Worth A Thousand Words: Weegee

After over a year of social isolation and staying home, I have recently been feeling the pendulum swing of emotion and desire. Between the desire to get back out into the world (safely vaccinated) and the fear and anxiety of being out around people again. I think I’ve gotten used to my routine of working from home, and the prospect of being part of a large crowd… or even a small one, honestly... is filling me with trepidation. It is in that spirit that I want to take a deep exploration into this historic photograph by the enigma known as Weegee. His real name was Arthur Fellig, but as his self-aggrandizement of adding “The Famous” to his pseudonym was some indication: this was an artist with an ego. Ego was most likely part of what made him a noteworthy photographer in New York of the 1930s – 1950s. Famously shooting at night, and making the crime and violence of the “Big City” his signature subject matter, it is quite the surprise that this particular image above fits into his oeuvre at all. But not only does it fit, it encapsulates so much of New York life in general, and is a perfect vehicle to explore America society in the year before World War II.

Let’s take an overview look at this photograph. It is a summer day, obviously, and the beach is indeed packed. Claustrophobically so, in fact. Coney Island holds a near mythical place in the American mythos, and it perhaps because of this particular image that we have some idea of how it earns that standing. An escape for the masses since the early 20th century, Coney Island was the resort for the “everyman”. While the posh of the past (and present) could afford a retreat to more exclusive resorts, Coney Island was just a subway ticket token away for millions of New Yorkers. This image was created in July of 1940, and if we consider the world, the country, and the city at that time, we came see an overwhelming mass of humanity united in many ways. Also reflective of social and economic stratification that hung over America, as it crawled out of the Great Depression and slowly marched into a world war.

I find it interesting that a huge section of the crowd is actually looking at the camera. I’ve read that Weegee was shouting at the crowd and dancing to get their attention, in order to get large amounts of people to face him for the photograph. I think this adds to the power of the resulting image. You can scan the crowd and examine numerous faces, as opposed to more anonymous bodies engaged in their own personal worlds. We get to study faces, people of all shapes and sizes (but mostly shades of pale skin it should be noted.) Some eyes being shielded by the sun with hands and arms. Some behind sunglasses or the odd hat here and there. Swimsuits of all varieties. Smiles and quizzical looks. Bodies packed in the frame like sardines (a subtitle I’ve seen attached to this image in numerous places.) The crowd stretches off into the distance, completely obscuring the horizon, save for the amusement pier and rides that skirt the upper edge of the frame. The haze (I imagine it as a mix of heat, airborne sweat, pollution and ocean spray) that rides off the right upper edge of the image leads the viewer to believe that there are hundreds more people beyond what we can see.

There are many remarkable things to ponder in this photograph. Through the eyes of a 21st Century, Covid-19 viewer, I find it hard to even image such a scene existing in the present day. Any image that features a crowd of this size (such as looking at pre-pandemic concert or sporting event footage or photos) brings up a gut reaction of anxiety and fear and a general feeling of vulnerability in me. I also think about the actual times that Weegee worked in. In many ways his imagery helped define how collective consciousness accepts what New York looked and felt like back them. The visual of such a working class crowd, overcrowding the easily-accessed beach on a hot, summer afternoon bears a whiff of rose-colored nostalgia, while also making that location seem unpleasant and uninviting to an introvert such as myself. It also speaks to the state of America at that particular time. Slowly emerging from the Great Depression, but economically still hobbled, this kind of day trip getaway was the best that a working class family could hope for. Also in mind, I think about the impending world war brewing on the other side of the Atlantic. The same waters these folks are enjoying in this photo might very well be a future, final resting place for more than a few of them, just a few years later. The innocence presented (at first glance) ultimately gives way to a feeling of darkness to my eyes while I ponder the future of every person who appears within Weegee’s frame. Considering that this photo is now over 80 years old, it is safe to assume that a vast majority of the people in this crowd are now dead and gone. A day of release, of joy, of flirting, of fighting, of drinking and swimming and playing and loving and crying… gone forever but for this photograph. 

Weegee went on the be most well-known for his images of crime, murder, fires and such. But what also lurked behind most of his images was the idea that was first presented by earlier photographers such as Lewis Hine and Jacob Riis. We are shown “how the other half lives.” And though Weegee generally showed these lives through a sensationalistic lenses, I still feel a sense of empathy in many of his images. This Coney Island photo is not an indictment of the folks who crowded the beach that day. If anything, it is a celebration of the dignity of the masses, those who made up (and continue to make up) the true fabric and diversity of New York City. The world shown in this 1940 photo might still feel relevant and relatable to many people who might be heading to Coney Island this summer, freed from lock down and isolation, looking for their day in the sun.

footnote: Years later, this image graced the album cover of George Michael, Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1.

2020: 9 (A Trip To The Library)

There is such a wealth of information about photography available today. I admit, I spend countless hours online, listening to photo podcasts, watching YouTube videos of photographers shooting, scrolling through Instagram, or reading articles and blogs by photographers. But all of these things cannot replace the experience of holding a book in my hands, looking at photos on the printed page, and reading the thoughts of critical thinkers and artists.

I was inspired by an article I stumbled upon this week written by Teju Cole… who if you don’t him, you should check out his work. Not only is he a great writer on the medium, but he is also a great photographer in his own right. He recently wrote a very insightful article about the value of photography books. It is well worth the read. I had him in mind as I headed to the Ernie Pyle Library here in Albuquerque this week. I picked up a couple of photo criticism books that I’m looking forward to reading. These were in addition to a recent copy of Daido Moriyama’s “How I Take Photographs” that I picked up over the holidays.

I think it’s important to not only take photographs, not only look at photographs, but also to read about photographs. It is helpful to put some thought into analyzing the work of other artists. Trying to interpret the effort or reasoning behind their work. I also find that knowing how to “read” a photograph is a valuable skill, not only for image makers, but for our audience as well.

I am most excited to dive into the John Berger book “Understanding A Photograph.” Berger was an important artistic and social critic who’s book “Ways of Seeing” transformed my understanding of visual communication. He was required reading when I studied in art school. I am ready for my mind to be further expanded when I read this book.

I must say that though we can get plenty of free information from the internet, and as a faithful consumer there is the obvious attraction to buying books, but I truly believe a trip to the library is one of our greatest social / civic privileges. The opportunity to have access to so much valuable information, for no cost, is truly a gift not to be taken for granted.

Worth A Thousand Words: Sally Mann

Portraiture has always confounded me. As a photographer, I’ve struggled when I’ve had to deal with actual human beings as subject matter. Especially when they are directly in front of me, posing for a formal portrait. I am just unable to capture the essence of a person through a photograph. That’s not to say that I don’t ever take pictures of people. It’s just that they tend to be in an environment, usually on the street, or part of a larger, more complex scene. At the same time, as a viewer, I am constantly drawn to a great photographic portrait. Needless to say that our western pop culture is awash in portraits, many focusing on those in power, or those with celebrity. Add to the mix the current frenzy of selfies clogging up social media platforms, and one could deduce that perhaps we’ve hit the breaking point where the whole idea of a photographic portrait has transformed into something other than a thoughtful study of not just the appearance of the subject, but also a deeper exploration of their mood, their character, their psychological makeup. Most portraits today, to my eyes, seem more self-aggrandizing, self-serving; propaganda mechanisms more than anything else.

With this cynicism in mind, I focus my gaze today on a most beautiful portrait. Titled “Black Eye” it is by a true American master, Sally Mann. Sally Mann has made a career of photographing her immediate family, most notably her children. This approach has brought her much acclaim, but also much criticism. The critics are usually from outside the photography / art worlds. The puritanical, religious “moral police” that exists in the United States have, on numerous occasions, worked themselves into a foaming-mouth frenzy over the intimate work of Mann. Their objections are almost always due to the fact that Mann has no reservation for showing her (then) young children, both male and female, in the nude. The rabid critics have dismissed the work and pornographic at worst, exploitative of innocence at best.

The image I am discussing today is of a fully clothed child, the artist’s daughter, but still has been cause for alarm by many narrow-minded critics. More on that in a few moments. Let’s take a closer look at the photograph. It is a black and white image. A young girl sits in an antique looking chair, and is positioned squarely in the middle of the frame. Her eyes are closed, her arms are crossed. She is bathed in wonderful, soft natural light, coming from a window that is in the distance, the edge shown in the photo, out of focus. The hair on the girl looks like it has been blown to the side by a sudden soft breeze. The focus on this image is interesting to me. The detail on the white lace below her neck indicates a shallow depth of field. The hair and chair shows a varying degree of focus as well. The curls of hair along the lower neck is a foil to the unkemptness of the blown hair along the top of her head. Her hands are crossed, but at ease, and they look as though they are cradling something. The wonderful downslope of her dark lips brings a certain melancholy to her appearance. And then we have the black eye. How did this happen? The zealot critics have projected evidence of child abuse onto the photo. But as we know, kids get all sorts of bumps and bruises while the explore their world. And I can help but think that her eye looks swollen due to a bug bite. Especially when you consider that Mann and her family live in rural Virginia, there are all sorts of reasons a child might be sporting a swollen, black eye.

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Photos by Julia Margaret Cameron

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What I find most striking about this image is its timelessness. It looks like it could have been made in the later 1800s, and reminds me of the work of Julia Margaret Cameron, with its references to Pre-Raphaelite painting, featuring limp poses and soft lighting. Mann’s photo has the same qualities. The young girl’s dress furthers this timeless atmosphere, as does the chair she sits in. The photographer has captured not only a very intimate moment, but has, though her craft, imbued the image with so much psychological power. The photo not only seems to represent a girl lost in a dream, but also feels like a dream itself. And if I dive further in the subconscious elements seen here, I could also see this as a death portrait. Her eyes are closed, her hands are crossed. Is she laid out in a coffin? Is this a display, not only to the fleeting nature of youth, but the ever present spectre of death? Now consider that this photograph was taken by the girl’s mother. The sense of serenity is one that a mother would probably know better than anyone, when seeing your young child asleep. But isn’t also a parent’s greatest fear, the death of their child? Is Mann exploring this fear with her camera? Is she challenging the viewer to take stock of their own familial relationships? Could a stranger had been able to create such a powerful image of the same young girl? I doubt that the kind of gentle touch of the artist’s lens, the intimacy of the space, the softness of the light would be available to an outsider.

It is a sad fact that women are underrepresented in the arts, and photography is no exception. Men have most times taken the spotlight as innovators, or as the heroic masters of the art world, and certainly this holds true in photography as well. But it is the work of Sally Mann that proves the value, the legitimacy and the true artistry that a woman artist can possess, and should rightfully be recognized for. I would highly recommend reading Sally Mann’s autobiography, “Hold Still.” Her family history certainly informed her artistic development, but it’s also a wonderful look at the creative process of a true photographic master.

Worth A Thousand Words: Robert Frank

Up to this point, I’ve been hesitant to write any words about Robert Frank, for a number of reasons. Most of them are rooted in my deep love of his work and the profound influence he has had on my own image making. How do I pay due respect to an artist so important to me? Can I be objective when writing about a particular image of his? Another challenge would be deciding which of his images would I focus my attention on? There are just too many touchstone Robert Frank photographs to choose from. Nonetheless, with a looming exhibit of my own, it made sense to try to write about this week’s image “Covered Car, Long Beach, California.”

So, what do we see in this photograph? It is a car, covered in some kind of white fabric. The car is parked between two thick palm trees. Shadows from the trees are cast upon a plain looking, boxy building, the wall of which look covered in a dark stucco. The light seems like late afternoon to me. The composition is slightly off kilter, just slightly tilting to the right. The fabric that covers the car has an almost striped appearance to it, the result of bands that are stitched together. The contrast is somewhat stark, with the white of the cover offset by the deep shadows on the wall, and the tufts of palm leaves on the trees. All in all, a fairly non-complex photograph at first glance.

What is not seen in the photo? Well, this is an urban environment, but there are no people seen in the shot. And we of course assume there is a car under the tarp, being able to recognize the shape of the chassis, and the distinct poke of an antenna pushing up the covering as well. The next question I ask myself is why did Frank take this photo? It appears in his seminal book “The Americans” which creates a context for a deeper interpretation of the image. Frank explored the subject matter of the automobile extensively throughout the book. When Frank was shooting the photographs that eventually became "The Americans," the automobile was seen as a key component to the post-WW2 westward expansion in the United States, and was a symbol of freedom and mobility for a growing middle-class society. The fact that the car is covered brings what seems to me an elegiac quality; quite a mournful feeling to this image. Coupled with the fact that the lighting indicates late in the day, nearing sunset, I get a distinct feeling that there is an intrinsic sadness to this image. The car becomes a body covered, something to be mourned, hidden, and prepared for some kind of death. Of course, this is my personal projection on to the image, but if an astute viewer were to look at the photo in the context of where it appears in “The Americans” one would make a similar leap.

The image appears in a sequence of the book that begins with a close up, side view of two men in the front seat of a car, “US 91, leaving Blackfoot, Idaho.” Here we see the car as a means of escape, with Frank a passenger in a very tight front seat with two mean who look as though the are fleeing a crime scene. Next is an image of five elderly people sitting on a roadside bench, titled “St. Petersburg, Florida.” In the background, we see a car speeding by, slightly blurred. Is this a rumination on death, the life that is soon to be leaving these people speeding behind them as they wait for the inevitable? The “covered car” photo is the next image in the sequence. The photo that then immediately follows shows the aftermath of a car accident, with a group of four people standing beside the blanket covered remains of what is surely a dead body. The covered body echoing the covered par in the previous image. To complete this run of images, we see a long view of a lonely highway in New Mexico, stretching off into the far distance, with just a lone car driving towards us, seen very far off in a dark, foreboding environment, under a threatening sky. Seen as a whole, this sequence of images ­­­tells a sad story of life and death intertwined with the presence or influence of the automobile.

Photograph © 1958 by Robert Frank

My own fascination with covered cars stems directly from the image made by Robert Frank. My approach to the subject matter is quite different. For one, I chose to show the cars in color. I have taken a clinical, studied approach to the subject matter, and have assembled well over fifty of such images, to date. I am fascinated when I look at them as a group of photos, when the variety of covers and locations become a foil to the consistency of the subjects. Yet, there is still that initial feeling of sadness that permeates the images I make. These vehicles are covered for reasons I don’t ever really know. Are they classic cars that require protection from the elements? Are the windows busted and leaking, requiring covering to protect the interior? Is the vehicle evidence of some crime? Has an accident occurred? They often look like Christ-like bodies, covered in shrouds. Or perhaps they represent something desirable yet hidden from view, their covering providing a layer of mystery and intrigue.

It is amazing to me that so many of these covered cars reveal themselves to me as I travel my home city, but also in locations that I travel to. They seem to be everywhere once I start looking for them. They serve as a constant reminder of the influence that Robert Frank has had on my work, and send a silent message of kinship and solidarity to me as I pursue my work. As the master has said, “The eye should learn to listen before it looks.” I am constantly listening and looking, too.

Addendum: I recently recorded a podcast about Robert Frank. Give it a listen!

Book Recommendation

“... the effort we all make...to affirm life without lying about it. And then to behave in accord with our vision.”

— Robert Adams, "Why People Photograph"

Spending a quiet afternoon with this classic. Highly recommended for any fellow photographers out there who want to think more deeply about our chosen medium.

“At our best and most fortunate, we make pictures because of what stands in front of the camera, to honor what is greater and more interesting than we are. We never accomplish this perfectly, though in return we are given something perfect— a sense of inclusion. Our subject thus redefines us, and is part of the biography by which we want to be known.”

— Robert Adams, "Why People Photograph"

Worth A Thousand Words: Larry Fink

Red state or blue state. Rich or poor. Rural or urban. Black or white… or red… or brown… or yellow. Republican or Democrat. Educated or uneducated. Liberal or conservative. Hopeful or hopeless. There are many divisions in the United States right now, not to mention the world. There are maybe more things that divide us than unite us, I suppose, depending if one is an optimist or a pessimist. Yet another divide. I ponder these things on a regular basis; certainly when I read the news over breakfast every morning. I ponder these things as I look at this week’s photograph, “Pat Sabatine’s 8th Birthday Party” by Larry Fink. Though the image was produced in 1977, I think looking at it through a contemporary eye brings an even deeper appreciation to it for me.

Larry Fink is an enormously talented photographer, whose work hangs in many museums around the world. He has also published many important photo books. This particular photograph is the cover image from his book titled “Social Graces.” That book will probably remain his most important body of work, for many years to come. The images are a stark contrast in subject matter: either the lives of wealthy New Yorkers leading glamorous lives, or working-class folks in rural Pennsylvania, leading a much less glamorous existence. Though the pictures are of two very different worlds, it is Fink’s technical approach and intimacy in each environment that truly unifies the body of work. The photographer enables the viewer to be a voyeur into world’s that are most likely quite different, perhaps completely alien from their own.

Fink shows the very rich and the very poor using a stark lighting technique, the result of a bright flash in a mostly under-lit environment. The photographer has likened his approach to the same way Rembrandt would like his subjects. It is interesting to have the lighting add a feeling of “uncovering” to the images. Especially when the photos depict the lives of the very wealthy, the lighting brings an arresting element of discovery to a world made exclusive to the most of us. These are photos of the “1%” before there was such a term.

It is the folks at the other end of the spectrum in Fink’s book that I find more compelling, though. This week’s subject image is case in point. What do I see in this image? It is a black and white photograph, square format, indicating that this was most likely shot with a medium format camera. Interesting to consider that Fink was operating in a tight space with a larger camera than a stealthy 35mm. The lighting is the result of a flash, as we see a wonderful wash of light, along with a number of shadows, that help create an even more dramatic play between black and white. The flash has frozen a moment that was in flux, and if I rest my eyes and my mind for a moment longer, I can start to hear, smell and feel the chaotic environment he is showing us. To me, it feels humid, there is shouting, and a creak of the wooden screen door. Before the image was made, there was probably a shout from inside by the older woman, carrying the birthday cake. “Can someone get that door open?” might have been heard over the din of the assembled family. I love the arm that arches over her head, the way the fingers gingerly hold the door open. It’s one of three hands that I’m fascinated by in this shot. The second is the resting hand in the lower right corner of the image, fingertips cut off by the framing, acting as both a pushing force to make way for the cake, while also anchoring the chaos within the picture frame. The last hand is obvious to all, that of the young boy near the center left of the photo. The flash has frozen him in the middle of what must be an outburst. His fingers are splayed out, and seem to be punctuating some kind of a shout, or by the look on his face, perhaps even yelp of confusion. His sweaty hair is matted to his forehead, his lips forming a round O, looking like he is hooting. The shadow of his arm falls on the screen of the door. The wonderful blond hair of the girl next to him falls in front of our eyes, resting, in part, on a bent elbow. Is it the boy’s birthday? Or the girl with her back to the camera? Hard to tell who the 8 year-old may be. But again, I could not only imaging the feeling of being there at that moment, but could also imagine the taste of that cake, with its rich chocolate frosting.

How can the viewer not feel like a voyeur when looking at this image? Fink has gained us access to a world that might very well be unfamiliar to us. And his use of the flash seems to have stolen a moment that would have not been visible otherwise. But what is it about this image that speaks to me today? Going back to my original pondering of the divisions in this country, I think this photo exemplifies a world that still exists in many rural communities today. If the rich have gotten richer, the poor have certainly gotten poorer. The middle class, of which I am a member, probably doesn’t see or fully understand the lives on the very top or the very bottom. The rich have the capacity to control public access to their worlds, no doubt. But what does an urbanite living in Brooklyn, Venice Beach, or even Albuquerque truly know about those living in rural West Virginia, or somewhere in the deep south, or in rural Pennsylvania? We have our preconceptions and biases that paint a picture of how we “think” others live, but what do we really know? Do we get our impressions justified by 24-hour news channels, from reality TV shows, from dubious online sources? Do we really see each other as we pass on the street? Do we see each other at the mall, at church, at a sporting event? Do we know how others suffer? Do we know how they celebrate? Are we so different from each other? Does the distribution of wealth, the ravages of a capitalist system that creates winners and losers really speak to who we really are as human beings? I don’t have answers, but when I look at the work of Larry Fink, created over 30 plus years ago, I wonder. How does each one of us live our lives, accepting the lot we are given, or fight for something better for ourselves or our families?

Worth A Thousand Words: Mark Cohen

A lazy, late summer Sunday finds me back in my city of Albuquerque, hanging out in a coffee shop, sipping on an Aranciata Rossa and thinking about photography. I wandered through the Railyard Market earlier, and was struck by the capacity for Albuquerque to embody both the feel of a small town yet have the pulse of a much larger city. Running into fellow local photographers and artists, as well as aging scenesters from my former days in the music world, made me appreciate the benefits of living away from the coasts, away from the hustle of really-big cities, especially New York, which always loomed just over the horizon when I was growing up in New Jersey.

You may wonder what the relevance this has to my weekly exploration of one photograph / one photographer. Perhaps it is serendipitous that I decided to focus on the work of Mark Cohen today. For those of you who are not familiar with the man or his work, he is one of the unsung heroes of street photography, creating stunning images for well over 40 years. What is certainly a point worth noting is that he has built his career in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Staying outside of the center of the art / photography world that is New York has perhaps kept him somewhat off-the-radar, and thus, perhaps limited his exposure to a wider audience. Nonetheless, his work is powerful, jarring, sometime surreal even, and on par with that of his contemporaries that have enjoyed greater critical acclaim and popular recognition.

The image I am looking at today is probably the first image I saw of Mark Cohen’s work. Formally an untitled work, it is sometime called “Bubble Gum” and dates from 1975. There is so much energy in this image, and at the same time, so much mystery. Let’s take a closer look. We see a black and white photograph. The subjects are illuminated by a flash unit, most likely hand held, slightly off camera, based on the position of the highlights. The use of the flash is key here, as it not only lights the scene, but also stopped the action, that looks as though it was in flux during the shoot. There is evidence of a slightly blur as the lighting falls off of the hand in the top /middle of the frame, and the background utility pole and buildings also show a blurriness. What draws me to this image is the strange geometry it presents. The way the bubble sits along the bottom of the frame, while the side of the face and hair lurk just behind, the hand of another person creeps up through the middle of the frame, and the dreary looking urban environment that falls of into the distance creates a formality to the photograph as it pushes the viewer’s eyes back toward the action in the middle.  

There is a strong, subconscious element at play in this image, and acting as an armchair photo critic / psychoanalyst, I will delve deeper into what I’m seeing and feeling while looking at this image. The scene feels like it could be a still frame pulled from a movie of a dream. It certainly has a surreal quality to it. The use of the flash certainly heightens this feeling. I could imagine Cohen wandering through his town as night was falling, and coming upon a group of children, deciding to inflict himself into their world, their environment, with burst of light and a click of the shutter. The fact the we see no face behind the bubble adds to the anonymity of course, and when I see that hand above the head, it brings me back to the “Paul is Dead” rumors that swirled around the Beatles during their release of Sgt. Pepper’s, a hand above Paul’s head meant to signify “he was being blessed by a priest before being interred.” Though my shrink might have other interpretations, that is a potent symbolism for my reading of this image. I could also make an assumption that the hand is in the process of coming down hard on the figure blowing the bubble. Could it be the action of an over-zealous, over-physical friend or sibling trying to burst the bubble?  Or it could be simply someone trying to get themselves into the photo.

If one explores more of Mark Cohen’s extensive body of work, you would see that he uses this faceless, tightly cropped approach in much of his work. The disjointed, faceless limbs, chests, knees and hands that appear again and again, often covey a feeling of violence, of invasion, of latent sexuality and of a breaking down of the barriers of personal space. I have seen videos of Cohen photographing, and he employs a similar technique to that of Bruce Gilden, where he often surprises his subject with a flash and a thrust of the camera while they are strolling along, minding their own business. The fact that Cohen often photographs children or teens probably causes him more trouble in a small town. Shooting on the streets of Wilkes-Barre would most likely make Cohen a more obvious presence than a photographer blending into the masses of humanity on the streets of New York City.

Which brings me back to my opening point. I must add additional praise to the work of Mark Cohen, strictly because of the environment that he chooses to work in. I feel an affinity with those photographers working and creating away from the east and west coasts, and those who are toiling away in what may be a deeper obscurity because of it. It is also a challenge to blend in when you are wandering with a camera in a less populated area, for sure. But there is also a great freedom that comes to those who work away from the spotlight. It may bring the development of a style that is more dependent on what is in the mind of the photographer and less about what complexity might linger in front of his or her lens.

Worth A Thousand Words: Lee Friedlander

Well, I ended up taking a week off since I was on vacation, after all. But I’m jumping back into my routine, and thought I’d find an image that had some added significance to discuss. This week, I’m looking at a photograph by one of the most influential American photographers of the past 50 years, Lee Friedlander. His work has been instrumental in the development of my own style, and I continue to be inspired by his ongoing visual explorations.

The photograph I’m looking at today is from Friedlander’s series “The American Monument.” It is with intention that I am looking at this body of work now, against the backdrop of the vocal and sometimes violent re-examination of the presence and the meaning of statues and monuments that stand in cities across the United States.

This particular monument that Friedlander photographed, stands in what might be considered the “center of the world,” New York City. So, what is it that I see? It is a black and white photograph, shot on film, which is obvious when it is revealed that the image dates from the 1970s. Though the angle seems, slightly wide, the depth of field is sharp throughout, and the background stacks layer upon layer around the main subject, a statue of one “Father Duffy.”

Some cursory searching online found this information:

“Father Francis Duffy of Most Holy Trinity Church on 42nd Street near Broadway served with the Fighting 69th, a mostly-Irish regiment in World War I, was severely wounded, and received the Distinguished Service Cross for bravery on the battlefield. His monument in Duffy Square, the triangle formed by Broadway, 7th Avenue and 47th Street and dedicated in 1937, features Father Duffy in his World War I uniform standing in front of the Celtic cross.”

The location of the statue is part of Times Square, and it is interesting to see how much has grown around it, not only when Friedlander took his photograph, but as it looks today. Part of what I find fascinating about “The American Monument” series is that many of the featured monuments that have receded into their surroundings. Often, they look as though they have been neglected or forgotten. They become lost in their environments, or perhaps those environments have changed and transformed from when the statues were first erected. The Father Duffy image is a perfect illustration of this. If we examine how Friedlander chose to show us this scene, we can see that the statue is only one small component of the entire scene. The composition is almost like a jigsaw puzzle, with the image of Father Duffy lost in a sea of advertisements, block letters, scaffolding, and buildings. The alignment at the top of the frame is slightly off kilter, due to the perspective of the photographer looking up from ground level, while the wrought iron spikes of a fence along the bottom of the frame brings a jagged severity composition.

I find it interesting to ponder the fact that the monument we see in this photograph is a tribute to both a priest and a soldier. It brings a deeper meaning to the image for me. The symbolism of a spiritual leader is at odds with the crass consumerism on display around him. Secondly, the man who is lionized here was a soldier in World War 1, and his efforts to fight for his country were perhaps ironically resulting in giving us our freedom to drink an endless supply Coca Cola while waiting in line for some half-priced Broadway show tickets. The clash of reverence and irreverence is palpable. What is also quite interesting is once a Google image search is done on this monument, you can plainly see that the environment that Friedlander captured in the 1970s has changed dramatically to what one finds there today. Times Square was always considered the crossroads of the world, so any change really should not be surprising. As the area transformed under Rudy Giuliani in the 1990s, the real estate value increased at an unbelievable pace. Considering all of this, I am actually a bit surprised the statue wasn’t relocated somewhere else.

A recent photo of Father Duffy Square.

I wonder what Friedlander might add to the current national dialogue (arguments) about the role of statues and monuments in our country. As stated earlier, the overall feeling of the body of work is one of neglect or ignorance. However, we as a society are in the process of re-assessing who is considered a hero and who is a scoundrel, a murderer, or a traitor. Every monument is a commemoration of both a victory and a defeat. Both the conqueror and the conquered. If history is written by the victors, these statues, of course, focus on the exploits that have no doubt caused someone else great pain and suffering. From a nationalistic standpoint, it may be easier to hail a hero from a war overseas, and let the benefit of time polish the luster of the monument. However, when those commemorated have inflicted bloodshed on our own soil, against our own citizens, should these statues be allowed to stand any longer?

Perhaps Friedlander would choose not to overtly politicize his intent. To further your pondering, I will close with a wonderful quote I found by John Szarkowski on this work:

“… I think we are moved more deeply by Friedlander's intuitions concerning the nature of America's relationship to its past, concerning the vernacular materials out of which with attention we might fashion a culture, concerning the evidence of these countless attempts to preserve and nourish the idea of community. I am still astonished and heartened by the deep affection in those pictures, by the photographer's tolerant equanimity in the face of the facts, by the generosity of spirit, the freedom from pomposity and rhetoric. One might call this work an act of high artistic patriotism, an achievement that might help us reclaim that work from ideologues and expediters. His work, in sum, constitutes a conversation among the symbols that we live among and that to some degree we live by.” 

Worth A Thousand Words: William Klein

photo © William Kein, 1959.

I am in transit as I write this, on my way to the East Coast for some family time and some much-needed beach time. That doesn’t excuse me from my weekly photo criticism exercise. If anything, I think it will bring an additional degree of insight to this week’s image. This week I will be looking at a photograph by one of the true masters of twentieth century photography, William Klein. As always, if you have any questions or comments, please don’t hesitate to leave a comment at the end of this entry.

A little of the backstory on Klein is appropriate, to start. Though he is American-born, William Klein is best known as a French photographer, having been living in Paris since he was stationed there by the US Army. He attended the Sorbonne in 1948, and though he originally was a painter, it was his filmmaking and photography that brought him great acclaim. His notable photo work ranges from groundbreaking fashion work, particularly his shooting for Vogue in the 1950s, as well as his highly influential book of photographs “New York” from 1954. If there is a style of his that I am most drawn to, it is this work, scenes of street life…frenetic and chaotic, highly contrasted and grainy. Klein has produced a series of books that crucial contributions to the art form, in addition to “New York” he has focused on Paris, Rome, Tokyo, and most notable to this critique, Moscow.

The photograph I’m writing about is a wonderful study in the contrast of emotions, while also being a textbook example of compositional intent. So, what do I see? It is a black and white photograph, with three people fairly-evenly distributed in the frame. It looks as though this photo was taken in the summer, perhaps at a resort, near a lake or a forest, judging by the environment. In the far background is an older, heavy set woman, who looks to be drying off on a park bench. In the middle of the frame, we see an older gentleman, sitting in a beach chair. In the foreground is a young woman, a broad grin on her face, her body slightly hunched over, leaning in towards the photographer. Each person is separated from the others by a strong, vertical element: a pole or a tree. Let’s take a closer look at each of these individuals, and how they relate to each other.

The woman in the far background is looking towards the camera, aware of the photographer, but she is somewhat out of focus, so her expression is a bit hard to judge. However, I believe her presence helps bring additional tension to the photograph. We can then shift our gaze to the older man in the center of the image. He looks as though he might be asleep, or at least dozing off. I wonder if he was at all aware of the photographer. Did he close his eyes and bring his hand to his face as a reaction to Klein’s presence? Is the presence of the young woman affecting him at all? Or, as I said, perhaps he is asleep, and lost in what may be a tense or disturbing dream.

If we now look closely at the young woman on the left, there is so much to explore and consider. She is the youngest person we see, by far. Is she somehow related to the other two? Are they her grandparents? She is a contrast to them in every way. She is vivacious, excited, and obviously fully aware that her picture is being taken. Her hair is stylish for the time-period, and her bathing suit is a bikini, which popularly swept the world in a fashion craze around this time. Some might judge her appearance a somewhat risqué for when the photo was taken, although the fact that she is young makes sense that she would be wearing a bikini, in comparison to the attire of her elders. Her bare shoulders lean forward, and her top looks to be hanging quite low. There is a fold of flesh along her tummy, accentuated by her lean towards the camera. The most compelling thing about her appearance though, to me eyes, is her mouth. Is she smiling at us? Is she grimacing? It seems her expression could fall somewhere between the two. Her teeth are even, but it is her gums that really grab my attention.

The image is dated in 1959, which is the first clue to a bit of deeper meaning, at least to American eyes. These were the days when the US and the Soviet Union were in full Cold War mode. The former WW2 allies were creeping further and further apart, with mutual suspicion ruling the mindset of each. While the 1950s, in the United States and most of the West, were seen as the heyday and triumph of a burgeoning youth culture, we were led to believe that the life of those living under communism in the east was subpar and stunted. Can this attitude help solve the intrigue surrounding this photograph then? We see a scene of a clear generation gap. The old ways giving way to a very different “new.” A young, stylish, bikini-clad woman, trying to express some freedom, some sexuality, while confined to the recreational world of her elders. We are peeking behind the “Iron Curtain” through the eyes of Mr. Klein. We are seeing a world, we probably misunderstood, at best, and were suspicious of, at worst. Yet, we see people no different than those probably vacationing in the shore of some American lake at the same time this photo was taken. We are more the same than we are different. Young people everywhere look to distinguish themselves from previous generations. Old folks shrug, shake their heads, when trying to understand the desires and interests of the younger generation. This is what I see when I gaze at this image.

As a footnote to this critique, I’d like to share a story. Once, in the late 1990s, while shopping in a Salvation Army thrift store on 23rd Street in New York City, I found a poster for a Klein exhibition in 1981. The poster features this same photograph. I framed it and it still hangs in my home office today, sitting right above my desk. I never tire of looking at it, and I continue to be inspired by the great work of William Klein.

Worth A Thousand Words: Eugene Richards

Welcome to another installment of the weekly series on my blog, where I intend to take a closer look at iconic photographs, and write 1000 words about each. I hope you find this exercise as interesting and thought provoking as I do. It has really helped me slow down and think about photography in a much more focused way (no pun intended.) As always, I encourage you to leave any comments at the end of this entry. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

This week I will discuss this energetic, summertime image by Eugene Richards, “Grandmother, Brooklyn, New York, 1993.”

First, a little bit of information about the photographer himself. To be honest, I have been aware of the work of Eugene Richards for quite some time, but I can’t say that I have ever been a huge fan of his work. I certainly appreciate the longevity of his career and the accolades his work has garnered, but I can’t say I’ve paid very close attention to his work over the years. I will fully admit that the loss is all mine. Born in 1944, Richards has been a freelance photojournalist since the 1970s. His socially conscious brand of photojournalism has won him awards such as a Guggenheim Fellowship, the W. Eugene Smith Memorial Award, a National Endowment for the Arts Grant and the International Center of Photography Infinity Award. I have seen may images of his in museums, online and in publications, but until today, I had never seen the image about which I will write further.

Which brings us to this specific photo. What do I see? It is a black and white photograph. It is a street scene in a city, and my immediate guess would be New York, possible the borough of Brooklyn. It is most likely shot with a 35mm camera and a wide-angle lens, judging by the format of the framing and the wide view, along with what looks like classic film tonality and grain. It looks like a fast shutter speed was used, since there are obvious sprays of water being frozen in time. The composition is completely off kilter, with the background framed crookedly by what appears to be the underside of a bridge, the fence and building in the background also slanting upwards. However, the rest of the composition is a dynamic thing of beauty. Starting with the stop sign that anchors the left side of the image. In a case of serendipity, it not only aligns with the bridge structure, but it also bisects one of the people sitting in a lawn chair, in an almost Lee Friedlander kind of way. The fire hydrant down in the lower right corner anchors the rest of the image, and the beautiful stream of water that sprays from it crosses the entire frame. It also draws the eye to the wonderful interplay between the two main subjects of the photo. First, we see the older woman, the grandmother of the title, sitting in a kiddie pool, heavily soaked and adjusting her sunglasses. She is oblivious to the actions of the young girl behind her, who is throwing a pot of water into a circular pattern into the air. It looks to me that Richards may have been passing by this scene and quickly shot this one frame, but not seeing the contact sheet I can’t be sure. Regardless, this fantastic moment of action is captured at exactly the right moment. The more I study this photograph, the more I see in it. Litter strewn on the street corner. Graffiti on the garage gate. The striped barrier along the edge of the street in the far background. A lone air conditioner peeking out of a window, while the rest of the windows seem covered in plywood. The stained stones of the bridge supports. Looking closer still. There are seven chairs visible, only two being used. Is this a neighborhood hangout spot? Is this a family outing? Is this the closest thing these folks have to a swimming pool, a bit of shoreline, a vacation? Clearly this is not a high-income group of people, hanging out under a city bridge on a hot summer day. But it also harkens back to a time in the past when this kind of scene was fairly common in cities across the country. It may very well be still happening this summer.

I’m now thinking about why this image speaks to me so strongly. For one thing, I grew up very close to New York City, and spent some time of my life living in similar surroundings in Hudson County, New Jersey. This kind of scene is something I have witnessed personally, although I don’t recall ever having taken part in it myself. And the joys of this kind of experience are firmly entrenched in what could be thought of as some kind of quintessential urban summer experience. At the same time, one can take a more melancholy view of the proceedings, if you’d rather be in a swimming pool, or a rural lake, or swimming in the ocean. Yet the relief from the summer heat is palpable when you gaze at this image. And perhaps these folks don’t have the choices that others may have, for recreation and relaxation. Maybe this is their only summer vacation spot. What I find most enticing about the photograph is the amount of energy Richards has shown us, in might have been dismissed as a weak photograph, when judged by the stringent parameters of a photographic purist. Those rigid aesthetes who judge the value of a photo by a balanced composition, straight lines, sharply focused, and perfectly exposed would be sorely disappointed. You might guess that I am not one of these kinds of people. Traditional photographic rules are less important to me. Out of balance framing, film grain, blurring…it can be appealing to my eyes. And if the image can convey as much as this photograph by Eugene Richards, I’ll eat it up quicker than a soft serve ice cream cone on a hot city street corner in an August heatwave.