In 1969, spiring artist David Singer set out to market some of his collages in San Francisco. He was steered to the office of legendary promoter Bill Graham at the Fillmore, who had artists working for him constantly, producing posters for his rock shows. Singer tells about that day.
At the time, Pat Hanks was Bill’s right-hand man, trusted enough to run interference for the boss when artists showed up with their portfolios hoping to get a shot at designing a Fillmore poster. That happened a lot. Designing a poster for Bill Graham was no guarantee that an unknown artist would become the next Victor Moscoso, but that was certainly the hope.
“Pat was backstage somewhere,” Singer continues, “but eventually he came out.” Apparently, Singer was a novel sight for Hanks. “He looked me up and down,” Singer recalls. “Back then, I had fairly short hair and didn’t wear the normal hippie attire. Plus, I was carrying this beautiful black art case, really professional looking, that was filled with my collages.” Hanks asked Singer to follow him to the other side of the big room outside Graham’s office. The two men walked together until they reached a door. Hanks opened it. “Inside was a smaller room, maybe more like a big closet,” Singer remembers, “and he said, ‘You can leave your artwork in here.’ And as I’m standing in the doorway, looking into this room, I see it’s filled with portfolios. I couldn’t believe it. There must have been 40 of them in there.”
It was, in short, the room where the pipe dreams of would-be rock-poster artists went to die.
“A lot of them were really hippie-looking portfolios,” Singer says, “made of two pieces of cardboard tied together, decorated with paisley designs—stuff like that. I said, ‘You mean here, leave my artwork here?’ And he said, ‘Well, Bill only looks at artwork when he needs another artist, and this is where we keep it.’ I said, ‘I can’t do that. I won’t have anything to show anybody else.’ While we were talking, Pat kept looking at my black art case, until finally he asked, ‘What do you have in there?’ So I opened it up and pulled out several collages. He said, ‘Well, that’s pretty interesting. How many do you have?’ I told him I wasn’t sure, but that it was probably about 20. He said, ‘Wait here,’ took two of the collages, and walked all the way back across the room into Bill’s office. In a minute or two, he poked his head out through the doorway and waved his hand, motioning me in.”
Singer had been invited into the inner sanctum, a stranger off the street without a resume, reputation, or appointment. Once inside, Graham needed no introduction. “He knew I knew who he was,” Singer says of his first meeting with Graham. “Everybody knew who he was. Before a show, Bill would walk up and down the line of people waiting out front and talk to them, and he always introduced the bands. He ran his club. He was in charge. Everybody recognized Bill Graham.” But Graham did not know Singer. “I remember that he asked me my name,” Singer says, “but I hesitated, being uncertain what to tell him, as I was not sure what last name I’d want to put on my artwork if it was ever published; it was Holsinger back then. He was interrupted by a phone call, and after he finished, I motioned toward the ‘Star of David’ dangling from a chain around his neck and said, ‘My name is David.’”
David Singer ended up producing more rock concert posters for Bill Graham than any other artist. His posters rarely had anything to do with the acts they promoted, but they got attention, and are now collector's items. Read David Singer's story and see a bunch of his posters at Collectors Weekly.
(Image credit: David Singer)
