Photography Exercise No. 2 and 3

Posted by on Jul 8, 2012 in Austin Nelson | No Comments

Photography Exercise #2

It’s terribly easy to fall into habits with our photography. We begin to develop our own styles very quickly as photographers. This is not necessarily a bad thing, except that we may become blind to other possibilities. One very simple exercise I have found useful is this: Spend an hour or two walking around with your camera and find a scene you would normally photograph. Frame your shot until you feel like the composition is yours, but then don’t take the shot (this may take some serious will power). Turn around and photograph what’s behind you. This forces you to step out of your photographic comfort zone in a very easy way. It’s not an exercise that will force you to put yourself in any sort of awkward social situation or face any sort of fears, per se, but just to help show that there is always something to photograph, even if sometimes you have to work harder to make it yours. Often without even realizing it, we develop limitations for ourselves that can be creatively stifling and our work can become stagnant and repetitive. This exercise helps us to become aware of these self-imposed limitations and reminds us that we should constantly open ourselves up to new possibilities and directions in our work.

Photography Exercise #3

Photograph five scenes that you find extremely ordinary, but nonetheless visually attractive for whatever reason. It could be a painted brick wall or a busy street corner. Photograph it however you like, but keep it simple and loose. Remember that what we are always initially visually attracted to is light reflecting off surfaces – nothing more. Don’t over think it. Once you’ve photographed the five different “ordinary” scenes, print the images out and study them. Why are they not ordinary? Is it because of some aspect of your framing? Is it an aspect of the scene that you didn’t recognize as interesting at the time? Do you notice that what caught your eye may have a larger personal significance than you recognized at the time you released the shutter? What do these images say about your personal vision and awareness of your surroundings? You don’t need to attach meaning to any of the images. Just let them exist. They may tell you way more about yourself than the scene you photographed.

Edward Steichen

Posted by on Jun 26, 2012 in Austin Nelson, Blog Authors | No Comments

In an effort to study the myriad possibilities that natural lighting affords, Edward Steichen once photographed the same cup and saucer set over two thousand times.  This and other exercises like it illustrate both Steichen’s personal discipline and his open-mindedness in regards to photography – discipline to remain focused on one subject for such an extended period of time, and the receptive ability to realize and remain aware of how remarkably different photographs of the same subject can be, depending on the available light or the angle at which he fixed his camera.  “It’s only the person that is open-minded and receptive to new things or accidental things that happen that can make use of them,” he believed.  Unfortunately, the photos of the cup and saucer no longer exist, as Steichen spent a good portion of his later years destroying negatives and prints that he felt were not central to his body of work, leaving behind less than two four-drawer filing cabinets of negatives, in all probability whittled down from tens of thousands of images, but it was this type of experimentation and his innovative spirit that eventually led him to become a pioneer of color photographic processes and secured his status in history as one of the great masters of photography.

Steichen was born in Luxembourg in 1879, but his parents moved to Chicago when he was an infant and he is considered a quintessentially American photographer.  When he was ten, his family relocated to Milwaukee, where he spent most of his adolescence.  He started his artistic life as a painter, only first turning his focus to photography at the age of sixteen after spotting a Kodak box camera in a second hand store window on his way home from his lithography apprenticeship at a local print shop one afternoon.  His first photographic subject was the family cat.  Steichen and his young artist friends rented a vacant room in a local office building and formed what they called the Milwaukee Art Students League, an organization committed to “emphasizing the importance of artistic creativity, maintaining the greatest respect for artists who devote their lives to art, and educating students in the process of making art in an environment where anyone who wishes to pursue an art education can realize his or her full potential.”  Steichen made a distinction between photographers and “picture takers” or “button pushers,” as he also referred to them, who only photographed things they recognized other photographers had shot before, without being truly moved by their personal experience within a situation.  Of the former, he explains, “the photographer establishes a relationship – an intimate relationship – between himself and whatever he’s photographing, whether it’s a can of beans, a landscape, or Greta Garbo.”

Five short years after picking up a camera for the first time, Steichen met Alfred Stieglitz at the New York Camera Club while stopping over on his way to Paris.  Stieglitz was so impressed with Steichen’s work that he purchased three prints from him at their first meeting for five dollars a piece, a generous amount at the time, especially for Steichen, who had previously only sold his prints for fifty cents a piece.  Stieglitz and Steichen would become lifelong friends and collaborators.  Stieglitz was also impressed by Steichen’s knowledge of painting and his pictorial sensibility.  He would later ask Steichen to create the logo typeface for his immeasurably influential photographic journal Camera Work.  Steichen would eventually become the most frequently published photographer in the course of the magazine’s life from 1903 to 1917, evening having one double issue devoted entirely to his work.  Steichen was also instrumental in bringing the famed “291” gallery to fruition.  Opening in 1905 in the same apartment building in which Steichen was then living in New York City, it was originally called “The Little Gallery of the Photo-Secession”, and the gallery and Steichen both played a pivotal role in bringing modern art in America, with Steichen even acting as a liaison or ambassador between the American and European art worlds.

Steichen was more pictorial than he was utilitarian with his photography, preferring a dreamy quality in his prints, and he would sometimes rub his spit on his camera’s lens or gently shake his tripod during exposures to add a subtle moodiness to his images.  He would also sometimes rub his thumb across his photographs while the prints were still wet to give them a more painterly quality.  This is evident in his portrait of the sculptor Auguste Rodin.  He says of his image of Rodin, a combination of two negatives fixed as a montage into one print, the artist almost silhouetted with his bronze “Thinker” statue opposite him and a marble Victor Hugo sculpture looming in the background, “I think it’s probably the most satisfactory photograph I ever made.”  Still, he found fault with the idea of truth in portraiture. “Nobody has ever made, either in painting or photography, a complete portrait of a person,” he believed.  “I don’t think that’s possible in any one picture.  For instance, everybody has the capacity for laughter and tears and there is no place in between that expresses the whole thing.  But I long ago came to the conclusion that if you could get one moment of reality shining out of that person that was as much as you could get in a portrait and then you had something essential.”

An example of his more pictorial early work, Steichen’s image of the Flatiron Building (1904) in Manhattan is both moving and intimidating.  Going beyond the apparent painterly quality of the image, there are aspects that are curiously unnerving.  The building itself seems impossibly monumental and obtrusive against as ominous overcast sky.  The anonymous silhouette of a stagecoach driver in a top hat that appears in the bottom foreground is reminiscent of Jack the Ripper. On top of the moody atmosphere deeper in the photograph, the image is almost ripped or slashed in half by a tree branch that cuts through the middle of the frame, intentionally placed into the composition by Steichen.  The ability to transform a scene or person into a two dimensional representation of itself that still held powerful emotive qualities was Steichen’s objective, and he is largely considered inscrutable in this regard.  The Flatiron Building prints (three are known to exist) are some of the earliest forays into color in the field of photography.

Steichen’s photograph The Pond – Moonrise (1904) is another prime example of his early color pictorial work, an image of a yellow applied color moon rising from behind a row of dark cyan trees lining and reflecting in a twilit pond.  Of the three prints in existence of the image, one is in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one is in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art, and the third sold in auction in 2006 fetching 2.9 million dollars, a record setting high at the time for a single photograph.

Steichen experimented with the early techniques of cyanotype & ferro-prussiate printing and toning platinum prints with gum bi-chromate, and, in fact, it was Steichen who taught Stieglitz the revolutionary Autochrome process, the first true color photographic technology invented by the Lumiere Brothers in France, producing true color exposures, not simply toned or otherwise colored photographs.

Far and away the most practical and realistic color process of the day, the Lumiere brothers’ Autochrome process consisted of a glass plate screened with dusted tiny orange-red, green, and violet dyed potato starch grains.  The starch layer was then coated with a photosensitive layer of panchromatic silver bromide emulsion.  Light passing through the plate in a camera would be filtered through the dyed starch layer before reaching the emulsion.  This method produced a luminous positive color image on the glass plate, needing no further development after exposure and fixing.  The downside to the Autochrome process was that multiple copies were not producible from the original image, as is possible with photographic negatives, and they had the tendency to fade easily when exposed to light.  Many of Steichen’s color prints remain a mystery, as he didn’t leave notes on his processes at times.  It is thought that he engineered some of his color images by introducing two different emulsions on the same negative plate, perhaps exposing them in separate instances.  Dye imbibition printing was another of Steichen’s favorite practices. The dye imbibition process is a subtractive method of printing, which creates extremely vibrant, saturated colors with bright whites and rich blacks.  Dye imbibition prints were originally used as a proofing method for magazine advertisements.  Dye imbibition is the same process as Dye Transfer, which is a trade name.  Steichen further experimented with the process by intentionally incorrectly coordinating the inks in their respective gelatin matrices during the printing.  This method created some truly surreal and sublime experimental images.  His prints of Bouquet of Many Varieties of Flowers in Vase (ca. 1940) show how broad a spectrum of color images the same photograph could produce through this sort of manipulation, and illustrate the heavily saturated and hyper-real possibilities of the dye imbibition technique.

Steichen took what are considered to be the first modern fashion photographs, pictures of designer Paul Poiret’s gowns first published in the magazine Art et Decoration in 1911, and was the first head photographer for Conde Nast, the publisher of the magazines Vogue and Vanity Fair, from 1923 to 1938.  At this point in his career, Steichen was the highest paid and one of the most influential and renowned photographers in the world.  He also did not differentiate between his fine art and his commercial work, claiming, “I don’t know of any form of art that isn’t or hasn’t been commercial.  Michelangelo on his death bed is supposed to have complained that he never had an opportunity to do what he wanted to do.”  Steichen’s commercial work in the fashion industry certainly facilitated his work with color processes such as dye imbibition, or Dye Transfer printing, and he produced some startlingly beautiful prints during this early period of color photographic imagery.

Steichen was profoundly impacted on a personal level by his time as a photographer in both World Wars, first serving as an aerial photographer and commanding the photography division of the American Expeditionary Forces in World War I and then as the director of the Naval Aviation Photographic Unit in World War II.  His time in the military and first hand experiences in war directly influenced his decision to create his seminal curatorial exhibit The Family of Man in 1955 at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.  The show would come to define his tenure as the head of the photography department at the MoMA and would eventually be exhibited in 69 countries and be viewed by an estimated nine million people.  Originally, Steichen thought that his wartime photography would be so shocking as to get people to recognize the brutality of war, but he came quickly to the conclusion that approaching anything from a negative standpoint isn’t going to help fix anything, so he decided he should have an exhibition showing life around the world and how people everywhere share similar experiences, stating “Photography is a major force in explaining man to man.”  He credits his mother with beginning the exhibition when he was 7 or 8, after he called a friend a “dirty little kike” and she sat him down and explained to him that everyone is equal and valuable, despite their race, creed, or nationality, even quoting the Constitution and The Bill of Rights to him.  “That lesson,” Steichen says, “was the groundwork for The Family of Man.”  As recognition of his service to his country and his advocacy of peace through his photography and the curation of The Family of Man show, President Lyndon Johnson presented Steichen with the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1963.

Steichen tapped the photographer John Szarkowski in 1962 to be his successor as the head of the photography department at the Museum of Modern Art.  Szarkowski proved to be a tremendous choice on Steichen’s part, as he further elevated the status of photography as fine art and drew popular attention to the works of previously lesser known artists such as Walker Evans, Diane Arbus, and William Eggleston, among many others.

Steichen spent most of his later years on his farm in Connecticut, which he called “Umpawaug” after a tribal name, mostly photographing the landscape and flora he could see from his windows.  Indicative of his wry sense of humor, he named the pond on his property “Jergen’s” after the lotion ads he claimed paid for it, and he had a three-legged Beagle named Tripod.  The entire estate, including every aspect of the landscaping and much of the house, was designed by Steichen himself, illustrating his obsessive need for compositional control in all facets of his life.  His interest in color spilling into hobbies outside of photography, he was a celebrated gardener, even creating unique hybrid strands of Delphinium.  His last project before his death in 1973 involved photographing a single shadblow tree at Umpawaug in varying times of the day, seasons, and weather conditions to capture and convey “an accurate narrative of the cycles of the natural world.”  This was Steichen’s final attempt at recording truth within the confines of a photographic image, and a reflective meditation on color and life itself.

It is difficult to approach Steichen’s work critically without considering each innovative and creative period of his life within its place in the larger history of photography.  It would be all too simple for viewers today to dismiss moody pictorialist landscapes – even those with bi-pack emulsions or applied coloring techniques – as a whole, simply due to what has come after and the over-stimulating experience of everyday life in our present-day culture.  Some of Steichen’s color fashion photographs can easily read as cheesy compared to the images in advertisements in the glossy pages of today’s haute couture periodicals, but we have to consider the experimentation and devotion it took to achieve them, and his work, taken in pieces or as a complete unit, is for the most part inscrutable.  No one, especially anyone with a knowledge of its placement in photography’s history, could spend time with his work and not be moved emotionally, or at the very least be greatly impressed, by his ability to transform such an inorganic two dimensional plane into an emotionally engaging and viscerally unforgettable experience.  As Steichen once partially defined art for himself on a scrap of paper, a photograph was perhaps a work of art when “you keep looking at the subject, animate or inanimate, until the subject looks back at you.”

A Conversation with I-Hsuen Chen

Posted by on Jun 10, 2012 in Austin Nelson | 2 Comments

I-Hsuen Chen is a recent graduate of the MFA Photography program at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. I sat down with I-Hsuen over lunch for this conversation about his recent body of work, Nowhere in Taiwan. A photograph from this series was recently purchased by the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston.

 

 

Austin Nelson: Your work became really strong really quickly with your Nowhere in Taiwan series. You went home for the summer and came back with this huge body of work that was very strong. Do you feel like something changed inside you that allowed that to happen? What do you attribute the success of that series to?

I-Hsuen Chen: Of course, some training of aesthetics – the way of looking at photography or images – I learned a lot at Pratt. That’s one part. Say if I don’t study photography and I go back to my country, I don’t think that project would have happened in that way. And also, another point is this was kind of the first time I went abroad to study, the first time I’m actually leaving my country to live for a while, so it makes a really big difference that the culture shock hit me a little bit differently. At first I came here and the culture shock was like a language issue, or this thing is different, or this is something I have to get used to, so I maybe over time am getting used to the western culture. Like if someone says “your work is good”, in Taiwan you always say something like “oh, it’s not good enough” or “I’m still working on it” or we just nod, showing appreciation, where here I just say “Thank you” to show my appreciation, where in Taiwan that would be considered a little bit arrogant, so things like that are different. That’s just a little example. So when I go back to my native country, Taiwan, everything changes. When I go abroad, I become others. I am no longer myself. So, I go back to my original environment that shaped me and the bigger part of my personality, but now I am others and I can see through everything in my country. It’s kind of like when you go traveling and then you go back to where you live, you suddenly see everything that you haven’t seen before. On top of that, it’s also that when I go back it’s like a reverse culture shock when I go back to my country. I feel like I don’t fully belong to either place and I’m floating in between. American culture leads me to road trips, because I like a lot of road trip photography, like Alec Soth and others like that, so that’s why I went on a road trip in Taiwan. It really fits my state of mind and all of that and my training in aesthetics shaped this body of work. It’s not only taking documentary photographs in a certain area. I’m not interested in an issue in a certain area and I went to do a documentary on it. It’s not that. That can be really kind of exotic and superficial in a way, because you don’t belong to them. So my case is that I belong to my country, but I also belong to others.

Nelson: So now you feel like an outsider in your own country.

Chen: Yes. And of course, a lot of the photographs we take as photographers, we are all outsiders. We are really withdrawn, even detached from the environment. I think that’s why this series became a little bit special. It has the Western point of view and aesthetics and form, but also has a really Eastern spirit, which is my roots.

 


Nelson: I think that is what is remarkable about this series. It’s very familiar – the way that things are composed – but also, it’s very poetic.

Chen: Thank you. I guess that’s my aesthetic. I really don’t like photographs to be answers. I like for them to be questions, so I don’t like when one image has only one layer – whether it’s a cultural layer or whatever – I think that a good photograph should be asking questions and that creates an imaginary poetic space and you can extend it from that image. So if we are only taking photographs of the answers, it would be like “That’s it. There is no other stuff.” Also, I’m a little bit aware of the limitations of photographs to tell a story, so a documentary photographer might edit their series to do some visual storytelling, but actually movies can do a better job at that. So, for telling a story, movies are better for that and for me photographs should be more like poems. In that sense, for me, I try not to put a lot of really clear things in my photographs. Of course, I’m not thinking that when I take photographs, it’s just my personality, but thank you for that.

Nelson: I also really appreciate how you speak about photography. You’ve said to me that you don’t speak about it academically, but you do speak about it very intelligently and passionately. You do speak more to the poetics and I’ve rarely heard you say anything about the technical aspects of the field.

Chen: I’m also not too good at that.

Nelson: I don’t believe that. I think it’s really just part of your personality that you’re attracted to the poetry of it.

Chen: Maybe it’s because I have different backgrounds. I was doing marketing and I learned how to communicate with people in that way, but I am also an opera singer and a lot of times I’m an outsider in a lot of ways and so maybe since I’ve been into a lot of different things and nothing for many years, I am more free to be detached a little in each of those forms. When we are only doing one medium, maybe it restricts us in a way.

Nelson: You mentioned storytelling. What do you think of your photographs in that regard? This body of work is a series, but do you want the viewer to see it as a whole as a story or do you want them to see each individual image as a story in itself or some combination of both?

Chen: I still think that one image is not strong enough to say everything or to leap to a larger sense. That’s why we’re still using serial photographs. I remember I read an article that said all the major photographers of the last twenty years shoot for something that will lead to a book, because that will lead to a larger issue, so that’s why I’m using serial photography, but I don’t think it has to be a story. I mean, I think if you listen to a sonata, they have a sense of storytelling, but that is not a story. It’s more like a sentence. For me, showing the images together is not about telling a story. It’s more about having a rhythm. There’s not always a story. There’s not always a conflict and a conclusion.

Nelson: So the series for you is about a flow more than a narrative or other dramatic mechanism.

Chen: All the images don’t even have to be the same size. We don’t even know why we’re shooting in series. I don’t know why. I think it’s influenced too much by how photographs are shown in galleries. Why can’t we just show one photograph? When people ask me “So, this is your final edit?” I say, “I don’t know. It depends on where I’m putting it.” For my there are no final edits.

 


Nelson: It’s interesting not only how you speak about your photography, but also about other people’s work. Do you ever not know where to start in addressing others’ work?

Chen: Before I came to Pratt, I can honestly say I knew nothing about photography. When I looked at some photos, I didn’t know why they worked or didn’t work. So, for me, it’s that I’m trying to analyze my feelings about the work. That is always my way of thinking about things. When I started, I had feelings about works, but I didn’t know why and didn’t know how to interpret those feelings. I’d say I learned how to be myself. At first you sort of imitate, and then you start to realize that your feelings are correct. It doesn’t mean that I have a really good or special point of view, but your feelings are always true for you. What might be good about my critiques might be that I try to deconstruct my feelings about other people’s work and that might be good.

Nelson: If you were going to critique your own work, specifically the Nowhere in Taiwan series, what would you say is the strongest aspect of the work and what do recognize as something that you need to work on?

Chen: It’s really hard to do that. I will say it’s too large. I still say trying to put everything in one group – it’s a little too stiff. And also, maybe because of my taste, I don’t like the images that seem like one-liners. Maybe they are connected, but there’s something problematic about that, too. My dream of course is that everyone will like my work, and that’s really hard. Maybe some photography insiders will like some of it, but other people might not get it, so I don’t want to make photographs that only other photographers will like. I don’t know. I’m still too attached to my work, but I’m not wholly satisfied with it yet. And the strongest point? I like the work that really grabs your heart. I think some of the images make people feel something and question something about themselves. I like the images that are complex. There are some photographs that are funny and sad and questioning and unsettling and debating themselves. I don’t know how other people look at my work, but that’s what I’d like for them to see. I can be really quiet, I can be really talkative, sometimes I’m funny and I’m sensitive all the time, so that’s just my personality and maybe that’s why I like those images – they are a weird combination of my personality.

Nelson: Are you going to continue to work on this series or are you going to start on another project?

Chen: I’m going to work on something else first. Once I start thinking ‘ok, this is good’, all of the surprises and specialness sort of disappears, like “you are repeating yourself”.

Please visit I-Hsuen’s website www.ihsuenchen.com

Photography Exercise No. 1

Posted by on May 27, 2012 in Austin Nelson | No Comments

I have developed a few exercises that I feel were very beneficial to my photography and to my understanding of the field. This is the first such exercise and I will post more in the coming weeks.

For this exercise, pick a favorite photographer and pick five of their images that you really enjoy. Write a short paragraph about each one. You may like a photograph because of how it strikes you visually, but you will always find that there is more there when you start to describe it, even to yourself. Writing about photographs is a great way to go deeper into the work of a photographer and to better understand their vision.

I picked Walker Evans and here are the five photographs and the short paragraph I wrote for each. Keep in mind that this is just an exercise for yourself. This doesn’t have to be scholarly or technical, it’s just to get us seeing on a deeper level and getting lost within the picture plane. There is additional information about Walker Evans at the end of this post. Enjoy.

This ramshackle tumbledown store barely ornaments a desolate paved and patched country road in the deep south of Alabama.  The sidewalks are unkempt and unwalked.  Unaffiliated chimneystacks litter the abutting barren field like monuments of failure.  Rough-milled wood slat fencing ostensibly protects seemingly nothing worth protecting.  You can feel the harsh sunlight beating down on the patchwork roof as it refuses to set.  Advertisements for simple pleasures – sodas and circuses – adorn the shanty only slightly more effectively than a carving on a tree stump, only with not half the charm.  The power lines visible in the top right corner of the photograph bypass the shack altogether, wholly negating the concept of refrigeration or any notion of electric lighting.

Woodlawn Plantation
Belle Chase, Louisiana 1935

If ever an edifice could be crestfallen, it is this one.  The Woodlawn Plantation house manages to embody a tired Stoicism, exhausted and undone by both nature and man.  The fluted Ionic columns sag under the weight of a warping entablature.  Successes are married with excesses and triumphs wedded with follies.  Ceremonially and unnecessarily boarded and solemnly and necessarily forgotten, the slats of the shutters are giving up one by one along with the shingles, following a banister that relented long ago to the torture of abandonment.  Ivy envelops the eaves of the front-gabled afterthought side chamber.  Unsown crop rows insult a lawn that ought boast a bowling green and ornamental gardens.  Street front property.  Only one previous owner.

Mayor’s Office
1936

Iron barred windows of an upstairs jail.  A sweltering holding cell for the town drunk or a mendacious transient, a structural crack spoiling the cosmetic stuccoed exterior of the mayor’s office starts the decay of this rural suggestion of a government building with the hand-lettered indication redolent of an old west ghost town.  A fire has charred and colored the collapsing blocked concrete add on that adjoins the pseudo-monolithic structure, but has failed to engulf and overtake it completely.  Repurposed train cars improvise livable spaces.  A Model A Ford litters the adjacent un-mown field.  A slanting horizon adds to the desperate unease and feeling of a slow suffocation.  A puddled road halfheartedly reflects what once was.

 

Allie Mae Burroughs
Hale County, Alabama 1936

The photograph of this tenant farmer’s wife reads as a God-forsaken icon of The Great Depression.  All of the evidence of a life hard lived lies in her elderly-from-a-young-age face and piercingly ignorant eyes staged before the simplest of wood sidings.  The slightest patch of missing hair is further testament to hardship.  Still, a non-frown is sometimes a smile, and we find contentment and appreciation despite penury.

 

Bud Fields & Family
Hale County, Alabama 1936
Pseudonym Thomas Gallatin “Bud” Woods

An homage to destitution, a malnourished cat lies under an iron bed by the dirt caked feet of the Fields family.  A paucity of possessions is a photographic treasure chest.  The dirt covers their clothing better than the wood floor covers the dirt.  The unconvinced grandmother, in her stockings that aren’t worth pulling on, looks wary, but too tired to protest.  Behind depleted faces remains a semblance of togetherness and contentment. The scarcely clothed toddler seems oblivious to the reality of his existence, while his slightly older sister stands where self-awareness selects detachment.

 

More on Walker Evans:

Walker Evans was born into an affluent family in St. Louis, MO in early November 1903.  His parents’ wealth afforded him an education at the prestigious Phillips Academy in Andover, MA, and from there he proceeded to Williams College, where he studied French Literature before dropping out after his first year.  Upon separating himself from formal academic studies, he traveled to Paris for a year, before returning to the states and settling in New York City, where he quickly befriended the most esteemed members of the art community.  In 1928, at the age of 25, Evans got his first camera and began photographing in earnest.  Only a few short years later, in 1933, he landed his first major assignment – photographing for Carleton Beale’s book, The Crime of Cuba, which documented the revolution aimed at overthrowing then dictator Gerardo Machado.

Evans’s next big appointment was shooting in West Virginia and Pennsylvania as a staff photographer for the Resettlement Administration, a project of The New Deal designed to relocate struggling rural families to planned communities.  The project was renamed and reorganized less than a year later due to some members of congress alleging that President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s endeavor in this sphere amounted to Socialism.  The restructured program was called the Farm Security Administration, which, in part, intended to document the effects of The Great Depression, with Evans’s work focusing mainly on the rural south.   Most of his work form this time was shot with a large format 8×10 camera.

In 1936, while still on duty for the FSA, Evans accepted a freelance assignment from Fortune Magazine documenting the lives of three white tenant families in rural Hale County, Alabama to complement an article to be written by James Agee.  The magazine later scrapped the piece, but in 1941 the work was published in book form with the title Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.  The project was envisioned by Agee as a three-volume set, with each tome being “an independent inquiry into certain normal predicaments of human divinity,” but the two intended sequels never came to fruition.  The photography in Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, a reference to a verse from Ecclesiastes, details rural poverty in stark detail.  The wealthy landowners told their tenants the journalists were Soviet Agents in an attempt to dissuade them from allowing themselves to be photographed and reported on.

Evans continued to work for the FSA until 1938.  That same year, the Museum of Modern Art in New York exhibited Evans’s work in it’s first ever show of a single photographer, while simultaneously publishing the catalog American Photographs.  In 1945, Evans became a staff writer for Time Magazine, and soon after became an editor at Fortune, holding that position until 1965, when he become a professor of Graphic Design at Yale University.  Shortly thereafter, Evans became the first professor of photography at Yale, teaching until his death in 1975.   Lincoln Kirstein, General Director of the New York City Ballet and personal friend of Evans’s, said of his photography, “It is…the naked, difficult, solitary attitude of a member revolting from his own class, who knows best what in it must be uncovered, cauterized and why.”  There is an understanding in his photographs that marries acceptance with incredulity, without ever feeling the crossing of a boundary or any personal imposition by the photographer himself.  The images show a truer reality of the country than any before or since, and there is no better title for this collection of Evans’s work than American Photographs.

William Eggleston & The Advent of Color Fine Art Photography

Posted by on May 20, 2012 in Austin Nelson | No Comments

There has been a lot of discussion of late of artists’ and collectors’ rights following the Christie’s auction in March wherein William Eggleston sold reprinted editions of 36 of his iconic photographs and raised $5,903,250 for his artistic trust. The photos were 60” by 44” instead of his usual smaller print size and they were printed using a digital printing technology instead of his traditional dye-transfer printing technique. The complaint from collectors is that these reissues devalue their original investments in his artworks, with one collector, Jonathan Sobel, even taking the photographer to court claiming fraud was committed. The Eggleston Trust argues that artists should be able to make money from their works just as art dealers and collectors do and should be allowed to make “new editions in new formats”. While this is sure to be a precedent setting case, I am not attempting to enter the discussion on the issue. William Eggleston is my favorite photographer, but I feel somewhat pulled to both sides of the debate simultaneously. That said, this is simply a biographical introduction to the life and work of Eggleston.

Memphis is ugly.  William Eggleston knows that.  Yet throughout his life, Mr. Eggleston has continuously made extraordinarily beautiful and remarkable images of very ordinary, mundane, and even ugly places and people in and around Memphis, Tennessee, where he was born in 1939 and still lives today.  Largely considered the father of modern color fine art photography, Mr. Eggleston has traveled the world creating his powerful dye-transfer photographs, but his photos of the American South are his most notable, and even his images from Japan, Paris, Germany and elsewhere seem to be drenched in Americana. He has often said that he is at war with the obvious.  His worm’s eye view color photograph of a child’s tricycle on a suburban sidewalk which graces the cover of William Egglestons Guide perfectly elevated a ubiquitous and therefore ordinary childhood toy to an iconic status, turning it into a monument of sorts.

Eggleston spent most of his childhood on his grandparents’ plantation in Sumner, Mississippi, where he was primarily raised by his grandfather who took him under his wing, as he was the first boy born into the family.  He was brought up in a well-to-do household and attended college, admittedly infrequently, at Vanderbilt and Ole Miss.  Eggleston never earned a college degree, but it was during his college years that he began photographing, acquiring his first camera in 1957, and his first Leica Rangefinder, the camera he is known for using almost exclusively throughout his career, in 1958.

After absorbing a copy of Henri Cartier-Bresson’s Decisive Moment, Eggleston says photography finally “clicked” for him, though he was not only interested in photographing images that contained a decisive moment, as Cartier-Bresson was, and, both expounding upon and somewhat disregarding that idea, he began to photograph images that he felt lasted longer than a defining moment or were at least less founded in that concept.  Eggleston’s earliest photographs are black and white images that are certainly inspired by Cartier-Bresson’s, but also contain subjects and compositions that seem to linger and convey a subtly unnerving mood.  He also introduced an unorthodox method of cropping the people in his photographs in unusual ways, often showing only parts of faces and bodies of passersby in his compositions.

It was in 1965 and 1966 that Eggleston began to experiment with color film.  It almost seems unbelievable today that this was considered taboo in the art and photography worlds at one time, but it most definitely was.  Black and white photography was the only photographic medium that could be considered fine art, with any deviation disregarded as amateurish and wholly denounced as mere snapshots.  This all changed largely as a result of the work of William Eggleston, but certainly not overnight.  Eggleston met the renowned photography curator of the Museum of Modern Art, John Szarkowski, by chance in 1969.  Eggleston was carrying with him a suitcase full of “drug store photographs”, as Szarkowski later described them, but he recognized something special about Eggleston’s work and persuaded the photography purchasing board of the museum to acquire one of his prints.

Though William Eggleston is considered by most to be the father of color fine art photography, his recognition did not come immediately.  It wasn’t until seven years after his first meeting with Szarkowski that his photos were shown in a major exhibition in New York, but the indefinable honor of having the first major one person show of color art photography at the Museum of Modern Art in New York belongs to Mr. Eggleston.  Curated by John Szarkowski in 1976, this seminal show was initially blasted by art critics, who clearly did not understand the importance of Eggleston’s work, as “banal” and “boring.”  Eggleston claims that he was not fazed by the negative reviews, but instead felt bad for the critics; they were supposed to be modern art critics and they didn’t even understand modern art, he has said.  Most of these reviewers have since apologized to the artist for their failure to understand and appreciate his photographs at the time.  Many people did not value Eggleston’s photos until they noticed that he was having them printed using the dye-transfer process, the most expensive photographic reproduction technique available at the time, which forced art patrons, museum goers, and art critics alike to reexamine their viewing habits.  Slowly, people began noticing the brilliance of Eggleston’s composition and framing, his unique vision of the world and his surroundings, and, most importantly, and largely for the first time in fine art photography, his use of color.

The dye transfer process is a subtractive method of printing that creates extremely vibrant, saturated colors with bright whites and rich blacks.  Dye transfer prints were traditionally used as a proofing method for magazine advertisements, but Eggleston spotted it on the menu for a photo printing facility, and, after noticing that the option was the priciest the shop offered, he decided to test it out as an alternative printing process for his photographs.  He loved the result so much that he subsequently printed all of his large prints this way until very recently, when the quality of digital printing finally exceeded the quality of dye transfer prints and beat the price as well.

While picking through Eggleston’s endless back catalog of prints for the MoMA show in 1976, one curator opined that all of the photographs seemed to radiate in a circular manner from the center of the frame.  When asked whether or not this was a conscious decision, Eggleston without pause said that all of his photographs were based on the confederate flag. Eggleston famously all-but-refuses to talk about his photographs, instead leaving it up to the viewer to experience the photo for what it is, usually without as much help as a location identifying where it was taken or even what year, with the artist claiming that that sort of information is “not about photography”.  He seems much more interested in talking about his photography, and photography in general, as a canon.  Occasionally you may hear him talking about how he thinks the color red is at war with the other colors, or walk with him while he’s photographing and you may hear him say something like “God damn, that’s a good blue!”, but the particulars of specific images are basically off limits unless he decides to start talking about them and you happen to be there to hear.  The list of Eggleston’s disciples is seemingly infinite, but one notable is Alec Soth.  Soth once visited Eggleston at his home in Memphis to meet him and gain some insight into his photography, but left feeling perhaps even more curious as he had been when he arrived.  It is up to each of us individually, as viewers, to appreciate Mr. Eggleston’s works for what they are: timeless color photographs of the familiar, the obvious, the beautiful, the ugly and the rest, or to borrow the answer Eggleston himself gives when people ask what he is photographing, “life today.”

The Lives of Alfred Stieglitz

Posted by on Apr 29, 2012 in Austin Nelson | 2 Comments

I thought it would be appropriate to begin this series of posts for The Camera Club with a brief piece on Alfred Stieglitz, one of The Camera Club’s earliest and most influential members.

In studying the fractal history of photography, we frequently encounter myriad claims of invention and hear seemingly endless debates over true versus derivative ingenuity, but in the countless interwoven timelines and records of the field, Alfred Stieglitz stands out not only as the man credited with elevating photography to its current stature as an accepted and celebrated form of fine art, but also as the most instrumental and effective proponent of early modern art in America, helping to usher in an entirely new epoch in the history of art at large.

Born New Year’s Day in 1864 in New Jersey and raised in New York City, Stieglitz was an inspired academic from childhood, with his father, a Lieutenant in the Union Army receiving officers’ pay, taking a tremendous interest in the scholastic advancement of his first son. His father enrolled him in the Charlier Institute, the finest school in New York at the time, and later moved him to Germany to study during the last year of high school, fearing the school he was enrolled in was not challenging enough for him. In 1881, Stieglitz arrived in Germany and studied under Hemann Vogel, a chemist and leading researcher in the developing field of photography. It was about this time that Stieglitz bought his first camera and traveled around Europe photographing both nature and the peasant classes of Germany and Italy. At the same time, he began writing articles for the magazine The Amateur Photographer on the subject of photography and, more notably, aesthetics. After winning a Christmas photography contest held by the magazine, he gained even more notoriety.

Though he was making a name for himself and was quite content living in Europe, Stieglitz was still dependent on his father and returned to New York City after the death of his sister, but only under threat of losing his generous monthly allowance of $1300 a year from his father. Back in his good graces upon returning to America, his father bought him a small photography company called “The Photochrome Engraving Company”, hoping he would be able to pursue his interests in the field and make a living at the same time. It is safe to say that business was not Stieglitz’s forte, as his interests lay with the costly exacting perfection of the photographic processes and production techniques. This obsession combined with the generously high wages he paid his employees prevented the business from turning a profit. He began writing for The American Amateur Photographer and almost immediately was offered the position of co-editor of the publication, where he wrote of photography’s rightful place beside painting and other art forms, yet, illustrative of both his lack of business sense and his intermittent ethical stances, he refused to draw a salary as The Photochrome Engraving Company was printing the photogravures for the magazine and he did not want to seem biased.

Always one to adapt and accept with enthusiasm the evolution of photography and its tools, Stieglitz purchased a handheld 4×5 camera in 1892. This allowed him to shoot more frequently and without the encumbrance of a tripod, and it was with this camera that he made some of his most admired early images.

In 1893, Stieglitz married a young brewery heiress named Emmeline Obermeyer – not for love, but for “financial advantage.” He was both known to enjoy the company of young women and to be ambitiously determined, traits which would prove problematic not only in his first marriage but throughout his life. Working even while honeymooning in Europe, Stieglitz went out of his way to meet the top photographers in his travels and was eventually unanimously voted into Linked Ring, a British photography group whose principal purpose was to push photography as a legitimate fine art form. Upon returning to the US, Stieglitz quit his jobs and pushed to merge the two photography clubs in New York City, which he believed were outmoded and idle, eventually succeeding and combining the two as The Camera Club of New York in 1896. He chose to become the Vice President instead of President so that he could take advantage of the classes the club offered instead of wasting his time with administrative matters. Shortly thereafter, Stieglitz began publishing Camera Notes, which quickly became recognized as the finest photography magazine in the world.

Stieglitz then turned his attention to showing his own photography as works of art, producing the portfolio “Picturesque Bits of New York & Other Studies” in 1897 and exhibiting 87 prints in a one man show at the Camera Club in 1899. This show was followed shortly thereafter by a falling out with the old guard at The Camera Club, who thought Stieglitz was too controlling and eccentric. He was largely unfazed and even motivated by the fragmentation of the club, then focusing his energy on putting together a total photography show in 1902 called “Photo-Secession”, a name calling attention to the fact that photography was wrongly considered outsider art. The show opened to public and critical acclaim. It was around this time that Stieglitz met the photographer Edward Steichen and became fast friends with him, even opening a small gallery in 1905 in the same apartment building that Steichen lived in, calling it “The Little Gallery of the Photo-Secession.” The first show featured 100 prints from 39 different photographers, all chosen by Stieglitz himself. Soon after, he decided to showcase the watercolor paintings and drawings of Pamela Coleman Smith, which was a revolutionary exhibit simply for the fact that Stieglitz was showing accepted forms of fine art in a gallery of photography, a form of art yet to be recognized by the art world at large. This marked the beginning of Stieglitz as not only a promoter of photography, but of modern art in general.

In 1907, Stieglitz began experimenting with toning, waxing and drawing on his platinum prints. When he next traveled to Europe, he saw a demonstration of the Autochrome Lumiere color photography process, which he of course fell in love with and adopted immediately, making him one of the very earliest photographers to create true color exposures, not simply toned or otherwise colored photographs.

Due to his new costly experiments, and his lack of fiscal discipline in general, Stieglitz briefly had to close the Little Gallery, but reopened it shortly after in 1908 as “291”. The new gallery name represented a lot to Stieglitz and the art world at the time, symbolizing a shift from the photo-secession mindset as photography as outsider art and also allowing Stieglitz to do anything he wanted with such an abstract name, which didn’t conjure any thoughts of a specific art medium or even style. Bridging the gap between accepted traditional art forms and new media became his primary focus, and with great influence from Stieglitz, The National Arts Club hosted a “Special Exhibition of Contemporary Art”, which is recognized as the first major US show with photographers given equal stature as painters.

In 1909, Stieglitz’s Father died. He used his inheritance to keep the 291 gallery and his magazine Camera Work going as long as he could. In 1912 he broke new ground again, publishing a special edition of Camera Work devoted entirely to the modern art painters Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso, without a single photograph printed in the issue. If the art world was going to be hesitant to accept photography as art, Stieglitz’s world of photography was going to turn the tables and fiercely appropriate modern art itself.

After being shown a portfolio of Georgia O’Keeffe’s work in 1916, he could not wait to display the pieces, hanging the actual pages of the portfolio without contacting the artist for the originals or even asking permission first. O’Keeffe eventually heard about the unsolicited show and paid Stieglitz an angry visit in his New York gallery. By the end of 1917, the two were writing each other all the time. The next year, O’Keeffe moved from Texas to New York to be with the still-married Stieglitz. His wife Emmy kicked him out after returning home one evening to find Stieglitz photographing O’Keeffe in the nude. From 1918 to 1925, Stieglitz made over 350 mounted prints of O’Keeffe, many of them nudes. Though their marriage would prove to be untraditional at best, Stieglitz and O’Keeffe wed in 1924 in a private casual ceremony at the Stieglitz family lake house.

The Boston Museum of Fine Arts attempted to acquire 27 Stieglitz photographs in 1924, but Stieglitz refused to sell them, insisting instead on donating the prints to control which images they would receive. Stieglitz had by this time become known as the Godfather of Modern Photography, even granting Ansel Adams one of his first shows in New York City in 1936. At the end of his life in 1946, Alfred Stieglitz had mounted over 2500 prints of his own images and promoted the works of countless others, and while he was not without his faults and detractors, he will always be credited and lauded for elevating the medium of photography to the same respected level of fine art as painting & sculpture and for fervently piloting modern art to America’s shores.