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: 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.

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.”