The Many Bob Dylans of Jones Street

In February 1963, the photographer Don Hunstein took the picture of Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo walking arm-in-arm down Jones Street that would become the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. Forty years later, I moved into a rent-stabilized apartment on the block and have been watching people recreate this moment — sometimes enthusiastically, sometimes sheepishly — ever since.

I knew nothing of the connection when I moved in. I like Bob Dylan, but I was 24 and much more concerned at the time with the price ($1,400) and the fact that someone in the building had been murdered in his bed the month before (different apartment). I only put it together after I noticed the occasional couple coming to pose outside my window. There was a slight increase in fan traffic after Suze Rotolo published her memoir in 2008, but the drip-drip of Dylan pilgrims really picked up with Timothée Chalamet’s Oscar-nominated turn in 2024’s A Complete Unknown.

The process of taking a Dylan tribute photo, a little West Village Kabuki, tends to go like this: Two people, almost always tourists, usually European, will walk the block, camera out, until they approach the spot that the internet has told them is the spot. Then they begin a little dance. One will take out a phone and cross-reference the album cover. They will look up and down the street comparing landmark buildings (the trees, which arrived in the 1970s, tend to confuse) while stalking apprehensive little circles, like a dog deciding where to defecate. If they can’t find a third to take the photo, they will take turns snapping each other. Occasionally, John, the kindly owner of Record Runner, will come out and show them where to stand, even presenting the actual record and its outtakes as a posing guide. (Unlike the hordes who crowd the sidewalk on Perry Street, vamping in front of Carrie’s apartment, the down-bad Dylans on my block are inconveniencing no one.)

Every now and then I will photograph or film what I see and post it to my Instagram. (Perhaps this isn’t kind, but must we always be kind?) Recently, a man in his 30s in Dylan-esque regalia spent the better part of an hour recording a solo music video outside my window. I posted his performance. A friend messaged me: “Call the cops.”

And while I may mock their sincerity — up on high at my window, recording and disapproving — I’ve been there. A few weeks ago I was among the middle-aged men at the Arcade Fire show, phone out to take bad video. And really, how much difference is there between me and the Dylans on Jones Street? Or the brats spilling out of Barclays after the Charli XCX show, singing “Apple” and flashing her choreo? Why are we all doing this? There’s an “I was there”–ness to it, like posing in Dumbo in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. There’s the nostalgia — play-acting some moment we’re no longer part of or never really were. Maybe it’s all just an attempt at connection. Even my bitchy little posts.

Photo-Illustration: Curbed; Photos: John Ortved

Perhaps that’s why, occasionally, when I notice them looking for the spot, I’ll yell from my window: “Dylan?” And I will direct them. This happened a little while back with an older Italian man, who wanted to take the shot with what looked like his daughters. Afterward, he looked up at me and said, “Maybe you are Bob Dylan.” I didn’t really understand the joke, but I smiled and waved. I was happy he got what he wanted.