Jesse Alexander, 1929-2021

Remembering Jess

By Jim Sitz

I was very sad to hear of the death of the great photographer Jesse Alexander at age 92 on December 15th. Not merely one to chronicle the motor racing scene, ‘Jess’ was a very kind, compassionate man with a nice quiet manner, and a great friend.

I first met Jess in Europe in the grand year of 1957, and he went out of his way to introduce me to racing folks I ought to know. At year’s end both of us were at the London Motor Show and then to test day for all new British cars at Goodwood. He had a keen sense of humor and never failed to make me smile.

I was preparing to drive a very large Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith and had an elderly couple in the rear compartment when Jess walked over and quipped’ “Home, James.”

After a few years in Europe covering the races, Jess got a divorce and returned to the States. But I was surprised when, a few years later, I got a card from then Car and Driver Tech Editor Steve Wilder, saying that Jess had remarried and was off to Europe again. But as Jess would find out, it was different now.

With his new wife Nancy, Jess had a flat in London and Nancy was due with son Jesse Jr. In June 1967, Phil Hill was driving at Le Mans and dropped out at night after 17 hours with the Chaparral 2F. He got in his car and drove to their flat in London, reaching there early in the morning. He was tired, hungry, and thinking about his future. Hill had only one race left to run. Jess, Nancy, the new baby, Phil, and Henry Manney all returned to the States at the end of that season. Both Jess and Hill indicated that “times were a changing.” Phil quietly retired; no fanfare, he told me just had no offers and that was it. Jess resumed living in the old family residence on a quiet street in Montecito and began a new career making movies of things that mattered to him, like the big oil spill off the coast of Santa Barbara in 1969.

A few years later, he walked into my ‘office’ at the photo lab where I worked, recognized me immediately, and at lunch that day, I congratulated him for being civic minded; I knew he had made other documentaries about children with learning disabilities. “Well,” he said, “After all those years in Europe having so much fun, I felt it was time to do something meaningful.” He had an office in town, and a few student filmmakers were hired to help with the documentaries. As I recall he made a film of the construction of his ‘mud house’ on the mountain, demonstrating how workers took pride in constructing something special and worthwhile. My boss asked me if Jess was a good credit risk, and I suggested that he could probably buy the entire lab if he so wanted.

For the road, Jess always wanted something new or unusual and I recall one time he called me and said we should take in the Los Angeles Auto Show. We then kept gravitating back to the Porsche stand and their new 928 coupe and after the 3rd visit to the Porsche stand, I teased him, get out your checkbook. A month later he arrived with a new 928 in tobacco brown. Next up was a Jag XJ saloon; he enjoyed running through the canyon roads with a good machine.

In 1970 I drove to see him in my old MG TC and he carried his three year old son Jess to have a look at the bright red “toy car”. Meanwhile he told me of plans to build a real fire proof home on top of that hill in Los Padres National Forest on nearby Romero canyon and when under construction, it looked all concrete and to my eye a real bunker! But that was deceiving; it was some spectacular home and took much planning to execute the building of the ‘mud house’ as it became known later.

In 1979 Jess had a big 50th birthday dinner, with Nancy, daughter Rory, young Jess, myself and my girlfriend. Also a the party were Phil and Alma Hill, who had their own four year boy who spilled his ice cream on his new suit and Phil had to dry his tears while Jess got a shot of the Champ being the good father. The ‘mud house’ built at the top of the mountain was later sold to comedian Steve Martin.

Meanwhile still had a beach house nearby that he just used to entertain friends for lunch, and allowed me to rest and relax from work at the deluxe color lab and the stress. Jess would come down on business and get me out of the office in his new Citroen SM, getting on the ramp and blasting through the Cahuenga pass, and the tiny café close to the old Ferrari agency of the late Ernie McAfee.

Good times.

Goodbye,
Old friend

What, My Photos in an Art Museum?

By Pete Vack

This article first appeared in Vintage Motorsport, V4-1. The Akron Museum showing was held from February 14 to April 6, 1986.

Jesse Alexander’s sensitive portrayal of Jim Clark hung before us; a grim, tired determined sadness poured from Clark’s youthful face. Alexander spoke quietly in a reserved manner. “It was a moment after the 1960 Belgian Grand Prix …. there were no other photographers around. He is looking at us and we are looking at him.” On that day Moss had his first crippling accident, and Chris Bristow was killed after losing control of his Cooper. Clark had just learned his teammate Alan Stacey had died too. The conflict, tension and tragedy of that day were captured forever in that terse, dramatic expression. The photograph of Clark is Alexander’s Guernica. it is the masterpiece, the cornerstone of his motor racing portfolio.

Also like Picasso’s Guernica, it is painful and it is truth. Alexander’s desire and willingness to photograph people, and his uncanny ability to capture the “decisive moment” separated him from the other photographers who worked during those “golden years” of motor racing. Almost from the beginning, he was convinced that people were as interesting and as important as the cars and events. While contemporaries such as Louis Klemantaski, Kurt Wörner and Julius Weitmann would hang from stone precipices, lay on the edges of the Nurburgring or photograph the Mille Miglia from the cockpit of a race car, more often than not Alexander would disappear, finding refuge where no other photographers were. His Leica and Rollei found Harry Schell and “Fon” Portago playing backgammon at the Sport Hotel. Jack Brabham and his apprehensive young son Geoff in the pits, Mike Hawthorn looking up at the camera while climbing out of his Dino Ferrari, and a proud conversation between Enzo Ferrari and Eugenio Castellotti during the Mille Miglia. Inevitably, the subject was people; the cars and circuits provided an interesting and glamourous backdrop for the human emotion that was the real focal point of Alexander’s photography.

There is as much of Jesse Alexander in front of the lens as there is behind the camera – Alexander’s attempts to isolate himself in a crowd often created a wistful sense of solitude that can be seen in much of his work. It was a feeling he was accustomed to. According to his friend Jack Welpot, “his childhood was a world of private schools and unrelenting loneliness.” His stepfather bought him his first camera – an Afga – when he was sent to summer camp. Since then the camera has been his best friend and lifelong companion. He is deeply introspective, his ingrained aloneness and his feeling towards the world that surrounds him are reflected in his photography. Almost subconsciously, Alexander had learned his craft from some of the finest photographers America has produced. He was only 11 when WWII broke out, and spent the war reading Life magazine, studying the photography of Steichen, Smith and Capa. “They were my heroes … my whole visual slant was developed as a kid reading those magazines.” The drama of WWII, frozen forever by Life’s photographers created images in Alexander’s mind that would later be applied to the post war Grand Prix arena.

Alexander’s European odyssey began early in 1954. He had recently graduated from the University of California, done some documentary work covering the ’53 Panamericana, and decided that it might be fun to try his hand in Europe. “I had a young wife, a new baby, and we went over on a Dutch boat. We bought a VW Micro-bus and settled down in Switzerland.” He submitted his first story to Road & Track, “about the Swiss driving school De Graffenried was running.” An intermediary (no one can remember who) put Alexander in touch with John Christy, who was taking over editorial control of Ziff Davis’ Sports Car Illustrated. Christy received a piece on a Porsche police car, and was quick to bring Alexander on as his European editor. “He was American, he was technically knowledgeable, and he knew more people than anyone except Bernard Cahier,” recalls Christy. It was Christy who encouraged Alexander to use flash, and to “paint the car with light.” “I remember Christy saying, ‘Gotta use more flash, Jesse, more flash.’ Technically at that time I was not as good as I am now … my eye was ok, but my exposures would be off, and I was just not that sharp.” His years with SCI were rewarding, “SCI was great to me. After I became a staffer I had an expense account and Christy and Ludvigsen helped me tremendously.” Alexander stayed with SCI until it became Car and Driver … Christy had left to re-start Sports Car Graphic, Purdy was gone, times were changing. The small contingent of Americans he had enjoyed … Pete Coltrin, Henry Manney, Karl Ludvigsen were drifting back to the States or settling down. He returned himself in 1962, went back to Europe for a couple of years in the mid sixties, but found it not the same. The Golden Years were over.

The highlights of those eight years in Europe, sixty-four beautifully framed photographs, hung in the Akron Art Museum where we met Jesse Alexander. Surprisingly, few of the selected photos had been published in SCI. Many were new to me, others had been published in his book, Looking Back. We walked very slowly through the museum, discussing each, trying to elicit comments from Alexander. But the interviewer turned into the commentator. “I’m not really an expert on the cars and years,” he admitted. “I will leave that up to guys like you and Jim Sitz.”

” … and Mr. Alexander will give a
speech tonight.”

Or so we overheard the Museum Director say. Jesse Alexander is a quiet and modest person, not one to waste words. “I’m not giving a speech tonight,” he told me, although I thought it would have been a great idea. Our phone conversations prior to our meeting had made me wonder if Alexander was a vain, impatient man, so short was he, even on our nickel. I was met by a surprisingly shy man, who was often hesitant to express his thoughts.
He was sensitive and gracious, yet he smiled rarely, and we went through a roll of film before we caught him with a very warm and natural grin. Thank you, Mary.

A group of 20-25 elementary school children were the first ones to see the exhibit…field trip time, out of the classroom, easy day. They were led by their teacher through the series of photographs, arranged by race location. “Teach” had obviously done her homework; she explained to the class that racing during the fifties was very different, and more dangerous than it is today, the drivers were often sportsman and wore no fireproof suits, the cars had no rollbars and you could see them much better than in today’s race cars. She sounded like an expert…where was she, I wondered, when I went to school? The Ferrari pit fire scenes at the Nurburgring attracted the children and Alexander explained to them that no one was hurt, but it was a very big fire and the Ferrari had been totally destroyed. He was very patient with them; the children wanted to know about the drivers, what happened to them …. did they win the race, what were they doing in that scene…

Typically, to all of the accolades, Alexander’s reply is very honest modesty. “It was a great time … .I was really lucky …. and having my photos in an Art Museum? … come on, it’s
great.” And it’s about time Jesse.

A late entry from Graham Gauld

Pete: Thank you for a most appropriate appreciation of Jesse Alexander. Like you I had originally met him through racing and when Henry Manney and I would attend events we often met up.

One occasion was the Monte Carlo Rally not long after Jesse had remarried. To cover the event as a journalist and photographer you had to try and stay ahead of the competitors and get into the special stages before the road was closed. One year Jesse and his wife just happened to choose the same stage as we did so we parked the cars side by side and hung about in the deep snow waiting for the cars to come. To keep warm we decided to have a competition. A line was marked on the ice on the road and the idea was to run to the line and see how far you could slide on your feet before falling on you face in the snowbanks. Jesse got into the spirit of things and at the end Jesse won by sliding about six inches further than I did. As for Henry he was hopeless for at the time he tended to wear short leather boots with wavy rubberised plastic soles so when he leaped into action on the ice the shoes gripped and he fell on his face. As you said Jesse was a very quiet and charming person but on that occasion he was great fun. A truly good guy.