I never had the pleasure of meeting David Bowie, but I did get to know his official photographer (after a fashion) when I began working at San Diego Community Newspaper Group. The year was 2005, and La Jolla’s defunct Morrison Hotel Gallery, at the ubiquitous 1250 Prospect St., had just opened to rave reviews – it featured the very best in rock concert photography, and the work of guys like Mick Rock spearheaded its brief but unforgotten success. Bowie, Iggy Pop, Blondie, Joan Jett, Queen and so many others: Rock brought untold nuance and character to the ’70s glam environment with his pictures, and he was said to think the world of Bowie in particular. Bowie died Jan. 10 of liver cancer at age 69 and was the central figure in music’s evolution as theatrical craft. Ziggy Stardust, his flamboyant alter-ego, may not have lasted long, but the table was set: Performance and recorded art were in a collaborative infancy because of him, and that path grows wider today. Meanwhile, Rock had the firsthand skinny on Bowie, his other subjects and the depth of the stamina that made their careers. “It didn’t matter,” Rock said in an interview from 2007, “if they had to be up by 5 a.m. for a shoot or a lot call. It didn’t matter that they’d closed a bar or done whatever. They were there and ready to go no matter what. Simply amazing work ethic all day long, from all of them.” Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, it appears, exacts a certain price from its adherents – a price that they’re apparently willing to pay. To whom much is given, after all, much is required; arguably, Bowie’s profound understanding of this axiom was of immeasurable value to his art and, by extension, to popular culture today.