This album is so masterful, so unique, that it makes everything Dylan did before it seem like practice. Gone is the über-folksinger, the political gadfly — in their place is Dylan the teller of fractured stories, Dylan the dramatist, Dylan the chronicler of the interior soul of his time.
It’s a work that, like Moby Dick or Leaves Of Grass, hasn’t dated a minute since it first appeared, and never will.
The photographer’s wagon.
Click on the image to enlarge.
Click on the image to enlarge.
Click on the image to enlarge.
Click on the image to enlarge.
In honor of her birthday, Nora Rossi’s greatest screen perfromance (so far . . .)
Click on the image to enlarge.
Click on the image to enlarge.
Click on the image to enlarge.
This is a great album, but part of its greatness is its foreshadowing of the two albums that would soon follow it.
Click on the image to enlarge.
And then there was another side, and another side, and another side — until finally there was no Bob Dylan at all . . . just the work.
Click on the image to enlarge.
Dylan’s career as an artist has veered between the swagger of hipster genius and the humility of a prophetic calling. Time has transformed the hipster genius into self-deprecating wit and the prophetic calling into majestic art.
Looking back, it’s inspiring to retrace his journey, knowing that it will lead only to an epic spiritual triumph.
Click on the image to enlarge.