He Was A Friend of Mine
March 11, 2004
Yesterday was one of the saddest, most surreal days of my entire life. And trust me, my life's been full of them. I went to my friend's funeral. I wanted to write something about it, about him, but all I hear is his voice asking, "Don't talk about it, okay?" I'm still too sad to write anything, anyway. So here's something I wrote back in July of last year while he was still alive:
Stephen Sprouse is one of my best friends. I never talk about him in this blog. He's a very private person, and I've never felt comfortable mentioning him.
I've known Stephen for over 15 years. My first real job out of college was working as his assistant. I still can’t believe he hired me. It was an incredibly cool job for anyone, but especially for a wide-eyed kid fresh out of college and new to New York. I did all sorts of amazing things at that job and met all kinds of cool people. I was too shy and naive to take full advantage of it, but that's probably why he hired me in the first place. He’d often send me to photoshoots with sketches he’d done to guide me on how he wanted his clothes styled. (He was rarely happy with how his things were styled for magazines.) The professional stylists who worked for the magazines and whose specific job was to style the shoots would roll their eyes and grit their teeth when they saw me coming. Women’s Wear Daily, in particular, had a policy of shooting without any special hair and makeup, and, unless it was a story specifically about jewelry or shoes, they included no accessories at all. I honestly didn’t know this the first time I was sent to a WWD shoot. I showed up with a box full of rings, bracelets, and pins, and was told in no uncertain terms that none of it would be included. I’m a soft-spoken guy, and I was even more so back then. I was generally not very pushy, but I’d do anything to avoid disappointing Stephen. I’m sure that if I’d been there representing anyone else, I would have been kicked to the curb. “Get lost, kid, you’re bothering us.” But I wasn’t the only one who loved Stephen, and the full-size black and white photo on the cover of that edition of WWD showed rings and bracelets glaore. I know for a fact that a few people got in trouble for allowing a cover shoot to go off the rails that way. Stephen knew what he was doing, of course, and thought it was hilarious that I’d pulled it off.
In addition to that, Stephen sent me all over town delivering specially made clothing to all sorts of rock stars and movie stars. I worked backstage at his fashion shows, doing “last looks’ before the models walked onstage, or frantically finding a solution when a seam split or a heel broke at the last minute. I worked on print production, too, and even designed a couple of prints myself. I always felt shy about claiming credit, because I only ever did what Stephen had asked me to. But if someone said they liked something I’d done, Stephen would never hesitate to say, “Jamie did that one.”
I painted patterns on the walls of the Stephen Sprouse Store in SoHo, and hired my friends to help. They got paid next to nothing, and I felt like Tom Sawyer convincing his friend how much fun it was to whitewash a picket fence. But it was fun!
When the economy tanked, and that incarnation of Stephen’s business went kaput, I was devastated. But Stephen and I remained close, and he would still come up with fun jobs for me from time to time. Like when he was curator of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum’s inaugural exhibit, and he hired me to paint tattoos and makeup on the mannequins. Or, earlier this year, when he sent me Florence to oversee the installation of a museum exhibition featuring some of his work. I could go on and on, but aside from the occasional jobs he gives me, he's one of my best friends, and if it weren't for him, I probably would've left New York a long time ago.
After the World Trade Center towers fell, Stephen sought refuge from the dust, debris, and malaise by living with me in Brooklyn for several months. A close friend of Stephen’s had been on one of the planes that hit the towers, and his apartment was close enough to breathe the dust. My apartment in Brooklyn was far enough away for him to get some distance. As if we hadn’t bonded already, living as roommates during that strange, sad time sealed it. This was a year before I started blogging, but I probably wouldn’t have written about any of it, anyway. Though I sometimes wish I had at least kept a diary. Honestly, it would’ve mostly been me complaining about all the cigarette smoke.
I bring him up, now, because he has a new website, and he said it was okay to link to it. In fact, he said I should link it.
(*Site no longer active. Too bad, it was a cool site.)
Now that he's gone, I feel like there’s not much for me to do in New York anymore. I’m wondering if I’ll stay. I probably will, though. Where else am I gonna go?
