chaos.
By the time he got to Paris, he was done. Bloated, bearded, trying to disappear into the city, trying to write, trying to be something other than Jim Morrison, rock god.
July 3rd. Found dead in the bathtub of his apartment at 17 rue Beautreillis. Pam Courson, his girlfriend, found him. She’d be dead three years later. Heroin.
Now his grave is the most visited in the cemetery. Fans leave joints, bottles of whiskey, love notes, graffiti. The neighbors, Chopin, Balzac, Proust, must love that.
Twenty-seven years old. The same age as Pigpen.
The poetry’s still there if anyone wants to read it.
Most people just want the myth.
Shot on infrared film in Père Lachaise Cemetery. Signed Limited Edition 11” x17” print of 10; stamped on verso. Professional black & white printing on Hahnemühle fibre-based Matt paper.