Some day, you may have to rise up from your sickbed in a haze of pain to meet a brilliant destiny. Will you do it? This man did. Read on, Reader!
Photographer W. Eugene Smith had smarts and heart and awfully good luck— even when he had no luck at all. <3 Read on, Reader!
OUR SUNDAY BEST IS BACK with a BRAND NEW MODERN PHOTOGRAPHY STORY! C’mon over, everybody! Read on, Reader!
Wake up. Listen to me. What we thought documentary photography was in the 1930s through the 1960s is not what we think now. Read on, Reader!
We meet on a transatlantic ship. A designated place, a predetermined time. Read on, Reader!
An ending, an question, and, hopefully, some answers. Read on, Reader!
Dusk is coming again with its revelation of light. Read on, Reader!
Most short biographies want to make Avedon appear out of nowhere. In these magical tales, Avedon picked up a camera on Monday and found a job at a fashion magazine on Tuesday afternoon. Let me tell you what really happened. Read on, Reader!
We sit on the porch of a little house near the sea. It is moments before dawn, and the silence of the morning has crept between us like the warm body of a sleeping, dreaming dog. Read on, Reader!
What one man could combine infamy and love with panache and photography? Weegee, that’s who. Read on, Reader!
I look one way, you look another— we are searching for Edward Steichen. Read on, Reader!
I know in my heart that this history is circular, and yet not circular at all. For the next leg of the journey, we will begin with Steichen, and we will end with Steichen. Read on, Reader!
This complicated world delights my crooked, well-meaning heart. Read on, Reader!
A shadow breaks, blooms across the wall from a car driving down the street. I drift alongside the shadow with my eyes only; I am dreaming of stories again. Read on, Reader!
The pleasure of the game is that it requires a certain amount of thought and skill, but leaves the players enough free mental space to sit and have a leisurely conversation. Read on, Reader!
We look up.
Somehow, we chose a path.
Read on, Reader!
It is August 1942. Gordon Parks has been in Washington D.C. for less than a month. Read on, Reader!
It is June 1936. Hale County, Alabama. Walker Evans hotfoots down a dirt road that is bent like an old pin. Read on, Reader!
There is a problem with history that cannot be fixed. The problem is that history itself is not a fixed idea. Read on, Reader!
Dorothea Lange stands in her studio that morning in 1933 with a wary eye on the street. Read on, Reader!
Today, you and I stand upon a rock that looks over the years of 1935 to 1944. The hour is dark. I am scanning the landscape trying to find the best trail through this intense time in the history of photography. Read on, Reader!
I crave books I love the way I crave certain foods. I will stop cold in the middle of a task during the day with a single line from a novel or poem written in fire over my head, and the craving is so strong that I know, before the day is out, I will have that book tucked open in my right hand as neatly, and as tightly as a well-made bed.
The moment that drives my ordinary reader’s desire into the swerve of a bibliophilic craving is the artistry of the writing itself. (There are stories, and there are stories, after all.) What keeps me turning pages is my fascination with the person (or persons) whose story is being told.
But who is telling the story?
I’m not talking about the writer/author, per se.
(We know s/he is telling the story— sometimes s/he tells us right in the middle of the story— disruptively— but we’ll get into the …. Read on, Reader!
This is the difficult one. The light is a trick, but it is not an illusion. Read on, Reader!
Cunningham is a native daughter of the Northwest and understands, instinctively, the temperament of light. Read on, Reader!
One of the primary lessons I learned at my grandfather’s knee is that the little things are what make up the width and breadth of a person’s life.
The stories we tell about one another are often these big swaths of overarching narrative— the facts and places and faces version of events.
What really happens to us, when you get down to it, is that we wake up in the morning and we commit a series of sacred, small acts— whatever they may be— that are ours and ours alone.
I think this is why I am so haunted by Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock“— it’s a poem about a life full of small gestures. It’s also one of the most perfectly executed poems I’ve ever read, which haunts me for a different reason— but that’s a discussion for another Sunday.
Unlike Prufrock, my …. Read on, Reader!
There are no second acts in American lives, F. Scott Fitzgerald? I call hooey on that. Hooey, I say! Read on, Reader!
A man stands in a canyon. He is wearing a hat with a round brim. The sun is late in the sky, but the man’s attention is solely on his view camera. Lucky, lucky us. We’ve arrived at just the right time to watch History plant a big ol’ smacky kiss on this soon-to-be-legendary photographer. Read on, Reader!
My mother invited me to a charity gala whatchacallit this week, and I had my semi-annual panic over what to wear.
I love to go places with my mother. And I hate to dress up. It’s a real head-shrinker of a problem, I tell you.
After doing a quick mental flick-through of my current clothes situation, I panicked. Was I going to have to wear the one dress I own with the sleeves I loathe? Whattodo? Whattodo?
Would it be possible to cobble something together from other garments I own?
Despite my panic, I managed to mouth-breathe long enough to source a pair of slim black trousers in my closet I forgot I purchased from the thrift store last summer. And a sleeveless grey cashmere sweater, and a silk menswear jacket, all thrifted from the same trip. I slapped some heels on and away we went!
Read on, Reader!
I did not use a camera until I was in my twenties, my relationship to photography and to photographs still maintains a tint of the newly amazed. Read on, Reader!