It was January and late in the day when I arrived at Eddie Adams’ century old farmhouse in upstate New York. Outside my footsteps were muffled by the snow as I walked by a parked Harley Davidson, now transformed into a white quilted sculpture. Everywhere icicles and more snow.

I knocked on the kitchen door, “You must be Peter” someone smiled. A glorious aroma of herbed spaghetti sauce wafted from a huge pot being lovingly stirred on the stove. Somewhere a piano was being tuned. “Eddie’s through there” she said, just as he walked around the corner wearing his trademark Trilby hat. “He never takes that off!” she said, before adding “Even in bed!”.

Eddie Adams was accompanied by two Rip Van Winkle characters, with beards down to their nuts. “These two guys came up for Woodstock Festival 30 years ago, and never left” explained Eddie. “They operate a museum and are the unofficial caretakers of Woodstock memorabilia.” The Rip Van Winkles, said nothing, nodded and left.

“Now what would you like to know... I’m not talking about that photograph.” 

He did of course. When you take an image as iconic as that, you end up talking about it for the rest of your life – which can be very stressful.

A nod from the piano teacher, as we carefully stepped our way across a floor littered with toddler’s toys, into a large family room with a blazing log fire. In front of the fire, legs akimbo, the owner of the Harley was drying his leathers. A pong of wet leather pervaded the room. 

Steering away from Eddie’s infamous image for the moment I asked what he was doing these days. He moved a toy fire engine away with his foot. “I am more interested in that these days!” He pointed to his two year old son, busily arranging a conga line of toy cars on the rug. “I missed my first children growing up – I was away playing war games at the time.”

I suddenly realised that Eddie had vicariously missed these childhood experiences and my portrait of him needed to reflect this. 

The daylight was fast disappearing as we quickly positioned two giant soft sculptures on the snow, on a hill at the back of the farm. The shot was all over in a few minutes. Then the spaghetti sauce beckoned.