A TRIBUTE TO LARRY LYNN BIRD 1938-1975

by Phillip B Gottfredson

 

Certain people come along at certain times and greatly influence the trajectory of our lives. This story is about an extraordinary friendship I had with the late Larry Lynn Bird who I have not forgotten from fifty years ago.

In July of 1974, Larry came in to my picture-frame store, Gottfredson Frames, in downtown Provo Utah, to have some of his photos framed. It was easy to engage Larry in conversation, for the simple reason he was authentic. I liked authentic people, and I enjoyed getting to know my customers. We connected immediately as artists to artists. He told me he had moved from California to Utah and worked as a social worker at the State Mental Hospital in Provo. He was a compassionate human being who loved life and was filled with positive enthusiasm. We laughed and told stories to each other. Yes, it didn't take long; a friendship developed.

I loved helping people because many people helped me along the way. Larry's photography was unique, and I was inspired to do something extraordinary for an extraordinary person. I showed Larry some of my work samples and described how I would like to frame his photos. At that time, framing photographs was boring, with a white mat and a thin black frame. I wasn't about that; I was a rebel regarding framing. Meaning I broke all the rules. I did true custom framing, from raw wood to hand finishes. Frames should be complementary extensions of the artist's work. So, when I explained to Larry what I wanted to do for him, his eyes were wide, and he was smiling from ear to ear. Then his expression changed. He didn't know if he could afford it.

Like I said, I wanted to help. I knew he couldn't afford my work and cut him a deal. Larry was so appreciative. When he came back a few days later, I unwrapped his photos, and when he saw the framing, his mouth dropped open. The frames were not just frames but a testament to our new friendship and, more importantly, his talent. He really loved what he saw, and I loved his reaction. It was lunchtime, and I invited Larry to some lunch.

I learned Larry was developing and printing his own photos. He was a typical starving artist, doing what he could to get by. He asked me if I knew where there were some old abandoned mining towns. Of course, I knew; I grew up in Utah and knew all the old ghost towns. He wanted to photograph those places. So I took him to Eureka, about 20 miles from Provo in the west desert. I don't know how many rolls of film he went through that day, but Larry was having the time of his life. And I was having a good time just watching him work his magic.

That day, we talked about life and our ambitions, families, and everything that makes us human. On the way back to Provo, I asked Larry if he would mind if we stopped at the shop for a few minutes. I wanted to show him something. Sure, he said. We went into the shop, and I took him in the back and showed him a room I thought would be a perfect darkroom for him if he wanted it. Oh my gosh, Larry lit up like a Christmas tree! And in a couple days, he moved all his equipment into his very own darkroom. I didn't ask for money; I just wanted to help him.

A few days later, Larry came to the shop after he got off work and asked if it would be okay to develop and print the pictures he took at Eureka. On one condition, I wondered if I could watch him. He said, Of course, you can; I was going to ask you if you wanted to watch. After I got the shop closed, we began to prepare to develop a bunch of pictures. I watched as he poured all the chemicals into different trays, and the work started. About an hour later, Larry turned on the lights, and I couldn't believe my eyes. Old rusted bolts, twisted metal, rotting timbers of the mine-shaft gallos, rusting cables, he had captured all the elements of the old mining town, a dozen or so freshly developed photos hanging from a cotton rope strung across the room, held up with clothes pins. If there was any doubt about Larry's ability, all I saw was a true artist in the rough. He just needed a chance. What he needed was a one-man show.

It took some convincing when I suggested that we needed to get him in a show. Things were moving so fast, a new friend, a darkroom, and now a show in a gallery? He didn't think he was good enough or ready to go public with his work. But I believed in him. I believed in him as an artist. He was only 27. So, he didn't have the self-confidence to do it, and more importantly, he didn't have the money to pay for the framing. So I said, Larry, let's frame a few photos so you can see what I see. Then we can talk some more. We'll hang them up in my shop and get feedback from some customers. I won't charge you anything. If it doesn't work out, hey, we tried. I love that Larry was so humble and appreciative of my generosity. In my heart of hearts, I knew it would work out. It was worth the gamble. His eyes lit up with a mix of excitement and fear, but he trusted me and was ready to take the leap.

The frames had to be spectacular, and I knew just what materials I needed to make them so. We returned to Eureka, and I gathered old wood and rusty metal pieces. We ventured up the canyons, and I collected gnarly pieces of bark from old cottonwood trees. Larry thought I was a bit crazy; he couldn't quite see my vision. But he was all in, ready to embrace the adventure of creating something truly unique.

After the shop was closed each day, we made frames from all the bits and pieces of metal and weathered wood for the following couple of weeks. Well, Larry watched as I started to piece together the first frame. I cut, chiseled, sanded, cut, and nailed together the first frame. I cut mats and hand-colored them, creating the right colors and textures to make his photos pop. I installed the first one, and after a few adjustments, I said, Larry, close your eyes and open them when I tell you. He chuckled, okay he said. Okay, open your eyes. He stood there looking like looking like he had been gobsmacked. "Oh my God," he said, I love it, Phil! I love it, Phil; he kept repeating it over and over. Then he was speechless. After a while, I asked Larry if it was okay to frame another one. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he said, "Yes, if you want to." I replied, I want to, my friend. I want to frame them all and have that show. But let's stick to our plan; we'll frame a couple more, hang them up in the shop, and see what people say, okay? Okay, Phil, okay.

About a week later, an art instructor from Utah Valley University came into my shop. He was from Mexico, and I forget his name, but he saw Larry's work and said, We got to get him in a show! This is outstanding! And your framing, Phil, let's get him in a show. I'll set it all up. I couldn't wait to tell Larry. When he showed up later that day and came in the door, I said Larry, you won't believe what happened! I told him what the art instructor told me. He came over and gave me this big hug; he was so excited and in total disbelief. Little did Larry know he was about to become a rock star.

I didn't have to convince Larry anymore; we worked every night, sometimes til 2 in the morning, getting ready for his debut show. The art instructor had come in several times, and when he met Larry, he just loved him. Well, the date had been set, we were ready, and when the time came, I'll never forget the look on Larry's face when he sold his first piece, then the second, third, fourth, and fifth. Larry nearly sold out that night. The press was there, and Larry was on the first page of the society section, smiling from ear to ear. We nailed it! And I told Larry to keep the money. I am glad I did; he bought a new camera, an RB67 21/4x31/4 format. Seeing Larry, filled with hope and gratitude, felt so good. He was on his way.

Larry had a brother named Terry, who had moved to Utah with him. Terry was married, and they supported Larry's newfound success.

All this success caused Larry to feel he didn't want to work at the hospital anymore. And so I offered him a job at my frame shop. And I offered him a place to stay at my house until he got established again. I paid him well and got a life insurance plan to protect my investment. My business flourished with Larry on my team. He picked up the trade so quickly that it amazed me, and the customers loved him. Together, we made a powerful team. And Larry and I became the best of friends.

For ten months, we worked together and lived together. We never had bad words; we were having the best time ever. One evening, Larry said, Terry and I are going for a bike ride around the lake, so I'll be home late. They loved their dirt bikes and went riding together a lot.

Then, about four hours later, I got a call from Terry's wife; she said Larry had a bad accident. He was life-flighted to the Provo hospital. Hurry, please! I hung up when she called back and said He was now being life-flighted to St Mary's in Salt Lake. He's in a coma, Phil. Terry is devastated. No problem; I told her I'd be there quickly. Four traumatic days later, Larry was gone. He died from a fatal blow to his head, resulting in brain injury.

That was 49 years ago, and I still mourne the loss of a young man who came into my life for just a short while and altered the trajectory of my life. As the years passed, one of the most troubling points was that I couldn't find anything about him online. I never heard any more from his friends or family. It was like he never existed. All memory of him, his humble life, had been washed away. It saddened me so much that I couldn't understand why. Until just a few days ago, I searched the internet for any sign of Larry as I had done so many times before. This time, his above photo came up on my screen. All I could do was stare at it in disbelief. Someone was thoughtful enough to post it on Ancestry.com. I didn't have anything of Larry's to remember him by, but now I have this one precious photo.

Never take anyone for granted. People's lives matter, however great or small; a person needs to be remembered. Larry deeply touched my life in powerful ways I can't explain, as well as the lives of so many others he knew because he loved his friends and family. He loved life. He was a good man, as good as they come, even better in many ways.

So, here's to you, Larry Lynn Bird!! May your memory live forever. Friendships are forever, and you are my forever friend.

Note: All proceeds from the insurance policy were gifted to Larry's family to cover funeral expenses.