2022: 17 Camera Work

I was going to give myself the day off today, chilling out with some non-photography related pursuits. A reward for spending the day in my studio yesterday, finishing off the next self-publishing project I’ve been working on. Hand-binding a stack of books was intense work, and I need a break. So, of course, I stumbled upon something too photographically relevant to avoid, and in the interest of sharing my obsession, I will let you in on this discovery.

Apparently a complete set of the seminal photo journal “Camera Work” is going up for auction. Unless you have about $200K burning a hole in your pocket, this treasure trove of early 20th century art photography will most likely be out of reach. Fear not, the entire collection has been digitized, and is available for downloading (as PDFs) from the good folks at the Modernist Journals Project. Enter this rabbit hole at your own risk. All I know is…there goes my peaceful, non-photographic Saturday.

For some background (thank you Wikipedia):

Camera Work was a quarterly photographic journal published by Alfred Stieglitz from 1903 to 1917. It is known for its many high-quality photogravures by some of the most important photographers in the world and its editorial purpose to establish photography as a fine art. It has been called "consummately intellectual" … "by far the most beautiful of all photographic magazines"… and "a portrait of an age [in which] the artistic sensibility of the nineteenth century was transformed into the artistic awareness of the present day."

2022: 14 Heart of Glass

I have been exploring alternative processes lately in my studio. My path away from digital photography has been quite the journey, taking me through various film stocks, pinhole cameras, instant film, encaustics… and most recently, cyanotypes. Hand coating paper with light sensitive chemicals is another world of challenge and experimentation. One thing I learned very quickly was the benefit of using a larger negative to create cyanotype prints. Yes, collaged 35mm negatives can work, in their own way, but nothing beats a 4 x 5 negative (or something even larger.)

With this in mind, I have begun to purchase old, glass negatives from eBay. There is a whole world of decades-old imagery out there, just waiting to be rediscovered. Sometimes the image might be so unique that it commands exorbitant prices; I generally stay away from those sellers. I found a good source of “lots” of negatives this week. reasonably priced, but in varying degrees of quality and condition. Still, there are a few gems in the stack of negatives that arrived in my mailbox.

The image above is a prime example. I’m not sure how old the negative is, but it looks like it is early 1900s for sure. It also looks like it might not be in the United States. The appearance of the wall behind the costumed man looks Mediterranean, or possibly Latin or South American. The outfit the man is wearing could be a costume, or could be a cultural outfit…again, I have no clue.

However, my favorite part of this photograph is the obvious shadow of the photographer. What is often considered an amateur mistake is, in this case, a special tribute to those of us who wield a camera, documenting our family and friends, with no desire for fame or glory or recognition. As young photographers, we are taught how to avoid harsh shadows, and most certainly our own shadow creeping inside of our pictures. There are exceptions to this rule, of course.. Lee Friedlander is a prime example of photographing one’s own shadow. This glass negative does not seem to intentionally include the shadow of the photographer.

Nonetheless, I find it charming to see the presence of the artist in the picture. I wonder who these people are, where this picture was made, and about the fact that they are dead and gone now. I wonder if they are remembered fondly by a handful of family members, or if my discovery of a long lost negative brings some kind of cosmic attention to people whose legacy was lost to time. And I think about the photographer him (or her) self, and the tangential connection we now share.

2021: 34 Minor = Major

"A sequence of photographs is like a cinema of stills. The time and space between photographs is filled by the beholder … The spring-tight line between reality and photograph has been stretched relentlessly, but it has not been broken. … abstractions of nature have not left the world of appearances; for to do so is to break the camera's strongest point-its authenticity." - Minor White

I’ve been doing a deep dive into the work of Minor White this week. He was a major figure in 20th Century fine art photography, but oddly, he seems to have fallen off the radar somewhat nowadays. Perhaps if you were required to watch a short video about him before you get to your latest camera review video on YouTube, White would garner more interest. He certainly deserves it.

Minor White was part of the circle that brought legacy to the art of photography in the mid 20th century. He was a pal of Ansel Adams (I won’t hold that against him) and Paul Strand, and was heavily influenced by Alfred Stieglitz, both in style and in his theoretical approach to image making. He was the first editor of Aperture Magazine, a pillar of the art form since its inception. He was also one of the first photographers to consider the importance of sequencing his work. In fact, much of his body of work has been presented in groupings entitled: “Sequence…”

His photos ran the gamut from landscape and structures, very much in the style of his friend Ansel. However, it seems that only after he suffered some health issues, which precipitated an embrace of Eastern philosophy, that his work took a stronger turn toward abstraction and expressionism. Though close ups of ice formations and peeling paint might seem a cliche or trope nowadays, Minor White was one of the first to explore this subject matter with his camera. When one considers the prominence of the hand-held camera and burgeoning “street” aesthetic that was gaining ground when he was producing this kind of work, White should be commended for going against the grain, in a sense.

There are plenty of examples of this master’s work out there on the internet, though I do suggest trying to track down his photos in book form. They really do reward the viewer when seen in a more tangible format. The time gazing at a Minor White abstraction in a hardbound photo book is a short, meditative escape from the present world. Your moment of Zen awaits.

Buy Photo Books, Not Photo Gear

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A camera is a tool. A lens is a tool. More cameras and more lenses may give you more options to explore and capture the world. However, more important than any piece of equipment are your eyes. And no fancy pants, ultra high megapixel device is going to make you a better photographer if your eyes (and your mind) aren't functioning photographically. With the relentless torrent of images bombarding us everyday off of computer monitors, smart phones or other screen-based platforms, it is even more important to devote time to the tangible and the tactile. Investing in photo books will bring more lasting value to your life as a photographer than any new shiny piece of glass and metal (and plastic.)

There really is no replacement for seeing photographs in print. Many of us don't have the time or the access to a museum or gallery on a regular basis to view photos hanging in a frame on a wall. And not to diminish those opportunities, but the photo book format is, in many ways, the ultimate way to consume photographic images. You can spend as much time with each image, studying and contemplating. You can delve deeply into the sequencing of the images, which is a key component to a true body of work, as opposed to a single image that pops up on your Instagram feed. Books have permanence, and they will most likely increase in value. Try saying that about the latest mirrorless camera you just dropped a grand on.

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Click on the image to find a copy for purchase

I recently added a few titles to my photo book library. I was thrilled to hear that the earliest books by the black and white master Ralph Gibson had been reissued in a new compilation. "The Black Trilogy" highlights the surreal, dreamlike work that Gibson soon became highly recognized for. What I find most striking about this body of work is how prevalently the vertical format is featured. I remember hearing once that Gibson felt that shifting to a vertical format subconsciously unsettles the viewer by a small degree, moving them away from the expected and more familiar horizontal presentation of an image. Combined with the inherent qualities of black and white, this helps push the work further from reality and deeper into the viewers psyche.

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Click on the image to find a copy for purchase

The second book I'm featuring is by the great Japanese photographer Daido Moriyama.  "Record" is a hardbound, slipcased book that complies his work that was originally released in a series of self-published magazines. The work spans almost thirty years, and highlights Moriyama's are-bure-boke (“shaky-blurry”) style. It is a bit difficult to comprehend how revolutionary this style was when it first surfaced in the late 1960s, especially considering how many contemporary photographers now ape Daido's look. As the work progresses chronologically, it becomes perhaps sharper and clearer, but never any less provocative. 

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Click on the image to find a copy for purchase

The last book up for discussion is a fairly obscure title, called "Meta Photographs" by Richard Gordon. Now before you go thinking this is some "johnny come lately, post-modern hipster, internet age" cash in, please note that the book was originally published in 1978. I had never heard of it, nor the photographer Richard Gordon, before I happened upon a set of images from this book on view at SFMOMA. This book falls squarely in my wheelhouse, as it is strictly photography about photography. Or more accurately, photos of items or environments that include some photographic representation in them. Photos of celebrity portraits on a wall, photos of people using cameras, photos of people being photographed. What I love the most about this book is how a simple undercurrent unites the whole project; how a photographic image can be recontextualized; how something that at first glance seems mundane, can actually be infinitely thought provoking. 

What are some of your personal favorite photo books? Feel free to share your thoughts.

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!

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: 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: Josef Koudelka

This is the second installment of the new weekly series on my blog, where I intend to take a closer look at iconic photographs, and write 1000 words about each. For those readers who have returned after last week’s entry about Diane Arbus, I say “thank you.” And to those new readers… welcome. I hope you find this exercise as interesting and as thought provoking as I do. 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 fantastic image by Josef Koudelka, “Czechoslovakia 1966. Straznice. Festival of gypsy music.” First some background information on the artist himself. From the Magnum Photos website:

“Josef Koudelka, born in Moravia, made his first photographs while a student in the 1950s. About the same time that he started his career as an aeronautical engineer in 1961 he also began photographing Gypsies in Czechoslovakia and theater in Prague. He turned full-time to photography in 1967. The following year, Koudelka photographed the Soviet invasion of Prague, publishing his photographs under the initials P. P. (Prague Photographer) for fear of reprisal to him and his family. Koudelka left Czechoslovakia for political asylum in 1970 and shortly thereafter joined Magnum Photos.”

I believe so much can be gleaned from knowing the biographical details of a particular artist, and how these details affect their creative work. This is especially true when looking at the photographs of Koudelka. His history of challenging political oppression and his ultimate exile most definitely inform his work.

Which brings us to this specific photo. What do I see? I see a black and white photograph. It is a street scene. Most likely shot with a 35mm camera and a wide-angle lens, judging by the format of the framing and the wide view. It looks as though it was shot during some kind of public event or celebration, perhaps a parade or a festival. Without any previous information about the location, I would say that the location is either in Europe or possibly Central or South America. The appearance of the musicians looks vaguely Mediterranean, but they seem to be from somewhere different than the crowd of people behind them. The composition of the photo brings the attention of the viewer firstly to the three musicians in the foreground; two violinists and an upright bass player. The crowd that spreads out behind them fills most of the remaining frame, and most of the people seem to be looking off at another situation, not paying attention to the three musicians that have caught Koudelka’s eye. Lastly, I keep studying the crooked tilt of the lines of the building in the far background. The lack of alignment with the edge of the film frame is creating a feeling of unease in my mind. Now, to dive deeper into the main subjects of the photo. The three musicians have a striking difference of appearance. They do not appear to be related to each other. The man on the far right is darker skinned than the others, and he is resting his chin on his instrument, revealing his amazing teeth in what looks like the beginnings of a smile. His eyes though, seem slightly lost in his own world, slightly introspective. The musician in the middle looks like an Italian to me, with his hair slicked back, and his causal white shirt slightly unbuttoned, collar tucked under his jacket. His hand on the neck of the bass is gripping delicately. His gaze, though. Looking directly at the viewer. He doesn’t look sad, but perhaps a bit tired? A trace of pride? A look of longing, but for what? Now we look at the musician on the left. Older than the other two men. Balding. Wrinkles visible around his eyes, mouth and across his forehead. A striped suit that does not match the wardrobe of the other two men; this is no formal band uniform. He looks as though he is in the middle of playing a piece of music, judging by the position of his hands and the bow on the strings of his violin. He is looking out of frame, either in his own world of the music, or looking as if he is lost in his own thoughts. It is striking to me that the three subjects of the photo seem not only disconnected from the crowd around them, but also disconnected from each other.

Why did Koudelka take this photograph? I think there is plenty of information within the image itself to answer this question. The three men, it turns out, are gypsy musicians. They are performing as part of a music festival in Moravia. The year is 1966, but to me, it looks like it could be at least a decade or more before that date. The musician’s are part of a transient population, and thus, do not have a specific homeland to call their own. By their appearance, they look as if they are together by circumstance, not bound by familial connections, or even a specific ethnic / geographic background, in my opinion. They are not part of the crowd that surrounds them. They are not the focus of the crowd’s attention, but certainly Koudelka felt a connection with them. Are they strangers in a strange land, as they appear to be? This must be the connection Koudelka felt when he took this picture. The photographer himself was exploring a theme that he most definitely was feeling himself. Relating to the rootless nature of the gypsy life, which he went on to document more deeply over the years that followed this photograph. And, of course, then Koudelka himself became an exile, a stranger in a strange land himself. Unmoored from his homeland, for what ended up being most of his life, to date. He, no doubt, related completely with the wandering artists he shows us here.

The work of Koudelka was a revelation for me when I first discovered it. It introduced me to another world, literally. Though my familial roots are European (Italian and Sicilian) my life in middle-class America is very different from the people and places that Koudelka shows. Imagining the lives of others, who are struggling beneath oppressive regimes, or are living a life on the margins of society for whatever reason, these photos expanded my world view, and are a lesson in empathy. From a more strictly photographic standpoint, the work of Koudelka is an inspiration to dive deep into the world, with a camera in hand, and try to see the things that are universal to all of us, regardless of where we live, what we own, or where we call “home.”

Worth A Thousand Words: Diane Arbus

Today I am starting a new series on my blog. I intend to take a closer look at iconic photographs, and write 1000 words about each. I hope to do this once a week, not only as a writing exercise, or a stab at more formal photo criticism, but also to give my mind and my eyes time to really study the images that have resonated for me personally for most of my photographic life.

I start with this powerful image by Dianne Arbus, “Child With Toy Hand Grenade in Central Park, 1962.” What do I see?  A black and white photograph. The main subject is set slightly off from the center of the frame. There is shallow depth of field. There is slight fog along the left-hand edge of the film. There is a dapple of tree and leaf shadow spreading out on the ground around the young boy. Two trees sit behind the boy, mimicking the boy’s suspenders. A soft figure stands behind the boy. A stranger? His mother? Another woman walks with a small child further down the path, wandering unknowingly into a moment in photo history. The boy’s forward foot sits just inside the bottom of the framing, and is close to a wooden ice cream spoon sitting on the ground, the kind they used to include in Italian ice, probably sold by a vendor in the park.

Now, studying the boy himself. His sneakers are beat up, and tied haphazardly. His socks are bunched up around his ankles. His knees are dirty. His shorts held up with a pair of suspenders, but one strap hangs off his shoulder, down around his elbow. His shirt has a pattern of emblems, but to my eye they resemble fingerprints. His one hand holds a toy hand grenade, and his other hand is empty, but looks like it is gripping an imaginary object, or is atrophied for some reason. Or is the boy suffering from so kind of muscle disease? We gaze upon his face, which looks disturbed, not frightened, but haunted and haunting. His mouth forms a grimace. His eyes, dark pools. His hair, slightly messy, maybe outgrown from a bowl cut.

Why did Arbus take this photograph? I think it is obvious that the young boy makes for a striking subject. He falls well within the oeuvre we have now come to know from the masterful photographer. He seems alone in the world. His body language and appearance is a mix of fright, anxiety, and mental unease. The loose suspender further conveys a feeling of instability in the subject matter. He is playing with a very realistic looking “toy.” To the casual viewer, it could be an actual hand grenade. An implement of war, destruction, death. The image was made while the Vietnam War was simmering. Was this also on the artist’s mind when she took the photo? How does this photo compare with the famous news photograph of Vietnamese children running from a napalm attack ten years later? I also wonder the impact of the photograph had the young boy been seen holding a toy gun instead. And our understanding that we, as viewers of the future, would be much more concerned now if we came across a youth in a park holding a toy weapon. Never mind the possible reaction of a contemporary police officer. The photo also has echoes of the Munch painting “The Scream” to my eye. A solitary figure in a moment of distress.

Back to the artist’s possible intention in this photograph. I have included a copy of the contact sheet (remember those?) from that day. One would instantly notice that the boy does not appear the same in subsequent images from that roll of film. In a few shots, he is smiling, happy, and looking far from disheveled or disturbed. It is the choice of the photographer to show the viewer their own vision of the world, of course. Are any of the other photographs from that roll as powerful as the image we are so familiar with? I’d say emphatically “no.” The famous image falls squarely in the style and subject matter that we know and expect from a Dianne Arbus photograph. Her body of work contextualizes how we as viewers receive the information in this image. In a gallery filled with images of outcasts, marginalized people, subcultures, the mentally or physically ill, or sideshow freaks…this photo of a young boy playing with a toy looks positively unsettling. Perhaps that was her agenda all along. Possibly she knew full well that she could manipulate the viewer’s response.

Why does this photograph speak so strongly to me? I often have thought that image could be lifted from a dream. Not a nightmare, but perhaps a more standard “bad dream” or a reverie of a lost childhood moment that I was witness to myself. I grew up not far from New York City, and I spent many weekend days running through Lincoln Park in Jersey City, which has similar features to those of Central Park. The smell of sycamore trees still sends me back to those days of my youth. I could have very well happened upon a similar situation back then. Of course, being a child I was year’s away from seeing the world in photographic terms, but nonetheless, this photograph provokes deep, visceral feelings in me. I wonder as I look at this photo what ever happened to this boy. He appears to be perhaps five or six years old in the photo, which would make him sixty years old or so today. I wonder if he or his family ever saw the final photograph, and how they may have reacted to it. Proud? Sad? Embarrassed? Angry? A moment of his youth, forever etched into our collective consciousness. Hanging on a museum wall and published numerous times. Provoking thoughts from complete strangers. All the result of a day of playing in the park on a summer day.