Jane Liechty
Professor Steven Rubin
Photo 201
April 26, 2020
How has studying the history of photography changed something in you?
I admit, at the start of this class, I was a history-of-photography novice. I had never heard the names Edward Weston, Garry Winogrand, or Margaret Bourke-White, but to my credit, I did recognize some of their work. For a person who would like to become a thoughtful, intelligent photographer, this is a shame and a waste. The history of photography contains a wealth of perspective and insight; to become good, I should learn from others. Recently, I watched a YouTube video with my son about which college degrees are of most and least value; it listed photography as a worthless degree. We laughed; after all, that’s what I’m pursuing. Apparently, I can learn all I need to know from the internet. Can I? It begs the further question, what do I need to know? In such a labyrinth of information, can I guide myself, or should I have mentors who’ve already navigated the maze? By enrolling at university, I have chosen the path of being mentored. A mentor I have chosen from my study of the history of photography is John Szarkowski (1925-2007) because he sees well, and I want to be able to see. I’m not blind but reading Szarkowski is like wearing a pair of sharp glasses that bring the world into better focus.
In the beginning, photography was not considered real art; it was viewed as the product of a machine, not an artist—a useful tool but also a threat, with potential to supplant and corrupt (qtd in Mayer). Vincent Van Gogh summed up this sentiment in a letter to his brother, Theo, “the reflection of reality in a mirror, if it could be caught, color and all, would not be a picture at all, no more than a photograph” (qtd.in Hertzmann). Others saw artistic potential and experimented. The struggle for photography to be accepted as art lasted more than a century. Szarkowski was the final champion, pushing the debate over the finish line. Szarkowski was Director of Photography at the Museum of Modern Art from 1962 to 1991. He was also a photographer, curator, historian, and critic. He published two influential books on photographic theory: The Photographer’s Eye in 1966 and Looking at Photographs in 1973, plus many more theses. It might seem strange to choose a mentor whose most influential ideas predate my lifetime, but I find his writing to be wise and thoughtful and worth my time.
Photographs are ubiquitous: on billboards, Instagram, magazines, computers, walls, and more. If a photograph makes it to a wall, then it’s probably more special than most. Our culture is so inundated by this visual language, that out of necessity, most photographs get no more than a cursory glance. However, if I am to be more than a spectator—if I am a participant—I must selectively look at photographs that repay study (Szarkowski, Looking at Photographs 10). This is to become a critic, to critique. To critique means to examine something and increase understanding of the thing being examined. A critique is a subjective opinion. Critics of photography abound: if you want an opinion, read Roland Barthes, Susan Sontag, or John Berger. Fast forward a few years to Postmodernism and photography becomes even more heavy on words and concepts, maybe even at the expense of the photograph itself. A photograph buried beneath too many words is hard to see. Of course, this is my own subjective opinion; you can take it or leave it, just like you can every critique.
Opinions, like preferred visual aesthetics, come and go. Every trend has had its naysayers: in the 1940s, Royal Cortissoz claimed that Modernism was “ruining the younger generation;” in the 1960s, John Canaday said the public was brainwashed into liking abstract expressionism; in the 1980s, Robert Hughes called Andy Warhol’s work stupid and shallow (qtd. in Sakasegawa). But who’s to say what’s a good or bad idea? History and the critics, and me. My opinion matters, at least to me. It shapes the focus of my work. Studying the history of photography is about becoming less ignorant, thinking critically, gaining skills to assess differing opinions, and becoming a better photographer. It helps to start with a more informed perspective, which leads me back to Szarkowski.
Critique is difficult and personal. A single photograph, Szarkowski says, can be about many things, and none of them might be about what’s important. Here, I reference three Szarkowski critiques in Looking at Photographs. Szarkowski calls Joel Meyerwitz’s photograph, Untitled, of a slide projector screen in a living room, taken in 1966, “a mystery, and a joke… profoundly banal… [whose] content… seems progressively less susceptible to translation into words.” He then proceeds to demonstrate several critical approaches (cultural, sociological, formalist, and symbolist or psychoanalytical) that he calls “clearly irrelevant” (208). Another example is his critique of Paul Caponigro’s Adara Domen, County Donegal, Ireland, taken in 1967. Of this photograph, Szarkowski says, “What it is that makes a photograph truly work is in the end a mystery… Finely hewn critical standards may help us explain the admirable, but between the admirable and the wonderful is a gulf that we can see across, but not chart… we recognize but do not understand meaning” (192). Finally, of Lee Friedlander’s New Orleans, 1968, Szarkowski says, “It would of course be possible to draw a diagram, with lines and arrows and shaded planes, to explain crudely what the picture itself explains precisely. But what conceivable purpose would this barbarism serve?” (204).
Critique doesn’t define art, but it does point out things worth noticing. It’s like taking a walk with a friend who points out a flower that you might not otherwise have noticed. Szarkowski likens the historical development of photography to “an untended garden, making full use of the principles of random selection, laissez-faire, participatory democracy, and ignorance” (Looking at Photographs 11). What a delightful, true, and strange description! Laissez -faire is a French term that means to let things take their own course without interference, and random selection and participatory democracy refer to a lack of restriction. In effect, any photographer or idea can compete. Mary Warner Marien shared a similar thought in Photography: A Cultural History when she wrote, “people living in a particular era do not synchronize their thoughts. They interpret, refine, resist, oppose, or ignore the prevalent attitudes of the time” (Marien x). Szarkowski’s final principle in this “untended garden” is ignorance. To be ignorant is to lack knowledge—to not know what can and cannot be done. Examples abound of how the ignorant startle the world with their insight and expression: neither John Lennon nor Paul McCartney could read sheet music, Vincent van Gogh was largely self-taught, and Diane Arbus’s intimate, intuitive portraits are beyond anything taught in school. For sure, Szarkowski’s “untended garden” is an interesting place.
Depending on topography, an untended garden will yield a type of wilderness that is either breathtakingly beautiful (think, National Parks), weedy beyond hope (think, kudzu choking out a tree), or anywhere in between. I have some experience with the randomness of gardens. Generally, I like to tend my garden; left alone, it quickly becomes overgrown and messy. Some level of randomness, however, has value. One year, my garden enjoyed an unexpected burst of pretty columbines; another year, a sunflower grew in a flowerpot where it had not been planted, probably thanks to a passing bird. Left completely untended, my garden becomes a hopeless mess, subject to survival of the fittest (perennial weeds) rather than my preferred survival of the fairest. I see many similarities between gardens and photography. Just as no two gardens are exactly alike, so it is with photographers. In my garden, I nurture the plants I like and toss the ones I don’t, but my neighbor, whose garden is just as good as mine, makes different decisions. In this process of weeding and nurturing, I gain a sense of my own identity, learn to assess change and continuity, see new perspectives, and become more informed and aware.
As I look over the last one hundred years of the history of photography, what I really is see, so to speak, is a vast expanse of many, many gardens. It’s not a place I can wander around quickly; I’ll have to take my time, returning often to uncover its secrets. The gardens are traditional, anarchic, realistic, abstract, public, private, expansive, and intimate. It is, indeed, what Szarkowski calls “a bewildering variety” (Mirrors and Windows 11). To try and make sense of it all, I realize that a guided tour might be the place to start. Marien steps forward and offers to guide me from a chronological perspective, and I accept.
We wander around, admiring this eclectic collection of spaces. I want to learn from the past and see how these gardens relate to what I’m doing at home. I hope they will help me understand my current work. She explains why each garden looks as it does and points out details that I might not have noticed on my own. I am drawn to Alexander Rodchenko’s geometric abstractions, odd angles of view, and strange perspectives; I like what he shows me about hierarchy and vantage point. I look over Dada’s “great negative work of destruction” (Marien 240) and decide that it’s interesting but not my style. Turning a corner, I am startled by the breathtaking landscapes of Ansel Adams and learn that these majestic views are not static but ever-changing with the quality of light (Szarkowski, Looking at Photographs 144). We wander on, into a dust bowl and see the people of the Great Depression. I look long and hard at their faces and gestures, trying to read their stories. On and on we go, through the decades, and I become aware that one of the most enduring things about this garden is its light. I resolve to think more about the quality of light and how it impacts my garden. In all, I see many gardens that I like, and many that I don’t. I think critically about what I want my garden to say. I thank Marien for the tour and head home, a little overwhelmed.
At home, I pick up my camera and take some photographs. I wonder who I am and what I have to say and why I am drawn to photography. I like that photography is art, but I don’t think I’m an artist of the expressionist sort, and I don’t like postmodernism too much, and I’m not enamored by the current trends of feminism or gender—I believe that women have an important voice and should be heard, but not at the expense of shouting over men. I think that family dysfunction is worth fighting against, that it should be explored but not celebrated. I look back through history to see what other photographers have said. I think about the meaning of their work—the context, the mood, and the message—and let it inform my work.
One way I can learn from other photographers is to imitate their style. When I try this experiment with Platon’s style, I learn more about photography than I expect. Through trial and error, I learn his technique (focal length, studio lighting, distance from subject, postprocessing, and so on) but then, surprisingly, I learn that his work is about much more than technique. Apparently, it’s not about photography at all, but communication. This process is like when I plant a seed and expect a certain result and it all turns out different. The unexpected can be mysterious, colorful, and exciting. Maybe this is what I have learned to see—what Szarkowski calls the difference between the admirable and the wonderful. My imitations are admirable, not because their pictures were not wonderful, but because the spark is uniquely theirs. And then, unexpectedly, I make a wonderful photograph that is uniquely mine. This spark is like the welcome columbines and sunflowers that grow without invitation. Photography is like tending a garden, letting experience shape its space but not define its future. I look and see and learn and grow, then find what I didn’t even know was there within my own garden, waiting to be discovered, and I am satisfied.
Works Cited
Hertzmann, Aaron. “How Photography Became an Art Form,” July 23, 2018, https://medium.com/@aaronhertzmann/how-photography-became-an-art-form-7b74da777c63. Accessed April 26, 2020.
Mayer, Nele. “Baudelaire, a Skeptic, Shares his Photo,” July 16, 2015, https://www.nypl.org/blog/2015/07/16/baudelaire-shares-his-photo. Accessed April 26, 2020.
Marien, Mary Warner. Photography: A Cultural History. 4th ed., Pearson, 2014.
Sakasegawa, Mike. “A Predictable Trend in Photography Criticism,” June 7, 2016, https://petapixel.com/2016/06/07/predictable-trend-photography-criticism/. Accessed April 26, 2020.
Szarkowski, John. Looking at Photographs: 100 Picture from the Collection of the Museum of Modern Art, 8th printing, Bulfinch Press, 2008.
—. Mirrors and Windows: American Photography since 1960, Rapoport Printing Corp, 1978.
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