Seeing in Color

X-Rite: The Only Way to Look at Color

2011-08-25T22:10:00.001-04:00

As a photographer who has made his reputation on shooting color, I bought a Sony Artisan monitor back in the days of CRT's (cathode ray tubes). Then, one day, I wanted to see my images BIGGER. And, as Sony was no longer supporting the software and the display was getting darker and greener, I bought a 30" Apple Cinema Display. The very first time it booted up, I realized just how far off my Artisan had been.

But how far off was my new, out-of-the-box Cinema Display? I wanted to know, because there is a phenomenon called “chromatic adaptation” which refers to the eye’s ability to automatically compensate for light sources of different color temperature. Chromatic adaptation allows our eyes to maintain the appearance of objects under different light sources. So just because an image on the monitor looks OK doesn't mean that the image is being correctly displayed at some predetermined color temperature, brightness and contrast. In other words, "chromatic adaptation" is great...but not if you're a photographer.

i1 Pro on the left, and its baby brother, the new i1 Display Pro on the right

Enter a company called X-Rite, whose scientific knowledge about color measurement goes back a long way. I found out that the solution to all my problems was a device called an i1Pro, and that I could get a package of hardware and software that allowed me to not only calibrate my monitor, but to also calibrate my projector when I do lectures, and to make custom paper profiles using the i1Pro's capability to measure reflected light. You see, the i1Pro is called a "spectrophotometer." But when I travel, the large size of the i1Pro becomes an issue. And, it needs to be coupled to a large base (see above) to make light measurements when profiling my projector.

What I hoped for was that X-Rite would make a smaller, lighter calibration device. If they could do that, I'd accept not being able to also make profiles for paper. Such a device is referred to as a "colorimeter." Apparently, a lot of other photographers wanted the same thing. So as part of their nearly two-year long project to update their profiling software, which resulted in i1 Profiler (currently version 1.1.1), they decided to make a cute little sibling to the i1Pro. No, they didn't call it "Mini-Me." Enter the i1 Display Pro—a fantastic, small, lightweight color calibrator that can be used to calibrate monitors, as well as projectors. But you can't generate paper profiles with it.

i1 Display Pro resting against the LCD screen to take measurements

What is gratifying to me is that the i1 Display Pro is the first calibration device I've ever used that is virtually "plug and play." OK, I know. Photographers work, and X-Rite knows that. So they've built an automatic workflow into i1Profiler that takes you step by step through a predetermined workflow. Not that you can't change just about any parameter you can think of, including white point, luminance, contrast ratio, and a new one to me—flare correction !

i1Profiler software's workflow is designed for one thing—holding your hand during calibration

X-Rite has made a clever diffuser that stays in place went you want to measure your viewing area's ambient light. It can also swivel back and lock in place so that the optics can rest against the surface of your LCD. They've thoughtfully placed a thin layer of foam on the measuring surface, and included a small but effective counterweight which acts to hold the i1Display Pro in place for measurements.

The diffuser remains in place to measure ambient light, or swings away to calibrate your monitor

It is hard for me to imagine any photographer shooting with a professional grade digital camera and not calibrating their monitor. Even if a monitor was perfectly pre-calibrated from the factory, it might not be calibrated to the settings you need or want. And, it would be subject to all sorts of variables. And monitor "profiles"—the pieces of "instructional" software that are soul of the calibration process—are only accurate for a very short period of time. Depending on how critical you are about color, you might want to recalibrate each and every day!

With the i1Display Pro in place, the i1Profiler software begins making a monitor profile

The engineers at X-Rite have thought of the little things. The i1 Display Pro is threaded on the bottom so it can be mounted on a tabletop tripod or stand while calibrating your projector. Despite its small size and weight, when coupled with the new i1 Profiler software the i1 Display Pro does its job quickly and efficiently, and in my experience makes very accurate profiles. For the first time I have a very small, lightweight, fast, accurate calibration device that I can unplug from my computer, throw into an attache case, and bring with me to my next lecture.

The bottom of the i1Display Pro is threaded so it can be mounted on a stand

If I have one small complaint, it's that I wish X-Rite had figured out a way to make the USB cord fully detachable so it's user-replaceable. After months of use, it may break, and for now that would mean sending it back to the factory. But at less than $250 it's the least expensive investment you can make in the peace of mind that comes with knowing the colors you are looking at are as accurate as the current state of the art.

A Trip to Another World

2011-08-05T20:35:00.001-04:00

Arctic Voyage 2012

Late one November morning in 1992 as I stood in my studio in lower Manhattan, a thought kept nagging at me—I had always wanted to photograph polar bears. The evening before I had convinced myself that the time wasn't right. The workshop to photograph polar bears had just a couple of openings, but as much as I tried to convince myself, I couldn't make up my mind. Heads I go, tails I don't. That morning, though, I kept asking myself "If now's not right, when is?"

Within minutes I changed my mind, got on the phone, called United Airlines, threw some clothes into a bag, along with film and batteries, and grabbed a taxi just outside the building. And then I hit a wall of midday traffic like I had never seen before. I was on my way to Churchill, Manitoba—a day, an overnight, and several connections from JFK airport.

I had just returned from Hawaii, I was exhausted, I had a huge assignment in less than a week, I was poorly packed, and...well, I just kept thinking about all the negatives. It was the first time I would be photographing with a group, and not just any group. Several world class nature photographers would be on board the "tundra buggy". What would it be like to travel in a group, in close quarters, seeing the same things everyone else was seeing, photographing the same polar bears in the same landscapes?

Two days later, as the buggy made its way across the ice and snow to Hudson Bay, and everyone was shooting out the side windows, I opening the back door and stepped out onto a platform to get my thoughts together. Christ, it was cold! Then, far in the distance, I spotted three polar bears crossing the deep blue ice drifts, and behind them a veil of fog and mist rising off the bay was lit up with the golden glow of sunrise. I shot an entire roll as the bears slowly approached, getting closer and closer. It was a special moment in a spectacular landscape, and now I had my answer: it was possible to travel in a large group and yet be in your own world, to see the same things but do your own thing, to be alone but talk the talk and to make my own images while enjoying this other-worldly place together.

Arctic fox on the ice © Eric Meola 2011

In September of 2012, I will be returning to the Arctic along with Arthur Meyerson, as a team of photographer-instructors. The workshop leaders for this 2012 Arctic Voyage, will be photographers John Paul Caponigro and Seth Resnick. This will be a once in a lifetime opportunity to join us in two weeks of photographing and exploring some of the most remote and majestic areas of the far North, from Spitsbergen to Greenland, with our final destination in Reykjavik, Iceland. Two weeks with great instructors, photographing fjords, polar bears, icebergs and puffins. Two weeks of exploring some of the most spectacular landscapes on Earth along with some of the most unique creatures on Earth, and two weeks of having fun while learning first hand from people who love to teach and who love to make your photographic dreams come true.

Learning to See

2011-07-31T10:23:00.001-04:00

One bleak November morning in 1968, I woke up very early and took the R train in Manhattan up to 57th Street and Seventh Avenue. I walked a couple of blocks south and crossed over to the east side of the street and tried to ignore the lingerie mannequins in the window as I walked up to the building at 853 Seventh Avenue and started to ring the buzzer for Ernst Haas. Just before doing so, I checked my watch. It was 5:55 A.M. I hesitated, deciding to wait five minutes before finally reaching out and nervously placing my finger on the button. The night before, after talking briefly with Haas, I had made an appointment to see him "at six," and as I hung up the phone, I realized I had no idea whether he meant A.M. or P.M. On a hunch, I went with my gut, but...what if I was wrong? No sooner did I hear the buzzer go off with a disconcertingly loud and annoying sound, than I heard a European voice through the the intercom telling me to come up.

Forty-three years later, I walked into a gift shop one day and after wading through the isles of stationery, chocolate and dolls, I came upon a woman sitting at an easel while painting. Behind her were some of her paintings—bucolic and sedate oils of scenery along with some portraits. Through a partition, I could see something far more interesting to me and, as I stood in the doorway, I asked her about the wall of abstract colors. "Oh...that?" she said, in a voice both filled with amusement and dripping with disdain. Then she added "That's where I clean my brushes and test my colors. And to emphasize how little she thought of it, she added "We'll be painting over that wall next week!"

Untitled Abstract © Eric Meola 2011

I asked her if I could photograph the wall, and no sooner had she said "yes, sure, go ahead. Knock yourself out" than I began cropping sections of it in my mind and in the camera. One hundred frames later I thanked her, and as I walked out my mind raced back to that day in 1968 and to what Haas had asked me.

As I sat down in his apartment, he asked if I would like some tea. I sat there with my portfolio on my knees, wondering what to say and what not to say; then he looked straight at me and asked "Do you paint?" I was thrown off guard, and disappointed. I was a photographer and I did not want to talk about painting. I wanted advice. I wanted to hear one of my heroes talk about making images. The last thing I wanted to talk about was painting.

There was a long, awkward silence, and then I said "No." Haas didn't hesitate one bit as he continued to probe. "Why not?" he asked. I told him I didn't know how to paint. And then, with a twinkle in his eye, and a smile that somehow cut me in half while consoling me, he firmly said "You don't need to know how to paint to paint." Half an hour later I walked out into the day's gloom wondering just what he meant and what he was trying to tell me.

Untitled abstract #2 © Eric Meola 2011

1968 was a good time—just how good, I had little idea. Across the Hudson, a young man named Clarence Clemons was working as a counselor for emotionally disturbed children in Newark. It would be three years before he would meet Bruce Springsteen and another four years before they would walk into my studio in lower Manhattan. Stan Kanney and Larry Fried had yet to start a company called The Image Bank, and there was no "photo district." Nor was there the "Black Book" of self promotion. Sean Callahan, an editor at Life, would not begin to publish American Photographer magazine for another decade. Hiro, Avedon, Art Kane, Jay Maisel, and Pete Turner were all making great images, and the magazines were filled with a kaleidoscope of dazzling photographs. It was a time when you could stand outside the Time-Life building and see Alfred Eisenstaedt—"Eisie"—stride in after walking several miles from his apartment. Marty Forscher, the genius of camera repair and modification, had yet to see his first auto-focus camera come into his shop at 37 West 47th Street. And Nikon had yet to declare that "We take the world's greatest pictures."

What Haas was telling me in those seemingly prehistoric times was to open my eyes, to learn how to see, to to slow down, to open my mind, to see the world in a grain of sand, to dream, to walk the streets, to watch the light, and to feel the wind on my face. The trinity formed by Haas, Pete Turner and Jay Maisel, gave birth to a gallery called "The Space," in Carnegie Hall. I had my first exhibit there in 1970. I was still learning to walk; I was still learning to see. These were the mentors for my generation, who showed us the road map for where photography could and would go. They took a staid and tired craft and made it their own. They inspired us, they taught us, and they made us dream.

Untitled Abstract # 3 © Eric Meola

Days of Heaven

2011-07-27T21:23:00.001-04:00

In 1976, Terrence Malick began production on his second film, Days of Heaven. Filming each day in the last twenty minutes of daylight, cinematographer Nestor Almendros, along with Malick, produced a masterpiece that is so visually compelling that even on repeated viewings it is difficult to comprehend how it was made. Although they filmed in Alberta, Canada, the Palouse region of southeastern Washington State is nearly as haunting a landscape. I have returned there several times over the past few decades. Its softly undulating hills, wheat fields, abandoned prairie houses, and the last remnants of an iconic America I grew up with, are unmatched by anything I have ever seen. It is hard to believe that it exists, let alone in an era of iPads and debt ceilings.

Shadows on the land © Eric Meola 2011

This is a place in America without billboards or street signs, a place where unmarked dirt and gravel roads meet the horizon. A place where God's light strikes the land at oblique angles, and a place where other than at harvest time you are unlikely to see anyone outdoors. The cafes and old movie theaters in the few small towns are mostly gone. The landscapes are so sinuous and so sensual that it is easy to be mesmerized by the chiaroscuro of dappled light and shadow that rakes across the hills.

Field of wheat, day's end © Eric Meola 2011

Long winters give way to an early spring rush, and by May the seed is in the ground. Then, in late July, the green fields of wheat begin their transformation, turning gold in a wave that generally moves from south to north, bringing with it a frenzied rush of special combines built to work along the slopes of the hills. This is where I took my first ride in a biplane, 30 years ago. One day, just east of Pullman, Washington, I saw a plane suddenly drop from the sky and taxi to a stop in a wheat field.

Tattered shade, abandoned farmhouse © Eric Meola 2011

I drove up a short, steep dirt road and got out of the car. Suddenly, an old man named "Siggie" jumped from the plane, yelling at me that the car's catalytic converter might start the field on fire. Somewhat chastened, I watched as he walked to one of his barns, sliding open a giant wooden door to reveal a row of colorful biplanes parked neatly side by side! Then, turning to me, with a twinkle in his eye, he said "Want to go up?"

Contrasting fields of fallow and planted land © Eric Meola 2011

Rolling hills of light and shadow © Eric Meola 2011

Fields of new wheat follow the curve of the land © Eric Meola 2011

I looked at him for several seconds, and all I could think about was that he was probably more than 80 years old. He looked at the camera I was holding and I caught his eye, as I heard myself saying a not too convincing "sure." Within two minutes we were in the air, and I began photographing the patchwork quilt of fallow and planted green and yellow fields. As I was shooting, Siggie kept spiraling higher and higher. Distracted, I heard him say over the noise of the engine "Anything you wanna see closer?"

Farmhouse nestled in trees for protection from the wind © Eric Meola 2011

I will never forget the way he said it, nor my response, as I pointed down at a patch of light and shadow far below. No sooner had my finger moved, than Siggie thrust the throttle straight forward with a demonic grin, pointing the nose of the plane perfectly perpendicular to the ground. As I saw the ground rushing up I had no chance of holding the camera in my hands as the small biplane, despite its deceptive look of fragility, began to test its "G-force" limit along with my stomach's inability to maintain equilibrium. As we reached what I guessed was two hundrd feet above the ground, Siggie made an abrupt vertical U-turn and climbed straight up. We leveled off and he looked over at me and, in his unique rasp of a voice, said "Wanna go up to Alaska with me?"

American flag painted on the side of a barn © Eric Meola 2011

This past month, as I drove past Pullman, I learned that Siggie had passed away. Peacefully. As I walked along the streets of one small town, I came across a recently renovated old theater. So old that the Empire Theater's ancient projectors did not use bulbs, but instead used a series of lenses to focus the light from a burning strip of superheated zinc. Out of the top of the projector, a series of angled stovepipes directed the toxic vapors up and out the roof. For a moment I wondered when the last movie had been shown there. What year, and which movie? And the company that made those zinc strips...when did they go out of business? I walked next door and bought a huckleberry ice cream cone for two dollars, fully expecting Buddy Holly to walk in at any moment.

Rivers of wild grass blowing in the wind © Eric Meola 2011

The Palouse is all about texture—the textures of the land, the textures of the barns, the textures of the fields of wheat and wild grasses that move in the wind. I came across a huge field of grass one afternoon, and watched for more than an hour as the tall, wispy strands of grass caught the wind, undulating like the green waves of an ocean, creating an illusion of liquid that was hypnotic, as if the land had been flooded by some great sea. In the tranquil twilight of evening, as long shadows roll a blanket across the hills and stars fall from the sky, the hauntingly beautiful light brings thoughts of the strange world we have created for ourselves. How long will this place be here? What force will bring its demise? And why are we always seeking something new we think is better?

Harvest tracks in the day's last rays of light © Eric Meola 2011

Deconstructing the Cover of "Born to Run"

2011-06-23T20:41:00.008-04:00

“Ever conscious of iconography, especially on Born to Run, the album that was to be his unabashed, arduously recorded attempt at rock greatness, Mr. Springsteen didn’t lightly choose its cover image. It shows him leaning on a shoulder that, when the album is unfolded, belongs to Mr. Clemons. (Mr. Springsteen was standing on something, since Mr. Clemons was a head taller.)" - Jon Pareles, writer, N.Y. Times

“When you look at just the cover of Born to Run, you see a charming photo, a good album cover, but when you open it up and see Clarence and me together, the album begins to work its magic.” – Bruce Springsteen in the foreword to Clarence Clemons’s book Big Man

“I’m on the back” - Clarence Clemons in his book Big Man

The recent passing of Clarence Clemons has resulted in a number of articles, eulogies and appreciations which have touched not only on his musicianship, but on his relationship with Bruce Springsteen. Many of the articles have referenced the cover photograph on the album Born to Run as a summation and a symbol of their friendship. I have received so many inquiries about the photo session for the cover and there have been so many misconceptions about it that I felt compelled to address them. Thirty-six years have passed, but if there is one day in my life I remember clearly, it is that one.

In 2005, writer Daniel Wolff interviewed art director John Berg about the creation of the cover for Bruce Springsteen’s album Born to Run. Berg related that he had to convince Springsteen not to go with a “serious artist” look. Although Berg does not recall which image appealed to Bruce, it wasn’t the image that finally appeared on the album.

The "serious artist" look? © Eric Meola

When I first heard about the album it was called Between Flesh and Fantasy. Recently discovered notes from one of Bruce’s notebooks, owned by Springsteen archivist and collector Michael Crane, outline one possible idea for the cover:

Cover- Flesh- city street in day

Fantasy on golf bench in back of

Madam Maries with big moon

over the ocean + clarence in

background

Detail of a page from a Springsteen notebook outlining a cover idea for Born to Run

reproduced courtesy of Michael Crane

So at least one of Bruce’s ideas involved the duality of “flesh and fantasy,” and the contrast between day and night—a theme echoed in the first lines of the song “Born to Run”:

In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American Dream,

At night we ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines…

The image that was finally chosen for the cover also emphasized a duality, but one far removed from benches, moonlight and Asbury Park fortuneteller Madam Marie. Importantly, Bruce indicated in the notes that he envisioned “clarence in background.” These notes were written at a point where drummer Ernest “Boom” Carter and pianist David Sancious had just left the band, and they would soon be followed by violinist Suki Lahav. Bruce was writing the lyrics and the music for Born to Run, holding auditions for a drummer and pianist, playing gigs, as well as making notes about ideas for the album’s cover.

But part of the cover design for Born to Run was the result of a decision that Bruce made with regard to his second album The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle. On September 11, 1973, a few days before his 24^th birthday, it was released. A sprawling tone poem that echoes Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks, it is one of his most romantic albums, and it moves Springsteen’s world back and forth from the New Jersey shore to New York’s streets, in songs as varied as “4^th of July, Asbury Park,” and “Incident on 57^th Street.” Yet for the small group of fans that was beginning to form, and who were captivated by Bruce’s every word, it contained a glaring omission—none of the lyrics were reproduced on the album’s jacket as they were on his first album Greetings from Asbury Park.

Recently, I ran into Bruce’s first manager, Mike Appel, and I took the opportunity to query him about the omission of lyrics. Appel stated that “That was Bruce’s decision, that was what he wanted.” I later queried Bruce about whose decision it was to leave the lyrics off the second album, and he answered “It was mine and it was an experiment.” But was it deliberate? “Yes.”

The last time I asked Bruce about the lyrics for The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle, was on August 3, 1974—thirty-seven years earlier. It was also the first time I met him. We ran into each other on the steps of the Plaza Hotel, as he was about do a concert in Central Park. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t hear or understand some of the lyrics, as Mike Appel had to mimeograph them for the press.

In contrast, one thing was certain about the album design for Born to Run—the lyrics would be included, as this was a set of words that Bruce had labored over for more than a year. As well, to the credit of Columbia and Bruce, nearly every single person who had any major part in the album’s creation was given credit on the album’s jacket. This included departing band members who were on some of the tracks, along with the new band members, and session musicians such as the Brecker brothers, Dave Sanborn and Wayne Andre, Springsteen’s manager and producers (Appel and Jon Landau), art directors John Berg and Andy Engel, and myself, among others. The need to include the lyrics and a lot of credits was something foremost in my mind when I chose to shoot against a white background.

The opened cover of Born to Run, front and back © Eric Meola

Jon Pareles was right when he wrote in the New York Times that Bruce was very conscious of iconography, and he was right when he mentions that Bruce was standing on a box. Bruce had prepared for the shoot, and brought along his ripped T-shirt and various props and talismans—an Elvis button, a pair of sneakers, his then-signature newsboy cap, and a radio. The black leather jacket he is wearing in the photograph was given to him by Mike Appel. I had also prepared, going so far as to scout an outdoor setting—a fire escape on the corner of Sixth Avenue near my studio—as I wanted to give John Berg as many alternates as possible.

Around 10 or 11AM on June 20^th, 1975, Bruce and Clarence walked into my studio on the fourth floor at 134 Fifth Avenue, carrying their instruments and a few changes of clothing. I had the Rolling Stones album December’s Children playing. The strobe lights were set up. It was just us—no stylist, no hair and makeup, no assistant. There was a six to seven inch difference in their height, depending on what statistics you reference, and Clarence wore a tall black fedora during much of the shoot. I kept several wooden boxes around the studio to adjust for height discrepancies, though for much of the shooting I did not use them. As Clarence riffed on several sequences of notes, I began shooting. We made quick changes of clothing and in the space of an hour and a half I shot almost 600 images (I shot another few rolls under the aforementioned fire escape.) As we walked back to the studio, I glanced at my watch. It had been just two hours.

Under a fire escape NYC June 20, 1975 © Eric Meola

I did not have an assistant and because I processed the film immediately after the shoot, the sequence in which the rolls were shot has been lost; the sequence within a roll still remains, however, and from that it is obvious that the interaction between Bruce and Clarence which resulted in the cover image lasted for about half a roll, or 18 frames. Of these, there are only two where his face is turned to Clarence and he is grinning in only one of them. Clearly, it was an instinctual moment, and one which was brought on as much by practicality, as intent. Standing on a box, he was suddenly several inches taller; Clarence’s crouch hides this and makes the height difference disappear.

Alternate sequence #1 © Eric Meola

After a number of images in which they stood back to back and a few in which Bruce leaned on Clarence’s shoulder looking out at the camera, for perhaps 3 seconds he looked beatifically straight at Clarence as I shot two frames. Other than his standing on the box, there was no “setup” for this, no premeditation—and, his guitar was not plugged in. We were shooting fast, and if Bruce was after a particular image, he placed a lot of faith in me that in those few brief seconds I had captured the one that became famous. It happened as much because of the moment, as whatever chord progression Clarence was playing that caught Bruce’s attention.

Alternate sequence #2 © Eric Meola

Springsteen biographers and hagiographers as diverse as Dave Marsh and Louis P. Masur have made much of that moment and proclaimed that the cover signals an epic journey, even comparing it to Huck and Jim in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis in The Defiant Ones.

Clarence & Bruce "outtake" from the Born to Run cover session © Eric Meola

The mysteries of the Born to Run cover have assumed a mythical status that did not, of course, exist at the moment the album first appeared. The initial misspelling of Jon Landau’s name, the alternate cover with its sepia blacks and jagged type, the mystery of where Bruce obtained a membership-only Elvis button, and the herculean effort on Bruce’s part in the studio have long since magnified a sense that every last aspect of the album and its design were planned from the very beginning. My photograph of him on the album jacket, leaning on Clarence Clemons’ shoulder, would forever become part of the vernacular of American pop culture, and over the years the pose was imitated by other recording artists, including Sesame Street’s “Muppets” and NPR’s “Car Talk” hosts Tom and Ray Magliozzi.

When I delivered a large stack of prints and contacts to John Berg at Columbia, I did not envision what he saw instantly—in Berg’s eyes, the most important part of the image was the space between their two faces, because it provided the perfect place to split the image. Folded open so that both the front and back show, Clarence becomes the center of a riveting line of body movement along with the line-of-sight of Bruce’s magnetic gaze. Yes, Clarence was right, he is on the back; but for Berg he provided the link to the album’s front. He then extended the white space to the left to accommodate the long list of credits. In its original incarnation, as 288 square inches of area, it is as much a greeting card as an announcement, as much a billboard as an album cover.

The full frame shot delivered to Columbia art director John Berg © Eric Meola

Is it, as so many writers have stated, a declaration of the friendship and camaraderie between the two men? Yes. Was it a deliberate, premeditated statement by Bruce about race relations? Probably not. Yet it became that, and by including Clarence from the beginning, Bruce chose not only the one remaining band member he most identified with, but the one who happened to be black. In an album of saxophone solos, from “Thunder Road” to “Jungleland,” it seems an obvious choice. And, a brilliant one which came to symbolize far more than any of us could have envisioned.

An "outtake" from the Born to Run shoot © Eric Meola

Bruce and Clarence walked into my studio that morning, exhausted from marathon around-the-clock recording sessions at The Record Plant studios in New York. The number of frames where they are yawning attests to that. Bruce had put some very serious thought and preparation into those two hours. Yet as he took his hat and jacket off and held the radio to his ear, and as I moved from close-ups to full torso shots of the two of them, the operative word of the day was “shoot.” Shoot lots of variations, change poses, try different things.

When he finally heard the mastered version of Born to Run, Springsteen's reaction was that it was "The worst piece of garbage I'd ever heard." Eventually, he came to embrace it the way we all did. And the cover?

At one point Bruce stood on a four inch tall box, back-to-back with Clarence. Then, he leaned on Clarence and looked soulfully at the man with the golden horn. If it was a pose, he held it for a few brief seconds and two frames, and at the time I think Clarence, Bruce and I realized instinctively that there was something magical about that moment.

So would much of the rest of the world. Blessings, Big Man.

The God of Color

2011-03-24T18:40:00.009-04:00

The voice was loud, insistent and authoritative; and though I don't understand Hindi, I knew at once that we were in trouble. As I turned to see who had ordered us to stop, I became painfully aware of the long, sinuous bale of concertina wire that stretched along the shoreline. Bhim looked down at the sand and whispered to me to keep walking, but our meek attempt to ignore the order was met with an even louder barking retort which was impossible to disobey.

I had met Bhim in Delhi just a few days earlier, and he was assigned to drive me to Mathura to photograph Holi, the "festival of colors." I had only one morning to photograph the Taj Mahal in nearby Agra, but the Yamuna river was very low, and the places I had previously photographed it from were a marshy wasteland of scrub brush and debris.

While viewing one of those sites, I noticed a group of boys across the river, on the north side, and they appeared to be playing soccer. The sun had already risen, but we drove to the other side and were faced with what looked like a bale of barbed wire, that seemingly had collected every wind-blown shard of paper and plastic the world could throw its way. Then, Bhim found a small rabbit-hole in it that, if we were careful, we might be able to squirrel our way through. He went first, and just made it, his left leg fully outstretched as he hurtled down the embankment. There was a loud "twang," but the thin, rusted wire held. I followed, and neither of us gave any thought as to why the wire was there, nor did we realize we had just breached the perimeter security along the river, for the Taj.

As we rounded the bank of the river, a scene unfolded that I will never forget. In the warm, soft, hazy mist of the afterglow of sunrise, a small group of boys were kicking a soccer ball back and forth, as they did every day, with the Taj as their backdrop. I shot exactly 7 frames, and on the last one, a boy on the left side of the frame kicked the ball into the air, and then...

Apparently we had been spotted from a tower, and now, I listened with no small amusement to the argument going back and forth between Bhim and the guards. I knew where this was going, and turned my back, as I watched Bhim pull out his wallet to give them his guide card. After 5 more minutes we we told to leave, and I looked back one last time at a view of the Taj I had never seen before and never would, again. Of all the images I have made in India, it remains my favorite.

Boys playing soccer in front of the Taj Mahal

Just a few days before, I had collapsed in a chair, exhausted from an afternoon of photographing Indians and foreigners in the throes of exuberant joy, throwing colored powder at each other, and laughing at the fun of having themselves doused with one color after another until they themselves were walking canvases of modern art. Now, as I took off my I.C.P. hat hat and threw it on the ground, I had some sense of how I must look. I had been the target of several children and adults, all them them gleefully pouring handful after handful of powder on me, until my eyes, my ears, my nose, my hands, my mouth, and every other part of my body had some spectral value assigned to it.

My I.C.P. hat, post "Holi"

I was only one of several photographers drawn to Holi who subjected themselves and their equipment to a daily ritual of wrapping camera gear in various layers of protective plastic, some jury rigged and some far more elaborate. Yet no matter how carefully the gear was protected, a number of cameras and lenses fell victim to the onslaught of giggling children with plastic water "cannons," and adults who might be under under the influence of "Bhang". Along with the revelers, I was one of those who received a direct hit to my eyes, of a handful of color; and it would later take hours, and several showers, to begin to wash the color off my skin.

Victim of a Holi color dust storm tries to get it out of her eyes

Imagine being thrown into a mammoth blender, along with several tons of colored talcum powder, and the switch is thrown to "high." Even the silvery steps leading up to Lord Krishna's throne were spattered with color, and the more you got with the program ("Happy Holi !"), the more you were accepted as a bona fide colorista.

Lord Krishna's staircase

The conditions for making images could not have been worse—it was very hot, and the temple courtyards were filled with relentless, raw, mid-day sunlight. Add to that the constant dust clouds of colored powder, children squirting powerful jets of colored water, add in constant, loud, raucous music, and it was impossible to imagine making any images, let along finding places to shoot. Yet if one looked, there were many images to be made, and I found a haven underneath the walkways which surrounded the temple courtyard. I was not the only one trying to escape the onslaught to my senses, and it was here that it was possible to make some startling portraits, and abstract close-ups of color spattered shirts and faces. What I found interesting was not the spectacle, but the way in which Holi became a manifestation of "man as art," in which the human body became a canvas. When I went to India in 2007 to make photographs for my book INDIA: In Word and Image, I made my first images of Holi, and became aware that Lord Krishna is India's "God of Color."

Colored water cannons for sale on the streets of Mathura

Likenesses of Lord Krishna for sale in a stall, Mathura

Portrait #1, Holi

Portrait #2, Holi

Shirt #1

Shirt #2

Back of Black Blouse

The crowd filling the temple in anticipation

Yet Holi, and the celebration of color, was a world apart from the man I had photographed just the day before at the Jama Masjid—India's largest mosque—in the old part of Delhi. Quietly, in the large, open prayer hall, the man cupped his hands to Allah, the only sound the echo of my camera's shutter off the sandstone walls.

Praying to Allah, in the Jama Masjid, Delhi

Day after day of photographing Holi took its toll on my gear as well as my lungs. By the end of the third day I was coughing spontaneously, in a deep, uncontrolled need to get the dust out of my lungs. I spent hours each night using Q-Tips to clean my cameras, and rewrapped each camera in a clear plastic bag that I tied tightly around the lens, which had a high quality UV filter on it. I was drained—from the dust, from the ritual of cleaning the cameras, and from the need to take 3 showers each night before all the color was washed off. So we drove to Agra and Jaipur to "recharge my batteries, and went to places I hadn't been to before, such as Sikandra, near Agra.

Woman in red sari walking in hallway, Sikandra (near Agra)

Marble detail, Sikandra

The last time I had been in Jaipur, the Palace of the Winds was in scaffolding, and the lake surrounding the Jal Mahal was completely dried up. Fortunately, the scaffolding had been taken down, and heavy rains had filled the lake. I also went to the City Palace, and spent an amusing twenty minutes watching tourist after tourist bend down and photograph the courtyard from an intricately carved arch above the entrance.

Tourist with point-and-shoot camera, City Palace (Jaipur)

Detail of Peacock, City Palace (Jaipur)

Palace of the Winds (Hal Mahal), Jaipur

The Jal Mahal, on the outskirts of Jaipur

On the outskirts of Jaipur, I photographed large, hanging bolts of freshly dyed cloth. And on the banks of the Yamuna, I found hundreds of freshly washed saris drying in the sun.

Freshly dyed cloth drying in the sun

Washed saris, drying by the side of the Yamuna river

At my hotel in Agra, I photographed this large, intricately engraved brass door, as well as the large, open vases of fresh rose petals that were placed everywhere. And little by little, I absorbed the tranquility. I needed it, because India can be overwhelming, and the celebration of Holi is an opportunity for Indians to abandon all restraint.

Detail, Brass door

Rose petals floating in hotel vase

Detail of cloth adorning an elephant, Jaipur

Star Spangled Blue Elephant, Jaipur

I went back to Mathura for one last day, but this time I photographed on the streets—from a rickshaw, and on foot. A man standing in a doorway, with magnificent light bouncing off his cheeks. Another man asleep in the shadows of an archway. Marigolds and rose petals sprinkled on a floor. And, in the late evening light, a man that everyone seemed to know, the "cloak room" man—who called out to everyone and, in his easy banter, seemed to be everything that India is about.

It was getting time to head back to Delhi, to get on a plane for a fifteen hour flight to JFK. Yet I couldn't stop thinking about those boys playing soccer in front of the Taj, and the serendipity I had in finding that place, and in making that image. I wanted to be there right now. I wanted to see it all, again. I looked at Bhim, coughed, got in the car, and we started on the long ride back to Delhi.

The Man in the Doorway, Mathura

Man sleeping in shadows, Mathura

Marigold and rose petals on a floor, Mathura

The "Cloak Room" Man, Mathura

The Black Wall

2011-02-27T10:22:00.007-05:00

It’s 6:10AM on a cold and rainy Monday, and I’m on a bus headed into New York to get a visa so I can return again to India. Soon, spring will be here, and the wild rites of the festival of “Holi” will erupt in a fusillade of color-drenched powder, oils, and water. I leave in just a few days, yet my mind is not on what images I might make, but on the disconnect between how "fine art" photography is defined by museums, galleries, collectors, auction houses, historians and...photographers.

I’m thinking, in particular, about ninety-nine cents. 99 cents ? OK, type 99 cents into Google, followed by the word photograph.

Here’s what comes up:

Andreas Gursky, 99 Cent II Diptychon (2001), February 2007, Sotheby's London auction. A print sold for $2.48 million in November 2006 at a New York gallery, and another print sold for $2.25 million at Sotheby's in May 2006.

Yes, ironically, a photograph with the title “99 Cents” is one of the most expensive photographs in the world. And, it’s in color, not black-and-white. The George Eastman House can't afford one. But, would they want one?

I grew up at a time when photography was defined by such diverse and well-known names as Edward Weston, Hiro, Eliott Erwitt, and Ernst Haas. I own a first edition, signed copy of Eliot Porter’s landmark book, The Place No One Knew. I am fortunate to have some of my favorite images on my walls: a print of Jay Maisel’s “Blue Wall and Doves,” hangs on one wall, and Pete Turner’s “Ethiopian Bar” hangs on another.

A few months ago, at Jay’s studio, he said to me, “We sell a lot of prints.” Print making—and defining one’s legacy through gallery sales—has become the new measure of the worth and the arc of a career. Modern colorists, such as the documentary photographer Edward Burtynsky, have seen no need to have a career other than one that begins and ends with one’s personal work, and personal projects. Those photographers whose work I grew up with, supported themselves with commercial work and assignments, much as I did. In the hectic “down time”—the moments in between assignments—we all made the images which gave meaning to our love of photography, and on which we built our careers and our legacies. And, ultimately, it is those images that determine the footnotes that are written in the histories of photography.

Recently, I looked at a great new portfolio of wildlife images from Tanzania by a friend, Rob Ross; the imagery crossed the magic boundary that separates photographs from merely being a record of what was in front of the camera; his new images were at once lyrical and mysterious. The best of the images made you want to see more, and more. Yet, I think we all have moments where we are frustrated with photography and how much it depends on capturing an exact moment in time, rather than manufacturing one. The presumption--that photography is about truth and recording what the camera (in the hands of the photographer) captures—is a limitation of photography, for me; or at least the presumption that photography has to have some innate, or inherent "meaning." In the paradigm we have grown up with, photography is not about Franz Kline, or Mark Rothko, or Jackson Pollack.

The abstract expressionist work of photographers such as Aaron Siskind, Hiroshi Sugimoto and Carl Chiarenza, is, for many people, discomforting if it has the word "photography" attached to it. Yet their images are seductive, even if most people look at Harry Callahan's more abstract studies of light and don't equate those images with photography. Light, form, and shadow, reduced to just that and nothing more...what is it that gives us such discomfort, yet leads me to make my own (increasingly) abstract images?

The answer to that question, for me, is simply that I love seeing what I never saw before, and that I no longer feel there needs to be a “subject” in photography, other than light and color. While in Mexico, last week, I came across a very long, undulating black wall; and, as I walked by it, a prismatic, refractive glint of sunlight caught my eye. Everyone was walking by, oblivious to a world of color buried in the dichroic glass embedded in the tiles. If you looked straight on to the wall, it appeared dense black—especially in the blinding sunlight; yet if you moved the slightest bit to either side, the wall erupted in a pointillistic burst of electric color. Eighty feet of pitch blackness; and eighty feet of color unlike anything I have ever seen before.

Eloquent as he was as a photographer, Ernst Haas was also a master of words and ideas. Speaking of his love of abstraction, he once said “I am not interested in shooting new things—I am interested to see things new.”

Wall of Colored Glass, Mexico 2011 © Eric Meola

Spinning Lights, Florida 2011 © Eric Meola

Sign Detail, State Fair 2011 © Eric Meola

Light on Staircase, Canada 2010 © Eric Meola

Reflections in Skyscraper, NYC 2010 © Eric Meola

Waterfall and Oxidized Rock, Iceland 2010 © Eric Meola

Rusted Truck, California 2009 © Eric Meola

Rusted Car, Oregon 2009 © Eric Meola

Detail, Hotel Floor Vermont 2010 © Eric Meola 2010

Reflection in Window, Las Vegas 2010 © Eric Meola

Canon's New 70-300mm "L" Lens

2010-12-03T09:37:00.005-05:00

When I started this blog, I deliberately decided not to write anything about gear, especially cameras and lenses. As a Canon "Explorer of Light," I think my judgments can be looked at with a certain amount of skepticism. More importantly, all of the online pixel peeping and blogging about gear has created an obsession with perfection. Many of the greatest images ever made were taken with manually focused lenses, well before the age of auto focus or auto aperture, let alone image stabilization.

Occasionally, a piece of gear comes along which is quietly revolutionary, and in that regard, Canon's new 70-300mm "L" lens is, to say the least, extraordinary. Yesterday I went into New York with the intention of shooting some test shots to show just what this lens is capable of producing.

A few caveats: all these images were made on a 7D body, which is not full frame. Is the lens equally as sharp corner to corner on FF ? Honestly, I haven't tested it yet on the 5D2. On the 7D, at the 300mm end, it has an effective focal length of 480mm.

Though I shot some images wide open, I deliberately chose apertures of anywhere from f/8 to f/22 for many of the shots as I wanted depth of field when I wasn't shooting parallel to a building. The first image here, was shot at f/13 and 1/45th of a second. You read that right. 1/45th second, 480mm focal length. Hand held.

Besides being the sharpest zoom I have ever used—whether from Canon or Nikon—there is no visible barrel or pincushion distortion at any focal length, nor is there any chromatic aberration. And yes, shooting at f/13 should be way beyond the "diffraction limit" of the 7D's 1.6X sensor. So much for theory.

This lens is a tank. Relatively short, thick, and somewhat heavy. Yet compared to, say, the 70-200mm f/2.8, it's a "baby."

There is one thing, though, that sets this lens apart—I can hand hold it, CONSISTENTLY, at 1/30th second and get sharp images. The image stabilization of this lens, combined with its balance, shortness and heft, put it beyond the Twilight Zone of reason. There are some lenses that are examples of the best art and science of optical design. The Zeiss 21mm f/2.8 Distagon is one, as is the Nikon 14-24mm zoom.

Obviously, I feel that the Canon 70-300mm "L" is in that league. For the first time ever, I can shoot at an effective focal length of 480mm, at 1/45th or 1/30th of a second, and get extremely sharp, distortion-free images.

Yes, I know, you want to know about "bokeh," or how it does wide open, or full frame, or...well, like I said, this is not supposed to be an analytical examination about "line pairs" of resolution. This is one sharp lens that makes it easy for me to make images that I could never make before. That's more than good enough for me: Canon 70-300mm L.

"TR" and the First 79

2010-08-05T14:00:00.019-04:00

On Monday, August 9th, former Syracuse University professor Tom Richards ("TR") turns 79. Mentor to a generation of photographers who have made their mark on modern photography, Richards taught and befriended such photographers as Stephen Wilkes, Seth Resnick, Bob Sacha, Clint Clemens, Ed Kashi, Nancie Battaglia, Walter P. Calahan, Nancy Leigh, and myself, as well as Sean Callahan, the founder of American Photographer magazine, which, for the ten years he edited it, was a substantially different magazine than its successor, American Photo.

Among us, we've published more than a dozen books, on subjects ranging from a biography of Margaret Bourke-White, to a book on Ellis Island, and one on India; photographed luminaries such as Bill Gates and Bruce Springsteen; and worked for magazines ranging from Life to Time. Seth Resnick's workshops on digital imaging, Bob Sacha's numerous photo essays for National Geographic, and Clint Clemens' groundbreaking use of computers in his photography—all of them have in common the influence, the teaching, and the drive of the man behind those two initials, "TR."

I took a course in color printing and color theory from Tom, in the late Sixties, but my own recollections of that time remain myopic—blurred with the passage of time, much like the Vaseline filters that were the rage in those days, along with fisheye lenses and LSD. Yes, "TR" had me pegged. 'Timothy Leary? Doctor Timothy Leary? What kind of doctor is he?' he would ask sarcastically as he dashed up the back stairwells of Newhouse 1 between his third floor office and the lab, his white lab coat flapping in his wake. recall working for the student newspaper, photographing the FBI photographing the Berrigan brothers (renegade priests and anti-war activists), and being pinned against a wall by TR almost every day, in a jovial bout of questioning about some arcane corner of photographic technology. One time he started rattling off Wratten filter numbers and asking me to describe their color--#12, 15, 21, 23, 25, 32, 47, 58...we kept going for 5 minutes, when he got all the way up to #102 and flashed his schoolboy grin at me, his eyes sparkling, and his eyebrows arched as if to say "Gotcha Meola !" Until I simply looked at him with no emotion and said "lime green."

Those encounters have stayed with me to this day. Friend and former magazine editor (now retired, but currently Adjunct Professor at SU) Sean Callahan, had these thoughts about this particular side of TR: "His exercise with you with the Wratten filters is a good example of the level he would go to challenge the individual. I doubt that he would do that to any other student, even a grad student, because it is pretty arcane stuff. Tom didn't mind taking on the challenge you were as a student, and actually relished it because he had made his mark in the profession, so he was comfortable as a practitioner. I believe this gave him the foundation to be a creative teacher."

Yet, to be honest, in those days I was far more concerned with being drafted. I only had one eye on photography; my real focus was what was going on in Vietnam. I was a full blown child of the Sixties. Again, Sean, who somehow has maintained more brain cells than I from those heady times, recalls the following about my introduction to TR:

"An English major with thoughts about being a writer (NOT a photographer), you were a live-at-home townie with little interest in campus activity until you responded to my call for help at the 'Daily Orange' (S.U.'s student newspaper) and you presented yourself with a list of hardware that was more modern and extensive than anything in the newspaper’s darkroom. ('What the *#@^*%#@??? is a Macbeth Quantalog Densitometer used for?')

I kept prodding you to take a course with TR at the J-school and you only agreed to meet with him when I made the argument that you could easily boost your grade point average with a photo course. I had sung your praises to TR prior to the meeting, and don’t recall what transpired between you, other than he had to get department head Fred Demarest’s OK since you obviously were going to have to come in at an advanced level and work in color (Fred’s domain.)"

One of my photo heroes at the time was Ernst Haas, and when he was invited to talk at S.U., I was front and center. Haas was renowned for introducing color to magazine photography, notably in Life, in the early 1950s with his sometimes lyrical imagery. Of particular note was an essay he shot on bullfighting in Spain using the original Kodachrome (ASA 10) and slow shutter speeds to create some remarkable (for the time) impressionistic images. Haas' appearance obviously had the effect on his students that TR hoped for.Shortly thereafter, I got an assignment from the the yearbook editor to show the university's diversity. With refrains in my ears of TR's mantra to always look for a new way of seeing something that might be tried and true, I took a young Nigerian exchange student out to the newly constructed terminal at Syracuse's airport, and panned the camera as he ran against a bright red, enameled brick wall, his native robes unfurling in the wind. It was the first time I knew I had caught TR's attention, and that I felt I had made a leap in the way I saw.

TR's edgy irreverence with students always came with a demanding playfulness. He constantly challenged you to make better pictures—sometimes even in competition with himself. Just to keep his edge, TR would be the AP stringer for SU football games. (This was the Floyd Little/LarryCzonka era when SU was always in newsworthy contention for NCAA glory.) TR would help qualified students get sideline credentials. Sean sometimes got a credential for UPI, thereby putting him elbow-to-elbow with TR during the game. TR would heckle him all during the game but never offered any guidance. This was, after all, the real world, and the student needed to learn to survive in it. Later he would ask to see the student's take and offer helpful criticism, albeit sardonically delivered.

As Sean recalls, "Perhaps the biggest event of my sophomore year was the week I beat TR to the Sunday NYTimes sports page. That was the only time UPI edged AP in Syracuse that season but it was enough for me. TR grudgingly mentioned it in class the next week, claiming it was an example of egregious photo editing. I beamed and it was obvious that he was proud, too—but not too obvious about it such that I would get cocky."

Photographer Ed Kashi, got a taste of another side of TR:

“I have many memories of TR, and not all of them are easy or pleasant. He never made me feel a part of the group and was, I felt, quite tough on me. But what he did was prepare me for a life in photography. When I was a senior and about to graduate, I asked him to write me a letter of recommendation. What I got back was unusable. He basically ripped me apart in that letter. It was a sobering lesson for what was about to come as I entered the 'real world' of professional photography.

TR was also a very kind man, generous and strong. If he liked you, there was no end to what he would do for you. My sense is that he expected people to give it their all and learn what it meant to be mature and professional. His judgment of me, way back then, was probably good for me. He kept me honest and humbled; and forced me to conjure up my inner strength and resolve, which prepared me for the future. His tough expectations were a good thing for an undisciplined, but eager, kid.”

Here are recollections of other former students who stand in TR's debt:

"TR" and the First 79, CONTINUED

"TR" and the First 79 (continued)

2010-08-05T13:50:00.051-04:00

Sean Callahan

My career path didn’t lead me to being a photographer but a magazine editor, albeit one with a great appreciation of the use of photography. That came from TR. I recall getting into an upper level class where the class would descend on an upstate daily one afternoon, attend a story meeting, get a local assignment and then report, write and layout a feature for the next day’s issue. Next week, another strange town. Tom convinced the graduate faculty running the class that I could do the work and take pictures too. I did and that’s where I learned about the interplay of words and images that, a few short years later, led to a position at the weekly Life as a reporter/editor and eventually picture editor. Wouldn’t have happened but for the enthusiasm and encouragement of TR.

Tom Richards was refreshingly outgoing and friendly compared to other faculty, behaving more like a big brother than a college professor. In reading Seth Resnick's posting here I was surprised to learn that in later years some students had been invited out to his home in rural Tully, about six miles from campus, where he had carved a landing strip for his vintage tow plane and glider that were always being "modified."

From watching him work in the lab equipment room, it was obvious that he was gifted mechanically. I can only imagine what he had accomplished at home. Yet, as gregarious and charming as he was—to me at least—he always maintained a certain distance. He dodged intimacy. The fact that there was this "Waldo Pepper" side of his character intimated that there was much more to TR than what he showed on campus. I was not surprised to learn that for many years he was an active Navy Reserve Commander—in Intelligence.

What I also recall TR doing was to give me the freedom to be myself. A former newspaperman, he was firm with deadlines, but as a professor, he didn’t let the 'academy' get in the way of creativity. As Jann Wenner once told me about why he fired Annie Leibovitz, 'She kept getting further and further out on a limb. I couldn’t stop her, so I sawed it off.' Unlike Wenner, Richards wasn’t running a business, so he could afford to let us go out on a limb and be ourselves, knowing that, if we fell, the truly talented ones would always land on their feet.

TR got me the job of maintaining the chemicals which meant that I had the keys to the lab and studio with 24/7 access. One Sunday night I was working on a personal project and had the stereo/PA system on full blast (probably Procol Harum) throughout the labs and studio. Unfortunately, Dean Clark had come into the office that night and traced the racket down to the lab. Using his pass key, he let himself in. Now I’m not sure if the set up was the same in later years but just opposite the front door was an area with matte cutters and dry mount presses used for the preparation of portfolios. There was a sign above the countertop that said 'Mounting Area.' And that, along with my bare buttocks, is what greeted Dean Clark as he caught me in flagrante delicto.

The Dean closed the door as suddenly as he opened it and disappeared without saying a word. I should have been fired, let alone expelled, but somehow Tom saved my cheeky ass. The next day he condemned me for it but through it all his face was beet red from a combination of embarrassment (he possesses a Puritan streak) and the strain of suppressed laughter.

His gift to me was confidence, knowing that at some point I would fall, but land on my feet. Eventually, in my case.

Seth Resnick

It was the Fall of 1978 and I was in London for a semester abroad along with Bob Sacha, Stephen Wilkes and Nancy Leigh. Bob, Stephen and I bonded and we became the "three amigos." The whole class took a photographic trip to Scotland but very early in the trip the three amigos were a little disenchanted. We did not want to stop at locations with 20 other photo students all photographing the same thing so we privately expressed our concern to TR. His reaction was classic TR... He essentially said that we all need to stay together as a class and that he was responsible for u,s but that if we rented a car and suddenly took a wrong turn...well...we might have to all hook up in Loch Ness.

Bob and Stephen and I looked at each other, and then smiled at TR. The class turned left at the corner. We turned right. We got a map, talked to a few locals over a few beers, and then headed straight to the Scottish Highlands. The three of us had an amazing time, and it was a life-changing experience. All three of us photograph things very differently, but we all love light, and love adventure. The highlands have breathtakingly lush scenery. We headed to Aviemore, which is a ski area in the Cairngorms National Park . Stephen was so amazed at the light and the enormous valley below that he nearly fell off a cliff. While the class "group" was photographing sheep, we were off on a "real" photographic expedition. We shot non-stop—no group dinner, and our only self-imposed rule was "just make great pictures." We eventually met up with the class at Loch Ness and I still recall the sheepish grin on TR's face as he said, "well, well, well...what happened to you boys, you take a wrong turn or something?"

TR is the kind of teacher you find once in a blue moon. Sure he taught, and sure he gave us Kodachrome from the Navy refrigerator (The Navy had a journalism program at SU and was very well equipped). More importantly, TR taught us to feel photography from within, and helped each of us build confidence and find our own styles. He inspired each of us by managing to help us discover our own strengths and taught us to challenge those strengths. When the semester in London was over, the "three amigos" became college roommates and we are still close friends. TR continued to challenge us, and to push each of us. One day after our return from London, he said, 'Seth why don't you march down to the Syracuse newspapers and get yourself a job?' When I mentioned just how I was going to go about it he said something profound like, 'Well Seth you will find a way...just show 'em your stuff!' He had many funny little expressions, but they all had a bigger meaning. I did show 'em my stuff, and was given an internship, which led to a staff position which was excellent training for a young photojournalist.

Nancy Leigh

Photography remained my personal passion rather than a profession, and TR has been a tremendous supporter of mine through the years. We have remained in close contact since I graduated from S.U. 30 years ago. It’s a tribute to TR that all these years later, he is still teaching, critiquing, and inspiring me to reach higher levels in my work. Is a professor’s work ever done? Not for someone whose work is his passion. Not for TR.

After taking the necessary black-and-white introductory courses at Syracuse, my photographic world changed when I met TR. It was like entering Oz, The Land of Color, and TR the Wizard was there to greet us. If you had the enthusiasm, made the effort and had talent, TR would guide you along the yellow brick road.

After my summer photo internship at Rolling Stone magazine, TR offered me a job in the darkroom which gave me 24/7 access (remember the “cage girl” who gave out darkroom equipment? No, it wasn’t exotic dancing). Then TR led a program abroad in London; portfolio required for acceptance. I swear, I must have been the last one accepted; after all, the class included accomplished photographers Stephen Wilkes, Bob Sacha and Seth Resnick. Then TR gave me an opportunity as a stringer photographer for UPI—I remember my last assignment was to photograph the Carrier Dome as it was being inflated. I think I spent more time jumping up and down on top of the dome like a trampoline than I did photographing it. No wonder my photos had, let’s just say, excessive camera movement.

TR lives in Tully, NY with his loving wife, Norma, surrounded by his children, grandchildren, cats, golf and card buddies. He is a Methodist, and sings in the choir. TR’s pride and joy is "the cabin"—a large house on magnificent land—he built with his bare hands. As he once told me, "There’s a dab of tar under every one of those shingles." On any given day, you can call TR at the cabin, and when his answering machine picks up, a recording reports the local weather in his singsong voice, along with his chores for the day and any wildlife he has spotted.TR dredged the pond with his backhoe and built this own airstrip for what was perhaps his greatest love of all—his love for flying. He mounted his camera on the wing of his glider and took beautiful photographs of the fall foliage. Just ask TR to tell you the story of the airplane he bought out west and flew back to Tully...it’s a classic!

TR is playfully mischievous, patient and kind, yet brutally honest in his critiques which make you a better photographer. All roads lead back to TR. I had the incredible good fortune to work side-by-side with my talented classmate Stephen Wilkes, who always helped me, encouraged me and became a mentor as well. Bob Sacha, as photo editor for the Philadelphia Enquirer, gave me a boost of confidence when he picked my photo off the UPI wire. Seth Resnick is now brilliantly teaching us everything we need to know about anything and everything "digital." Whenever any of us are together, we reminisce about TR and the impact he had on us—as photographers and as people.

Bob Sacha

Perhaps my first lesson from TR came during our class semester abroad, when he told me to look to the right before crossing the street in London, since that's where the oncoming traffic will be before smacking you down (which had happened to TR a few years before.) But I realized that was also a metaphor that TR passed along to me. If you look in the usual places, you certainly won't find unusual things. Unusual things often make more compelling photos.

Other great memories from London had to do with the pros that TR pulled into class—real working photographers; rough characters like Terence Donovan, who had an amazing eye, spoke in fits of profanity and told us: 'It doesn't matter what kind of camera you have, it's all about your eye. I could use the cheapest camera and still get work. Maybe you couldn't, but I could.' That was something that lit a fire in me—telling stories with different types of cameras, and now in different visual mediums.

Finally, I remember the chance to help some photographer move his London studio, and doing the backbreaking work alongside TR—moving boxes, and books, and studio equipment. Only later did I learn it was the studio of the great Sam Haskins, who gave me a signed book as my reward. Hey—I learned that great photographers can be nice guys!

I don't know if TR ever imagined that these simple things would stick to me, or would ignite my curiosity to make me the visual person that I am today. His teaching was effortless, but it was deep. Now that I'm teaching, I only hope that I inspire students the way he inspired me.

Clint Clemens

If you are lucky, really lucky, you will have the good fortune in your life to be taught by a steady hand. A number of my lifelong friends and peers were lucky, and grew into our own under Tom Richards, professor of photography at Newhouse (S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications). In Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell helps us figure out why some people are successful and others not. It turns out that your birth date, and therefore the timing of your professional coming of age, is a major factor. For a very fortunate group of us at Newhouse in the late 60’s and 70’s, there was a dedicated, straight forward, wryly funny, hard-driving, handball-playing, take-no-excuses teacher that hit the right balance of respect and approachability that resonates with young minds. He was the friend who commanded respect.

Tom Richards, or TR, as he always signed his images and will forever be known, was the real deal. As a college student, you are not really conscious of age. There are just other students, and the rest of the world. I did the math recently and TR must have been in his late 30’s when I was at Newhouse. A kid himself—but with the Right Stuff for a tough time on college campuses. 1967-1971. Vietnam, long hair and rebellion, culture clash, Hendrix and sexuality all bubbled into a potent mix during that period.

The epicenter of all photographic activity at Newhouse was "the Lab," the air thick with the smell of Acufine, Microdol-X, Dektol, and "Indicator" Stop Bath. Picture this: each year the Navy would send 20 of its top photographers for training at Newhouse. TR was the motivation and, I suspect, the reason. They would come in, crew cut and lean, and for the first time come in contact with the long haired students on campus. TR had his hands full. In the tight space of the lab, we all got to know each other. TR was part of many conversations. Each year, we would gain respect for each others' positions on all things social and political. One of my good friends from that era is Chip Maury, who won the Nikon International Photo Competition by photographing the first 18-man "star" while in free fall. I think his knees gave out after 40,000 career parachute jumps with cameras strapped everywhere. These were the kind of people you met, quality people, thanks to TR.

I remember the first military draft lottery. TR was in the group of us as we watched our birth dates and our draft numbers come off the AP ticker in Newhouse. There was mine— number 27.

As a kid, I was always fascinated by the shape of cars. Those were the days when you could recite the engine stats on a blue Chavelle SS 396 from two blocks away. After I measured several successive sets of doors and eyeballed a sketchy ramp that might—just might—have enough turning room, TR gave me the thumbs up to roll the first car into the Newhouse portrait studio. Lighting that first car shot lit my imagination, and my career. When a teacher says "yes," the possibilities are endless.

TR also guided me through the two lengthy submissions for the Hearst Photojournalism Competition. I made it, thanks to him. He knew what appealed to people who judged your work. Me? I had no clue.

TR taught me deadlines. Photography class came easy to me. I was engaged creatively, and couldn’t get enough of it. I was on an A-streak for all my classes. Then, I handed in an assignment late, and TR knocked me down a grade for the whole semester. A line in the sand. Never hand in your work late. Deadlines rule. I will never forget the feeling of self-disappointment I had when I saw the look in his eye. That lesson stuck, and will never be forgotten.

In the early days, before SU had its London program, TR led a group of 20 students from around the country to study photography at Agfa "Photoshule" in Munich. I was broke, on scholarship, working for $1 per published photo as Photography Editor of the Daily Orange, the student newspaper. TR somehow had sway over who got a scholarship from the Frankfurter "Allgemeine Zeitung." I remember sitting in his office. He thought I might benefit from the experience. Soon, I was on my way out of the country for the first time. Thank you TR. You rock. You made a huge difference in my life.

The TR stories are endless for those who had the good fortune to be there, in his time, and under his guidance. His is the one of the prime influences in my professional life, and I owe much of my career success to his teaching. I had the good fortune of the timing of my birth. TR taught me.

Walter P. Calahan

My fondest memories of Tom Richards are from 1976 when, as part of Syracuse’s semester abroad program, I got to spend that fall in England under his tutelage. The culture I was leaving behind for the first time was undergoing a refreshing change although I may not have been fully aware of it. The Nixon-Ford era was coming to an end; there was new hope with Jimmy Carter going to the White House. Disco was the rage at home but I was heading to London where the Sex Pistols were inventing Punk.

The university chartered a DC-8 for the group — a six-across cattle car where I drew a middle seat. Being 6’ 7,” the moment the seat belt light went off I headed for the galley to stand around chatting up the stewardesses and anybody else who wandered by. I ate my meal there standing up. I stood up the entire flight only returning to my seat for the landing. Later, TR would always playfully introduce me to people as the only person he knew who flew standing up.

Besides being my teacher and mentor in London, TR had a way of making you feel that you were close friends even though I didn’t hang out with him a lot. He was always bustling from one place to another; you never knew where he was going or what he was up to. But when you had his attention you felt you were his sole focus.

For our first class in London he handed out a shot list but soon pulled me aside and said, “You don’t need this list. Just go out and shoot.” I’m not sure that he didn’t say that to a number of students but it sure made me feel special and gave me some much needed confidence. Still, being given this privilege was intimidating as I then had to live up to his expectations and work extra hard. In reflection, I guess TR knew I needed this prodding and the special treatment was just another of his devices to pull a professional photographer out of a gangly kid from the New Jersey suburbs.

This image of the little girl with her doll on the swings in Gunnersbury Park, down the street from where I lived in the Acton area, was typical of the kinds of pictures I gravitated to. Instead of the bright lights and historic buildings in the city I would take solo walks throughout the suburbs looking for moments like these. I had watched her for a while as she placed the doll in the swing, attached the safety chain and then pushed off in time with the the doll’s swinging. Most of my time that fall was spent wandering through the intimate neighborhoods of the city patiently observing the small things in life like these. This is where I found myself as a photographer too.

Once a week, TR would meet each student one-on-one to review contact sheets. After a few weeks of pictures like the girl on the swing, TR told me that I should photograph people from my 6’7” vantage point. "None of us know what the world looks like to you, Walt. Why not go to Speakers Corner and not bend your knees?" So that’s what I did. Each weekend I’d shoot looking down on the speakers and tourists with a 28 mm wide-angle lens. TR thought the vantage point was fun, and suggested including a few images for my portfolio. I was pumped by his positive spirit. When I got back to New York I took the portfolio around, and to my surprise, picture editors didn’t share TR’s enthusiasm for my point of view. “Kid, you’ve got to bend your knees.”

Years later, looking back over my London images, I realize that size doesn’t matter. Some of the founding fathers of photojournalism in this country— Life legends Alfred Eisenstaedt and Carl Mydans—were (maybe) 5'4". What does matter is following your own instincts and having the confidence to do so. His guidance may have been indirect, and his devices unorthodox, but TR knew how to instill that in his students.

Stephen Wilkes

If you’ve been truly blessed — or just plain lucky — there has been a teacher in your life who not only inspired you, but instilled in you a child-like passion. Tom Richards, whom we all know as TR, is that kind of a person. He is the reason I shoot in color. I remember the day it happened; it was during our semester abroad in London. I had shot a few rolls of color film for the first time and shared the work with TR. He looked at my film and turned to me and said, “Steve, you just stop shooting that black and white…You’ve got something going on here with color.” So that’s exactly what I did, and that was the turning point.

I’ve never forgotten that moment . TR had, what seemed to me, an uncanny ability to see and say what other professors couldn’t or wouldn’t. Tom’s instincts as a teacher were absolute and he wasn’t afraid to push his students into an entirely new area. If you had enthusiasm, a passion to photograph and a great work ethic, then you spoke TR’s language. His ability to recognize those qualities in people, to challenge them to work harder, allowed many students to rise to the top of their profession.

Over the years there are so many memorable moments and stories… here are a few of my favorites that capture TR’s magic.

I remember shooting my first SU football game for the Daily Orange newspaper. I was worried that I didn’t have a long enough lens, and I was trying to see if I could get my hands on something like a 300mm. As I saw him streaking past me, his white lab coat trailing behind him, I caught his attention for a second to ask where I might get a longer lens for the upcoming game. He looked at me with that boyish grin on his face and a twinkle in his eyes and said, “Steve, I believe we’ve got a 300mm in the ‘cage’ (the equipment locker), but I tell you what…I’ll shoot the pants off you with a 200!”

I got the 300 and—yes—TR shot the pants off me with his 200. There was a certain competitive swagger to TR, forged by his years as a successful newspaper photographer. It was the perfect mix of confidence born from years of experience. TR taught me what the word "professional" means. That time I learned that having the best gear did not guarantee the best pictures.

One of my favorite TR memories was one of the most dramatic entrances to a party of all time. It was our senior year, and TR was having what became his regular year end barbeque. Held at his home on a stunning hilltop in Tully, the house, based on the design of a windmill, was built by TR himself. The BBQ was called at 1:00 pm and our class arrived right on time. But there was one problem—TR was nowhere to be found. No one had a clue where TR was. At 1:15 somebody looked up in the sky, exclaiming “Look! It’s TR in his glider!” TR sailed in for a picture perfect landing. As the class gathered around him he jumped out of the cockpit with a grin on his face like he'd just won the lottery. Taking off his helmut he said, "Everybody hungry?" For a moment we were speechless, but TR savored every second as we looked on in awe.

One of my fondest memories was the excitement I felt when I finally made a photograph that TR really liked. I loved when he would get quiet during a review… and say. “Oh Steve…I like that….that’s just fine… really fine.” I lived for those moments.

There are many others who came under TR’s wing who have risen to the top of their profession as artists, photojournalists, portraitists, and more. Their “TR stories” are waiting to be told.

Nine Below Zero (and 3 O'Clock in the Afternoon)

2010-07-20T10:01:00.008-04:00

Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson II...what better reason to take a road trip from Memphis to New Orleans along Highway 61?

And then, there's Ernest C. Withers.

On Christmas Day, 1954, an inebriated young singer named John Marshall Alexander Jr. took a break between sets at the City Auditorium in Houston, Texas, and played a game of Russian roulette, pulling the trigger on a revolver—first on his girlfriend, Olivia Gibbs, then on her friend, Mary Carter. The gun failed to go off. The third time, when he pointed the gun at himself, the hammer finally fell on a bullet in the chamber, killing Alexander—a.k.a. "Johnny Ace"—instantly.

"Big Mama" Thornton was a witness to Ace's death, but the name of the witness on his death certificate when Ace was buried on Jan. 2, 1955 was Ernest C. Withers. It would be almost a year before Rosa Parks would disobey bus driver James Blake on Dec. 1, 1955, and refuse to make room for a white passenger. Those were different times than our own, but not less violent.

In the late spring of 2004, I was wandering down Beale Street in Memphis when I happened to look above a door and notice a faded, torn piece of paper that had the words "Ernest C. Withers, photographer," scrawled on it. I had just purchased a postcard in a curio store with a photo of B.B. King's first touring band, taken in 1955, and something made me pull it from my back pocket and turn it over. When I saw the credit to "Ernest C. Withers," the hair stood up on the back of my neck. An hour later, my life changed forever.

I walked back to my room at the Peabody Hotel and dialed the almost illegible phone number on the scrap of paper, and a crusty old voice answered. Half an hour later, a big old sedan pulled up on Beale Street and Ernest slid out and unlocked the front door to the building. As we shuffled down a dark corridor to his studio, I could just make out above the door a large print of a black man standing in front of a 1950 Ford "Woodie," holding a Speed Graphic at his side. It was Ernest. Stacks of his old prints were everywhere, and as I stood looking at them I had a sense for the first time of the importance of history. The photographs of that time have a different "look," and an immediacy that is forever—the images almost literally burn themselves into our consciousness. Joe Rosenthal used a Speed Graphic at Iwo Jima and the last Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph taken with a Speed Graphic was Yasushi Nagao's 1961 image of Otoya Yamaguchi assassinating Inejiro Asanuma on stage.

Looking at print after print of Martin Luther King Jr., Tina Turner, black baseball players, civil rights riots, Isaac Hayes, Elvis, and a few whose faces I didn't recognize, I knew I was in the presence of a genius, of someone who understood the "big picture" of life, and who had recorded it day by day as a journeyman. If there was nothing else, no writing, no first person accounts, there was this—thousands and thousands of images that chronicled the life and times of a city in the Deep South that was at the epicenter of blues music and of the civil rights struggle.

As we left Ernest's studio, he offered to drive me back and I hesitated. He had a new title, "octogenarian," and I didn't want to trouble him, but the twinkle in his eye told me he would have none of it. A few minutes later, we were lumbering down Beale Street, with Ernest calling out the names and significance of each and every "landmark." "Well, now over there's where I first photographed Dr. King in the Greyhound bus station…" An hour earlier, I hadn't given any thought to Memphis' history, and now I was getting a private, guided tour from someone who knew the name of each and every person in each and every photograph he had ever taken.

Slowly we cruised the streets, finally ending back at the Peabody. I invited Ernest to dinner, and later that night I struggled to take notes as he gave me a synopsis of his life as a photographer in Memphis. In three hours he went from Howlin' Wolf, to King, to the Negro Baseball League, his job as a photographer stationed in Saipan during World War II, his job as a cop in Memphis (appointed in 1949 by his nemesis, political legend and former Memphis mayor E. H. "Boss" Crump), getting paid $35 a week to cover the Emmett Till trial for theTri-State Defender, Count Basie, the chitlin' circuit, the Little Rock "Nine"…. My notes from that night say, "Ernest is a walking Forrest Gump, who seems to have photographed everything in the Forties, Fifties, Sixties and Seventies, from Little Rock to Chicago, to the Delta…he is a walking encyclopedia, a classic." Occasionally Ernest would interrupt his flow of words to drop a bombshell of a non sequitur. Gazing up from the table in the midst of a sentence filled with names and dates, he looked at the windows of the Peabody and let on that "…my momma made those curtains…sewed them by hand." As he left that evening, I didn't know what to say, and for some reason I asked him, "what kind of film do you shoot?" He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a 35mm cartridge. Printed on the side in bold letters was "Walgreens".

The word "hyperbole" does not apply either to the life or to the life or the work of the photographer Ernest C. Withers, for in a career which staggers the imagination, he amassed more that five million negatives. Picking up a camera discarded by a sister's boyfriend, Withers began one of the most remarkable careers in journalism while still in high school, yet somehow found time to raise a daughter and seven sons.

Withers traveled up and down Highway 61 in the Deep South, photographing everything from the civil rights actions to the Memphis blues scene. Of his civil rights photography, Withers is best known for his iconic "I Am a Man" image, taken during the sanitation workers strike that started in Memphis in February of 1968, which drew national attention including the support of Rev. Martin Luther King who visited Memphis a month later.

Withers may have been unknown to most of the mainstream media in those days but he was well known to black journalists. Joseph Louw, a black student studying at the Columbia School of Journalism in 1968, was working on a documentary and traveling with the Martin Luther King party staying at Memphis' Lorraine Motel when King was assassinated. He made the famous photos of people pointing in the direction of the assassin's bullet while Dr. Ralph Abernathy and Jesse Jackson attend to the dying King. If you recall, in those first hours after the shooting, racial tensions roiled, and not just in Memphis. Louw took his film to Withers who processed it in his darkroom. The pictures appeared in Life the next week.

Withers provided other services to the profession. In the days before photojournalists created "pools" to share photographs Ernest developed his own procedure. White photographers couldn't cover some of the predominantly black civil rights demonstrations so, using several cameras, Ernst would sell them his extra rolls of exposed, but undeveloped, film of the event. The pictures would then appear in publications— probably in some newspapers that would never hire a black photographer—with the credit line of the photographer who got their film from Ernest.

Perhaps the most compelling images Withers made are those of the people of Memphis, his hometown, where he maintained a studio on historic Beale Street until he passed away this October at the age of 85. Like many visionaries, Withers saw something few did, and his portraits of faith healers, tent cities and striking sanitation workers have recently enjoyed a revival. If these images were not enough, what was equally impressive was his attention to detail – every image had a story behind it, many of which Withers told in his occasional lectures to college audiences.

But one of Withers' most telling achievements was to self-publish a booklet of photographs of the Emmett Till trial (which many historians point to as the spark that ignited the civil rights movement) which he sold for $1 each. Ernest was aware of the revolution that was taking place, and he had assigned himself as its historian. Today, only one original of that incredible document remains in existence. Withers died on October 15, 2007. Withers disappeared off the map in the Nineties, but his career and images were revived largely through the work of Tony Decaneas, who began organizing and printing Withers' vast archive as well as selling prints at the Panopticon Gallery in Boston. And the writer Daniel Wolff organized Withers' work into two books—Pictures Tell the Story and Memphis Blues Again—writing thoughtful introductions that put Withers' images in the context of the times and that give the images the attention they deserve.

This brings me back to that road trip out on Highway 61. On March 22, 1965, Bob Dylan's album Bringing It All Back Home, was released. On the song "Outlaw Blues," Dylan talks about it being "...nine below zero and three o'clock in the afternoon," a reference to the song of that name by harmonica virtuoso Sonny Boy Williamson II, who died just two months later on May 25, 1965.

If you stop at actor Morgan Freeman's small restaurant Madidi in Clarksdale, Mississippi for some wonderful southern cooking, then continue on to the small town of Tutwiler, and then on the outskirts go straight down Prairie Place for about 1/2 mile, and walk into the weeds, you'll come across Sonny Boy's grave, which usually has several harmonicas and flowers placed on it: Sonny Boy Williamson's Grave.

Beyond Passion: Tim Mantoani's 20x24 Portraits

2010-07-19T13:00:00.023-04:00

" I don’t think there are many editors who could give me the assignments I give myself."

- Ernst Haas, in a letter to the editors at Life magazine, in 1949, turning down a staff position.

The question I am most asked by young photographers is, "What words of advice do you have for us?" Or, "Is it still possible to succeed in this economic environment?" The short, acerbic answer might be "No." Yet every time, I repeat the same mantra: "Find a subject you are passionate about and photograph it like it's never been seen before."

Tim Mantoani's self-assigned project, titled "Behind Photographs," is a testament to just how far one photographer can take that dictum. In 2006, Tim made his first exposure, of the late, great Jim Marshall, holding his famous portrait of Johnny Cash "flippin' the bird."

The premise is simple: Use the Polaroid 20x20 camera to make portraits of many of the world's greatest photographers, holding one of the favorite images they have made. One hundred and fifty photographers later, I interviewed Tim about his project—why he started it, what it means to him, and how far he's willing to take it. So far, he's had to refinance his house, and no one has given him a dime. I thought his passion might be instructive for those who raise their hands and ask me "What advice can you give us?"

- Who was the first photographer you photographed for the project and on what date ? Jim Marshall and Michael Zagaris in San Francisco on Dec 27, 2006. As digital cameras came into my day to day commercial work, I had been forced away from shooting large format portrait work. Clients just didn't want to take the risk or spend the money. I missed shooting large format and had seen the 20x24 Polaroid for rent. The writing was on the wall that Polaroid film was going to be "fading away", so I rented the camera for a 1/2 day and asked Jim and Michael to come in for a portrait. I wanted to shoot something that was important to me. I asked each of them to bring a print to hold, it all started there.

- Do you collect photographs? You have a pretty good sense of the modern "classics."

I really feel like this project is me collecting images. Honestly, I feel like every photographer is a collector, we collect pictures that we take. Several of the photographers that I have photographed have been kind enough to give me a print. Jim Marshall and I spoke often after I photographed him and just a month prior to his death he sent me the Johnny Cash photo that he held for his portrait session.

- Is a book in the works?

I have seen this project as a book from the beginning. It is a difficult time to find a publisher, and I have had conversions with a few houses. My problem is that I want the book to be big enough so the images will read well and most publishers don't see profit in that model. I have also been researching self-publishing. I hope to have a book out in the fall of 2011.

- Will there be a 20x24 self-portrait?

No plans at the moment.

- What exhibits have there been?

I have had a few partial shows of this work. I showed most of the California shooters in a show at MOPLA in 2009 and also had a show at Brooks Institute of Photography in Santa Barbara, The Farmani Gallery in Brooklyn and a few of the images are currently at Ogilvy. By doing shows at ad agencies, I am hoping to generate some advertising work to help with the cost of the project. I also had a show in New York for the opening of a clothing store, "7 For All Mankind." It was during fashion week and was a unique way to show some of the images. Since the originals are so large, it will take a huge space to show them all.

- Did you try to get funding ?

Been trying hard for the past couple of years. It has not been easy to find someone to support it. In the photo industry, it isn't digital and it isn't output, so the direct tie to product sales is not something that works for most companies.

- The project seems to me to be a lot more than answering your own need to shoot large format—for me it seems it's part "homage"...photographing the images and the people who made the images that "spoke" to you as you grew up wanting to become a photographer...is there some of that in there?

For sure—I have been inspired by so many great photographers over the years and this was a way to honor them. As photographers we get assignments shooting athletes or musicians or poets, etc....but rarely is an assignment handed out where a photographer gets to photograph other photographers. I found a unique balance in the simplicity of these portraits with a balance between the photographer and their image. Both are of equal importance. I feel that people need to be reminded that photographers took these images, not cameras. Many of these images have helped shape history and I hope this project will be a way for future generations to appreciate these dedicated individuals.

- Were there ever moments of self-doubt?

The thing what has kept me going the most is the support I have received from people like yourself that have encouraged me to continue. I know many of the participants have thought I was nuts, but that is what fueled me as well. Numerous photographers have asked to use my portrait to promote themselves—that is a huge honor for me. At Jim Marshall's memorial, Joan Baez got up and sang a few songs. Behind her were images of Jim, my portrait included.

- Did any assignments come out of this ?

After Communication Arts ran a feature, I reconnected with an old client. This led to a series of portrait jobs earlier in the year.

- Can you say with conviction that the publicity around this project has been a boost to your career?

Yes—I have been published around the world and will be showing some of this work at Photokina, as well. This interview is a prime example, I met you through this project and who knows where that collaboration will lead us?

- Knowing what you know now...would you do it over again?

Without a doubt! I'm still shooting. There are a few more people I would love to archive while I have the opportunity. So far I've photographed close to 150 photographers.

- What was the cost of a 20x24 back then as opposed to now?

$75 per exposure, now $200.

- Do you still have access to materials?

Yes. The 20x24 studio in NY purchased the remaining film stock and chemistry pods. The old pods are starting to fail, so they are making fresh pods for the old film. I just got my first batch. However, all the film stock that remains is what Polaroid made. The equipment no longer exists. The hope of the 20x24 studio is find someone else, Fuji perhaps, to make a new film base.

-Have you received any funding?

Zero, this project has been a labor of love and passion. I have been doing my commercial work to fund it and have had to refinance my home.

-What has it cost you, personally, in terms of expenses not reimbursed?

I know a bunch...but honestly I have not tried to determine that number. If I was too focused on the cost, I would have never done it.

-Has anyone turned you down? I notice Annie Leibovitz is missing. Why ?

I have tried Annie's studio several times with no luck. I honestly have no idea if she has even seen my proposal or project. I do email her studio each time I am in New York, just in case. Several people have said no and each have their reasons or fears. More women have said no than men.

-In which 20x24 studios have you shot the project?

I have shot with the 20x24 cameras in San Francisco and New York. In addition, in Boston, I shot with Elsa Dorfman's 20x24 and I purchased a 20x24 Wisner so I could shoot on the West Coast.

-Any interesting stories?

I have found each shoot to be educational. I think one of my favorites is that the day I photographed you. Dan Kramer came in later that day and held his "Bringin' It All Back Home" Bob Dylan photo. In his image is a woman in a red dress. In the first few Polaroids, he kept looking at your portrait and the red in the image you were holding. Dan wasn't pleased with the way the red in his photo was reproducing and kept saying, look at Eric's image, let's try another. We adjusted lighting and a bit of filtration and still no luck. Finally Dan looked at me and smiled and said, " Well, that's Eric Meola, his reds will always be better than mine!"

-Did you have a criteria for the people you chose? Some seem to be for a specific photo, such as Nick Ut, whereas others, for their specialty.

It is a bit of both of these things. Some people are known for a specific image, while others have been passionate about documenting a specific subject. I really have not tried to limited the criteria too much because I didn't want to let my own preconceptions blind me to learning. Many of the photographers are people that in the beginning I didn't know, but were recommended to me by other shooters. All of these people are passionate about their work. I wanted to document a wide range of people and subject matter, a survey of the industry.

-Who's next on the list?

I am still trying to round out the work with a few more nature shooters and have not been able to connect with them yet. I would love to include Salgado, but again, timing and location are difficult.

- What did you get out of this...for your psyche, your own sense of what photography is about?

This has been such a rewarding project. 10 years ago, I found out I had a tumor in my leg and was told that I would likely die. Surviving that experience has taught me that life is the real payday. I am blessed to have a career doing something I love so much. I feel proud that this project has historical importance and will live beyond me. Most of the photographers in this project were just doing what they loved when they made these images. I think young photographers have to realize that without passion behind your images, you will have nothing compelling. Every photographer needs to go out and shoot subject matter that they love. I know you have spent years on the road shooting—it takes that type of passion and dedication to build a beautiful body of work.

The Cathedral on Seventh Avenue

2010-07-17T16:51:00.034-04:00

There are many cathedrals in the world, but the one at 853 Seventh Avenue in New York sits quietly near the shadow of Carnegie Hall, as the world passes by every day. Shrine, cathedral, small apartment of the poet of photography.

Few people know that perhaps the greatest photographer to have lived in modern times, called this home. On September 12, 1986, Ernst Haas had a heart attack, and those who knew him and his images, were cut through to the quick when they heard the news of his passing; for there is probably no single other photographer who is so revered. There was Ernst, and there was everyone else. No one had eyes like him, for his arched, thick, silvery eyebrows were intimidating, yet with his piercingly brilliant, intense stare he could be one of the most modest, engaging teachers that photography has ever known. And coupled with those eyes was a smile and a love of photography and of seeing that was infectious.

“The best lens is your feet.” “No one gives you freedom—you take it.” Two Haas truisms that have stayed with me through the years. Haas was known as the poet of color, and his masterpiece, the best-selling The Creation, is, for my generation of photographers, the book that changed everything, and that always comes up in conversation.

When I recently met a photographer and kept staring at her t-shirt, she looked at me and said “It means ‘light.’” There was a large kanji character on the back, and she was somewhat startled when I said “That’s not what I was staring at.” There, in small letters were the words “Haas/Japan Photographic Expedition,” and when I asked about it she said that she had gone to his workshop in Japan in 1984, 26 years earlier. And then she began to talk, and as she talked I heard it—that faraway, almost mystic voice, of someone who has fallen under the spell of a gypsy—part Buddhist, part poet, and all genius.

I asked her to write down a few words about Ernst, and a day later, this was her email:

In 1984, I was 26 years old. Through all my odd jobs, I had managed to save $10,000. Then I read that my idol, Ernst Haas, was offering a workshop in Japan. An audible gasp, heart racing, frantically rereading in disbelief. Could it be true? Do I really have an opportunity to spend 2 weeks in Japan with Ernst Haas? Without hesitation, I spent 60% of my net worth to go on that trip. He was gentle and caring, unobtrusive and modest.

I remember our first day in Tokyo—torrential rain. Ernst, in his singsong way: “okay everybody—put on your rain suits. We’re going out in the rain like little ducks to photograph!” Ernst wanted you to dig deep, to learn the culture and become apart of the environment. We stayed in a monastery on top of Mt. Koyasan with magical forests, photographed a Noh play at night in Tokyo, visited countless Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples, visited the “bowing deer” in Nara, enjoyed the rice planting celebration and beautiful gardens in Kyoto.

Open The Creation, In America, or Himalayan Pilgrimage, and you see images which resonate perhaps more than any others you have seen that year or that day. Moving his camera with the subject, Haas’ motion studies of the ballet and of horses, are the classics that define the technique. And his close-ups of blades of grass, leaves, sulfur pools in Yellowstone, and peeling paint and posters defy categorization. The words of William Blake immediately come to mind:

“To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.”

In the early Nineties, I got an excited call from photographer Peter B. Kaplan, saying he had just seen an exhibit of Ernst’s work at the Howard Greenberg Gallery, which at that time was in Soho. The world was different then. Photography was different then. Ernst worked with little equipment, often preferring a simple satchel or a soft messenger bag for his camera. As I looked at the images on the walls, I felt the need that Peter had expressed to me, the need to call a friend. And I did. And he came, and we talked, and we looked.

Talking with photographer Arthur Meyerson, who also attended the famous 1984 Japan workshop, his carefully chosen words reflect the wonder and awe most photographers feel when viewing Haas' images. In discussions about Haas there is always a constant—an acknowledged point in the universe where time stops, and beyond which light will not pass. There is an audible drop in the voice, a reverence to the name “Ernst,” and it is silly, because if anything, Ernst would be embarrassed and have nothing of it.

When I first came to New York, I called Ernst and he answered, and I quietly explained that I was a photographer, and as I hung up the phone I could still hear his voice saying “Come by at six.” Six for Ernst was 6AM. In those days, he lived above a garish lingerie store on Seventh Avenue. The next morning I timidly knocked on his door, and for an hour we talked about photography and about my work. He asked if I painted and I said “No...I don’t know how to paint."

Haas immediately said “You don’t need to know how to paint in order to paint.” And he smiled. There was an intense alacrity in the way he said it, and with an arch of his eyebrow, I knew it was said without any hint of being specious. As photographers we are humbled by Haas‘ images. As dreamers we dream. We know we have stepped into another world that defies the boundaries of seeing, and speaks to us with an uncompromised vision.

In 1949, Haas wrote a letter to Life magazine, turning down a staff position. Though he would later enjoy the success and exposure of having many photographs and essays published in Life, the innocence of this letter reveals his singular sense of who he was and who he wanted to be:

I believe in the end-success of a man’s work...aware of the connection in life between our earth and the cosmos; a person able to understand the mistakes, and to admire the achievements, of other people… I have always felt better taking a risk rather than an easier route, for what I believe in. I am young enough to do that and I am full of energy and hope to reach my goal. I prefer to be noticed, some day, first for my ideas and second for my good eye… Maybe you will think I have not got my two feet quite on the ground...What I want is to stay free, so that I can carry out my ideas…I don’t think there are many editors who could give me the assignments I give myself.

Provenance: Collecting Color Photography

2010-07-16T09:27:00.018-04:00

If you've ever collected photographs, provenance is a word you're familiar with; and like Provence, the region of France, its roots are French and Latin:

the place of origin or earliest known history of something : an orange rug of Iranian provenance.
• the beginning of something's existence; something's origin : they try to understand the whole universe, its provenance and fate.
See note at origin .
• a record of ownership of a work of art or an antique, used as a guide to authenticity or quality : the manuscript has a distinguished provenance.
ORIGIN late 18th cent.: from French, from the verb provenir ‘come or stem from,’ from Latin provenire, from pro- ‘forth’ + venire ‘come.’

There is a dividing line in collectible photography, and it falls neatly between black-and-white and color photography. Or did. Photographers William Eggleston and Andreas Gursky have, for years, defined the polar extremes of collectible color. It is not hard to express the dismay and disdain that this Wikipedia entry for Eggleston elicits from many modern color photographers: He is widely credited with securing recognition for color photography as a legitimate artistic medium to display in art galleries.

Gursky, whose prints have sold in millions of dollars, is no less polarizing for his detailed yet dispassionate images of supermarkets, buildings and stock exchanges.

Until recently, few collectors have collected color prints, mainly because of one issue—impermanence. Eggleston's prints have been made, for the most part, on Type-C paper, or dye transfer, both of which are susceptible to fading. Gursky has also chosen Type-C materials though the Fuji paper he uses is far less prone to fading than earlier materials.

With the publication in January of 2006 of Saul Leiter's Early Color, the collecting of color photography has gone mainstream. Edward Steichen exhibited some of Leiter's color photographs at the Museum of Modern Art in 1953, but it is only recently that his work has been rediscovered; and as a result, this book is already in its second printing. As well, the appearance of Ross Periodicals' new magazine COLOR, signals a sea change in the acceptance of color. There may always be a disconnect between the consensus of photographers and the consensus of galleries and collectors as to what constitutes great color imagery. Stephen Wilkes' beautiful recent book, Ellis Island, and the work of his contemporaries, such as photographers Stephen Shore and Joel Sternfeld, are bridges between the present and the gallery world where color imagery, to be accepted, must have a purpose or a meaning. The art world has long embraced color for color's sake, such as in the paintings of Mark Rothko or Kenneth Noland.

Yet even that is changing, with the advent of exhibitions such as the upcoming (September 16, 2010 - October 23, 2010) exhibit Beyond COLOR: Color in American Photography, 1950-1970 at the Bruce Silverstein Gallery, which will feature works by contemporary masters such as Ernst Haas, Pete Turner and Eliot Porter.

Finding Pete Turner's "Rolling Ball"

2010-07-15T13:04:00.024-04:00

In its January, 1981 issue, American Photographer magazine published an article by Sean Callahan called “Countdown to Moonrise,” in which astronomer David Elmore of the High Altitude Observatory in Boulder, CO, calculated that Ansel Adams’ famous photograph “Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico” was photographed on October 31, 1941, at 4:03 PM local time. This was later refuted through independent analysis by astronomer Dennis di Cicco, who noted issues with those calculations and that “Moonrise” was photographed the next day at 4:49:20 P.M.

Who cares ?

I’m not sure that’s the question. I think we look at certain iconic images and want to know more about them. Where were they taken, when, why, and under what circumstances?

One day, while on the phone with photographer Pete Turner, I asked him a question about his famous image “Rolling Ball.” Did he think “it” was still there? The “it” is the “pyramid” in the image, the silhouette of an African “hut," with an arrow-like smokestack at its top pointing up. But it’s the sun at sunset that’s the subject of the image, the “rolling ball.”

The image was made in 1960, when Turner was near the end of an epic 7-month journey transecting Africa from south to north. Turner, who had graduated from R.I.T. in the late Fifties, had just landed his first major assignment, to photograph a caravan of Airstream trailers as they traveled from Capetown to Cairo. Somewhere north of Khartoum, in the Sudan, Turner came across the lone structure and framed the triangle within the rectangle of his camera’s frame, adding the third element of geometry, the circle, by placing the sun right at the edge of the hut so that it appears to be rolling down the side of the roof. It’s the title, of course, that completes that illusion.

Later that same year, the image would become part of the permanent collection of the George Eastman House. And a photographer’s career would shift into high gear.

And so, my question, “Do you think it’s still there?” met with a long pause, and then Pete said “Sure, it could be...who knows...it was in the middle of the Nubian desert, far from any town...all by itself.”

We talked about a few other things, and then hung up. A few days went by, and then, one afternoon, while sitting in front of my computer, I started typing into Google. I didn’t have much to go on. I knew that Pete had been somewhere between Khartoum and a town in the north called Wadi Halfa, near the border with Egypt. Great. Not too bad. Nine hundred kilometers. Taken when? 1960. Sure. But I had another piece of the puzzle. I was, according to Pete, looking for a place called “Station Number 6.” The hut was near some abandoned trains and tracks in the desert, and as trains connect Wadi Halfa to Khartoum, the reference was, most likely, to a train station or layover. But would the “hut” still be there?

And then, I came across a reference to a collection of memorabilia of a William Russell Grant Wollen:

Durham University Special Collections Catalog: William Russell Grant Wollen. Photographs contained within a leather-bound album dating from May 1898 to 1899. The album covers Wollen's service in the Sudan, particularly the construction of the Wadi Halfa - Khartoum military railway during the Nile campaign of 1898.

Durham University in England had his collection and someone had carefully catalogued it, but the list was very long. Why was "Station No. 6" triggering the list to show up in a Google search? I scanned my eyes down the list and couldn't see why.

I copied the pages-long list by scrolling down it with my cursor, and pasted it into a blank Word document which lets you search for a certain word, and then I did a search for "Station". The third occurrence listed two photographs "SAD. A1/81 and 82." While stationed there Wollen took two photos and captioned them "Station No. 6, between Wadi Halfa and Abu Hamed." It was the "Abu Hamed" that turned out to be the key, as it moved me halfway up from Khartoum.

And then, I hit the “mother lode." I typed in "Distance, Abu Hamed to Wadi Halfa," and came across two photos in a Flickr gallery by a photographer named Kenny Carruthers who in his own words, explained that "...in October of 2005, I purchased a one-way plane ticket from San Francisco to London. After a few days in London, I caught a second flight to Barcelona and from there I traveled overland across Europe, through the Middle East and then down the east coast of Africa, finishing in Cape Town."

Although I had used Google Earth to zoom in and follow the terrain, seeing the ground view in Carruthers' photographs, and particularly the conical buildings with their stovepipe "arrows" pointing to the sky, was, to say the least, electric:

It's another story altogether about tracking down Kenny Carruthers, and another one altogether as to how aerial photographer George Steinmetz helped me confirm that I had, indeed, found the spot where Turner made his "rolling ball" image. After several phone calls, and scans of Google Earth, George and I honed in on the spot as seen from a satellite, and there they were...the five circular specks on the ground that Carruthers came across in 2006, and Turner nearly a half century earlier. Where there had been one, there were now five. And what are they used for? Storage for the railroad? Ahhh. Another question waiting for an answer...and someone else's blog.

George Jardine's Lightroom 3 Video Tutorials

2010-07-14T17:59:00.006-04:00

George Jardine's Lightroom 3 Video Workshop is a series of 15 tutorials on various Lightoom 3 topics, including the Library, the Catalog, the user interface, the import module, editing, and keywording. It makes a great companion set to Seth Resnick and Jamie Spritzer's Lightroom 3 Workbook. As a member of the original team from Adobe that worked on Lightroom's introduction, George's tutorials are clear and concise, and anyone who uses Lightroom or intends to buy it should download these invaluable tutorials.

Dream Workshop in Iceland

2010-07-13T21:31:00.017-04:00

The eruption of Eyjafjallajökull in south-central Iceland in April 2010 was one of the most spectacular recent volcanic eruptions in Iceland's long love affair with vulcanology.

The Icelandic team of Einar Eriendsson of Focus on Nature and photographer Ragnar Sigurdsson teamed up in late April with American photographer and Lightroom guru Seth Resnick of D-65 for a spectacular tour of Iceland's ice fields, churches, wild horses, waterfalls and, of course, the eruption.

I went along as a participant and had one of the best times of my life. Great camraderie and new friends, and in the small windows of time in between road trips, Seth brought us all up to speed on our Lightroom skills. Einar and Ragnar were great hosts, and Iceland lived up to its reputation as one of the few last remaining unspoiled wilderness landscapes on Earth.

Order D-65's Lightroom Workbook NOW !!!

2010-07-13T18:22:00.007-04:00

Good friends Seth Resnick and Jamie Spritzer's new guide to Lightroom 3 is available for order NOW !!!

Order from here: Order D-65's "Lightroom Workbook"

This is from my introduction to their great book, which is essential if you use Lightroom:

"...like many of us, I’ve learned the hard way that if I’m going to play in this digital world I’ve got to know the rules of the road. At the end of Seth’s workshop in Iceland, an Indian doctor who was in the group pulled me aside and said 'You know, if I had to work half a year to come to this workshop again, I would.' I agree. But in the meantime, I’ll re-read the latest version of this book. Again."

Photographing Bruce Springsteen

2010-07-13T16:34:00.012-04:00

Although I'm known for my work in color photography, I've made a lot of photographs of Bruce Springsteen, and I chose, for the most part, to photograph him in black-and-white.

I'll be having an exhibit of those photographs in August at Snap Galleries in London: Springsteen Exhibit

Many of the images in the exhibit were taken for the album "Darkness on the Edge of Town," which is rumored to be re-issued as a deluxe CD set near the end of 2010. This is from the introduction to the exhibit:

In the late Seventies, several events occurred during the two years that Bruce Springsteen worked on the lyrics for the songs on the album Darkness on the Edge of Town. The Buddy Holly Story was released in May of 1978, and featured a blistering portrayal by Gary Busey. However, it was a far lesser known film, Heartland, starring the actor Rip Torn, which affected Bruce; its bleak vision of early life on the prairie would be reflected in the opening line of “Badlands”: “Lights out tonight, trouble in the heartland...”

In 1978, William Least Heat-Moon’s trip around what he termed America’s “blue highways,” would affect Bruce as well as countless Americans who were hypnotized by his portrayal of common Americans, such as a barber in Dime Box, Texas. Moon had, to paraphrase Springsteen, lost his money and lost his wife, and he gone out to find what was left in the heartland. If the heart of Born to Run is in the line “...I want to know if love is real,” then the soul of Darkness on the Edge of Town is in the song “Badlands”: “I wanna go out tonight, I wanna find out what I got.”

In the fall of 1977 I spent days looking at maps, and then settled on a stretch of Route 80 between Salt Lake City, Utah and Reno, Nevada. Finally, the plans came together—we would fly out to Salt Lake, find an old car, and drive it across the desert to Reno. Then, the day before we were due to leave, Elvis died.

We flew to Salt Lake on schedule, and spent an afternoon in used car lots, finally settling on a red convertible—a 1965 Ford Galaxie 500XL with bucket seats. In my mind, I was already visually closer to what would be the album Nebraska than I was to “Darkness.” I was focused on the landscapes and, to a lesser extent, Bruce. That vision would have to wait for David Michael Kennedy’s stark, chilling, almost anonymous photograph through a car windshield.

The conversation during our drive across the desert was about the “Memphis Mafia,” and Elvis. Then something happened that was...well, almost biblical. We had come to a place marked on the map as Unionville, just to the west of Battle Mountain. Nearby was an abandoned one-room schoolhouse and a cabin where Mark Twain once lived. I took some photographs of the gravel road, and of Bruce driving towards the camera, as the sky began to darken. It was August...August 22nd. We had spent the night before in Elko, and because we had been driving all day and all night, we tried to fall asleep in the car. But on that restless night, I slept fitfully on the hood of the Galaxie, listening to the sound of dogs howling all along Main Street.

We left the road at Unionville, and grabbed a bite to eat at a nearby roadside cafe. When we went back, the sky had gone black and the wind had come up. I photographed more images including a shot of Bruce in front of the car, leaning on the hood—a long, thin, dusty dirt road going off in the distance behind him, disappearing over Battle Mountain. It began to rain, and flashes of lightning filled the valley floor. It was one of those days and moments that stay with you to the grave. There was that strong, fresh, electric smell of ozone after lightning has cleared the air, and the feel of moisture mixed with dry desert wind—something I had felt only once before.

Weeks later, I would be haunted when I heard the lyrics to “The Promised Land”:

There's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor

I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm

Gonna be a twister to blow everything down

That ain't got the faith to stand its ground

The dogs on Main Street howl

‘cause they understand...

We flew back home a few days later, and most of those landscape images were never used, like much of what I shot for Bruce during those years. Bruce was transfixed by that storm, and by my photograph of those “dark clouds rising from the desert floor.” However, Jackson Browne had released an album in late 1977, called Running on Empty, and it featured a stylized road going off to the horizon. More importantly, Frank Stefanko’s photograph, which was used on the cover of “Darkness,” gave a more visceral sense of what the album was about—those dark, lonely moments when “the night’s quiet, and you don’t care anymore.” One of the best afternoons of my life was spent with Frank, where he made that photograph in Haddonfield, New Jersey.

Frankie, Danny Clinch, Lynn Goldsmith, Barbara Pyle, and many other good photographers—we're all fortunate that our

work is a testament to our craft and that Bruce's career has persevered through so many decades. In many ways, our images have gone beyond just being photographs; they have defined Bruce, or at least the public’s perception of him and of his songs.

Going through my files and choosing some of the images for this exhibit has been a journey of memories—afternoons in Holmdel at Telegraph Hill Road, drives up and down “gravity hill,” days in the studio, and E Street softball games. All good times, simply trying to put a visual sensibility on lyrics that have resonated with me and with most of us as we grew up over the past few decades. Bruce’s words have informed a generation and changed many of us profoundly.

I can only hope that some of my photographs reflect who he is and what those words mean to me.