I first met Rankin in a bar called DNA in 1992. He’d photographed a friend of mine named Christine Kellogg for an exhibition at the old Katharine Hamnett shop now called the Collection Gallery, at Brompton Cross. She was tiny and he’d shot her from above in a laundry basket; she was fragile and fine, he was Scottish and brusque. Rankin, Jefferson Hack, and a college friend named Ian Taylor had just won awards for a student union magazine called Untitled. They were trying to get together a magazine called Dazed & Confused. I hated the name—why would you ever...
This article is reserved for subscribed members only. If you are already a member, you can log in here below.
Subscribe for full access to The Eye of Photography archives!
That’s thousands of images and articles, documenting the history of the medium of photography and its evolution during the last decade, through a unique daily journal. Explore how photography, as an art and as a social phenomenon, continue to define our experience of the world. Two offers are available.
Subscribe either monthly for $5 or annually for $50 (2 months offered).