Profoundly saddened to learn today of the passing of a huge influence and inspiration. Abbas.
Photography has done many great things for me. One thing, however, sort of stands above the others. It has let me know that I’m not alone in what I thought were my own peculiarities. In Return to Mexico, Abbas writes extensively of his experience and relates how much his time in Mexico, and his creative mood, is infected with the spirit of the great early photographer and Mexican Revolution era dissident Tina Modotti. He writes of her as if she is alive and one gets the feeling that she is all around him.
I’m not a believer, I don’t believe in the metaphysical world at all. But I believe in the creative imagination being taken over by muses and whims and things that move in the soft breezes that drag a dry leaf across the gravestone of a long dead creative fixation. Oh I believe in those things. But without encountering artists like Abbas who were generous enough to open up their thinking and show that being given to allowing oneself to entertain these zephyr-like inspirations was a normal aspect of the creative process, I might have thought I was just a little more nuts than I really am.
But then there’s the images. I don’t want to infringe on Magnum’s property but please, seek out the work of Abbas. He is a one of my favorites. I had already started making a series of my favorite photographers. The first that I’ve already finished that I’ll post here is on Ben Shahn. But Abbas was going to be the second. And now he’s passed. This is very sad news to me. And he died far too young.
Abbas was a compositional genius. His photos were modern, somewhat surreal, but he was an antidote to the overcooked surrealism that is so common today. Take away surrealist elements and National Geographic photography is very often something that looks like it was influenced by Abbas. But it is so derivative as to be banal in comparison. And National Geographic photography is great photography. That is where Abbas was as a photographer. Of his generation, Josef Koudelka was probably the last true ‘peer’ Abbas had and Koudelka died a number of years ago.
“He was a pillar of Magnum, a godfather for a generation of younger photojournalists. An Iranian transplanted to Paris, he was a citizen of the world he relentlessly documented; its wars, its disasters, its revolutions and upheavals, and its beliefs – all his life. It is with immense sadness that we lose him. May the gods and angels of all the world’s major religions he photographed so passionately be there for him.”
Bangladesh, which is the largest exporter of clothing after China, is able to save on manufacturers’ costs by paying one of the lowest minimum wages in the world and by often turning a blind eye to the laws, agreements and standards that would protect workers and the environment but raise prices.
The Real Cost of Cheap Shirts: The New York Times
Photographs by Daniel Rodrigues
Text by Cláudia Brandão
Absolutely stunning photography by Dina Litovsky for The New Yorker. Great untold story as well.
Each winter, for close to a century now, hundreds of Amish and Mennonite families have travelled from their homes in icy quarters of the U.S. and Canada to Pinecraft, a small, sunny neighborhood in Sarasota, Florida. Arriving on chartered buses specializing in the transportation of “Plain people” from areas such as Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and Holmes County, Ohio, they rent modest bungalows and stay for weeks, or sometimes months, at a time.
Source: Where the Amish Go on Vacation
She returned to New York and, in just one stage of her long career, became a revolutionary chronicler of the modern metropolis. Her pulsing photograph “Nightview, New York,” taken from an upper-floor window of the Empire State Building in 1932, remains among the most widely recognized images we have of the city.
Working in the Bowery, Abbott made photographs like “Blossom Restaurant,” in which a handwritten menu sprawls like graffiti across a restaurant window in 1935. (An entree of pig’s knuckles is 25 cents.) The poet Charles Simic has written that he could survive a long solitary confinement if he could study this photograph at leisure.
“Berenice Abbott” Captures a Large and Star-Studded Life – New York Times
Thirty-four years after his death, Garry Winogrand’s photographs continue to charm, befuddle and amaze viewers. A new book, “The Street Philosophy of Garry Winogrand,” takes 100 photos and pairs each with an essay by Geoff Dyer. The experience was daunting, especially sifting through the stream of images shot in his prolific final years. But it was also quite the revelation. Jordan Teicher spoke with Mr. Dyer about the book, which was published by the University of Texas Press.
When I was a kid, my favorite color was red. Because children have favorite colors. Now I’m 60 and, true to form, or age, reverting backwards and all that, I once again find I have a favorite color. I wasn’t really thinking about it. It just kind of happened. But my favorite color is no longer red. It’s orange. Man do I loves me some orange. It just does something to me inside. Fills a hole I used to cover over with booze, or weed, or, later in life, salted caramel ice cream. Now I just look upon the color orange and I’m good. Totally fixed and made whole as a person. But I have to admit that these two otherwise nothingburger shots here cause my wandering eye to drift back and recall ever fondly that first love you never quite forget. Bloody fucking red. Oops, there it is!
Someone posted this to a message board I frequent yesterday morning. I clicked on the thread and saw the names and thought, Bronte, etc, whatever. Ancient history. Sylvia Plath surprised me. But then I forgot about it all and went about doing other things. Later I opened the NYTimes app on my iPhone and the first thing I saw, because the Times is pushing this feature out there, was the image above of a woman with a camera. The face was instantly familiar but I literally could not believe my eyes.
Why is Diane Arbus’s picture attached to this feature?
So instantly, far from being appreciative of the long overdue recognition of this amazing iconic photographer, just seeing her there included and knowing per passing wasn’t noted at the time in the newspaper of record set off a rush of anger in me. Arbus is like a pillar of my photographic world.
The emotion I felt and still feel at seeing that Diane Arbus didn’t warrant an obituary in the New York Times comes from a place of meaning because I understand who she was during her life. I don’t think the reason she didn’t get an obit was about her being a woman. I think it was about her work. And also about her personal affect. And I think the writer they chose for this overdue obituary and the piece he produced says everything about why she didn’t receive an obituary decades ago.
Arbus had been championed by John Szarkowski and had already had an exhibition at MOMA. She was famous. But she was difficult and she’d pissed off a lot of people with both her work and her temperament. Many people poisoned her reputation and I think all of that impacted whether or not she would have warranted, in the eyes of the people who make these decisions, an obituary in her own city’s newspaper of record.
It’s one thing to pull up people from the ancient past. It’s a whole different animal when you admit to something from the modern era that is as glaring as this. And then blame it all on a bias against women. I’m just not having it. Read the piece. At this point, is it really necessary to include all of the scathing criticisms of her work and her life? You can literally see why the Times chose not to give Diane Arbus an obituary when she died. I’m not going to say that isn’t great writing. It’s great writing. But everything you need to know is inherent in this piece published today.
“After decades of intense examination of her work and life, perhaps there is room to understand Arbus as a woman driven by artistic vision as well as personal compulsion, and her photographs as documents of empathy as well as exploitation.”
Perhaps. As well as exploitation. Do you see what I’m saying? Agendas are everything in our world.
Just to be clear, Diane Arbus does not deserve this paragraph above in 2018. She is a giant of 20th century photography.
I think I’m taking this personally for a couple of reasons. One I won’t get into. But the other is that I’m a photographer who fully expects to be ignored until long after I’m gone if not forever. Because I’m producing a controversial and unconventional (in the art world) form of photography that many would see as exploitative. Nothing on the level of an Arbus in any respect I will be the first to tell you. But to see this type of snobbery still shaping the perspective and assessment of the work of Diane Arbus? It’s soul crushing.
Someone tweeted this series of long overdue obituaries and added the following:
Read these beautiful tributes to extraordinary women who were overlooked by the New York Times.
I would ask anyone to read James Estrin’s piece on Diane Arbus and ask yourself if it is a beautiful tribute to an extraordinary woman. In the case of Diane Arbus, a better and more honest approach the Times could have taken was just to admit the underlying yet obvious hostility that existed towards her work back in the years of her life. Admit it all now.
In the early 1070s, clearly in the modern era, when we should have known better, and because we were listening to voices who had nothing but contempt for someone who would go on to be regarded as a giant of 20th century photography, we decided not to provide an obituary to our readers to note the passing of Diane Arbus.
But if you read this correction of the record, you’ll find that you’re still hearing from one of those scornful voices. Very disappointing but not unexpected. Snobbery and probably no small measure of jealousy are still shaping our world. Shame on the New York Times.