Image Vol. 17, No.

4 December, 1974

Journal of Photography and Motion Pictures of the International Museum of Photography at George Eastman House

TABLE OF CONTENTS BOARD OF TRUSTEES

An Art Historical View of Paul Strand 1 Chairman, Vincent S. Jones
"The Thing Itself is Such a Secret and So Unapproachable" 12 First Vice Chairman, Alexander D. Hargrave
"Anything Can Happen—and Generally Did" 19 Second Vice Chairman, Robert Sherman
Symposium 30 Treasurer, William E. Lee
Synoptic Catalog 30 Louis K. Eilers
Walter A. Fallon
Sherman Farnham
Wesley T. Hanson
IMAGE STAFF Frank M. Hutchins
Robert J. Doherty, Director Mrs. Daniel G. Kennedy
David L. Strout
George C. Pratt, Director of Publications
W. Allen Wallis
Contributing Editors:
Frederic S. Welsh
James Card, Director, Department of Film Andrew D. Wolfe
Andrew Eskind, Assistant to the Director of the Museum Secretary to the Board, Mrs. Arthur L. Stern III
Robert A. Sobieszek, Associate Curator, Director Research Center
Philip L. Condax, Assistant Curator, Equipment Archive
William Jenkins, Assistant Curator, 20th Century Photography
Marshall Deutelbaum, Assistant to Director, Department of Film
Ann McCabe, Registrar
Jose Orraca, Conservator About the Contributors
Walter Clark, Consultant on Conservation
Ulrich Keller is an art historian currently in Munich,
Rudolf Kingslake, Consultant on Lenses and Shutters on leave from the University of Louisville. He is
Eaton S. Lothrop, Jr., Consultant on Cameras doing major research on Rembrandt. Walker
Martin L. Scott, Consultant on Technology Evans and Buster Keaton scarcely need identi-
fication.

Image is published four times a year for the International Museum of Photography Associate Members
Front Cover: PAUL STRAND, The Nets, Janitzio, Mexico,
and libraries by International Museum of Photography at George Eastman House Inc., 900 East Avenue,
1933.
Rochester, New York 14607. Single copies are available at $2.25 each. Subscriptions are available to li- Back Cover: PAUL STRAND [Boat Canals, B r i d g e ] , n.d.
braries at $10.00 per year (4 issues). For overseas libraries add $1.00. Unless otherwise attributed, photographs are from the I M P /
GEH Collection, Negative numbers refer to the IMP/GEH
Copyright 1974 by International Museum of Photography at George Eastman House Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in U.S.A. Print Service files.
An Art Historical View of Paul Strand

1
The Early Period—City Themes
Paul Strand was born in New York. In New York
he became a photographer. The modern metropo-
lis was the first object of his camera. From this
early period, only a few pictures have been
brought to public attention through exhibitions and
reproductions, but these few are among the most
impressive pictures in Strand's oeuvre.
A photograph of 1916 shows a woman with
one dead and one aimlessly squinting eye. A white
plate on her chest spells in large letters "BLIND."
An additional metal plaque reads: "Licensed ped-
dler 2622 New York City." The rough granite wall
of a monumental building rises behind the woman.
Strand confronts us with the portrait of a victim,
crippled, reduced to a labeled object and exposed
to a harsh environment.
Around the same time he took a photograph of
Wall Street. Most of the picture is filled by the
huge towering stone mass of a bank building, the
windows of which give the appearance of black,
deep holes. No doors can be seen. Decorative fea-
tures are completely missing. It is the typical ex-
ample of New York's countless, anonymous street
facades. The walkway in front of it is dotted with
2
pedestrians who look very small compared to the
architecture. All of them wear black coats and
move hastily in the same direction. The identity of
their movement is emphasized by long parallel
shadows. Similar to the architecture, the people
appear to be anonymous, exchangeable. However,
the architecture symbolizes power and duration,
while the people play insignificant and transitory
roles. The two pictures show that Strand is far
from glorifying his native city. New York revealed
to him the negative aspects of modern industrial
civilization. His photographic description of New
York includes documents of human misery and
alienation.
Strand expressed his critical views not only
through pictures, but also in philosophical writ-
ings. At the beginning of his essay "Photography
and the New God" (1922) modern man is credited
with great technological achievements and with
the creation of a "new Trinity: God the Machine,
Materialistic Empiricism the Son, and Science the
Holy Ghost." The essay proceeds, however, to
warn of the excessive worship of this trinity:
"Having created the new God, (the scientist)
has permitted himself to be used at every
step and for every purpose by its interested
devotees. Printing presses or poison gas,
he has been equally blind or indifferent to
the implications in the use or misuse of
either, with the result that the social structure
which he has so irresponsibly helped to
rear, is today fast being destroyed by the
perversion of the very knowledge contributed
by him . . . he has made possible the present
critical condition of Western Civilization,
faced as it is with the alternatives of being
quickly ground to pieces under the heel of
the new God or with the tremendous task of
controlling the heel." 1
Strand's call for human control over modern tech-
nology is followed by the demonstration that the
photographer's creative use of the camera can be
understood as a model of this Utopian goal. In
the same year in which Strand published his essay
he also took photographs of machines. Obviously,
he gives major emphasis to the rational, func-
tional organization of these metal structures.
Clearly recognizable as creations of human rea-
son they seem to suggest the possibility of rea-
sonable, controlled utilization. Strand's interest in
machines was short-lived and only the prelude to
more important developments.
3
New Orientation in the Twenties
In the early twenties city topics gradually dis-
appear from Strand's w o r k s . His first pictures of
Nova Scotia date from 1919. By 1926 Strand is
wealthy enough to take regular summer trips to
distant parts of the American continent. This is the
major turning point in his career as a photogra-
pher. The land, the vegetation, the architecture and
the people of Colorado, New Mexico, Maine, the
Gaspe, etc., become the new and soon exclusive
themes of his camera work. In spite of the great
Retrospective Exhibition of 1971/2 in Philadelphia
it remains difficult to obtain an adequate idea of
Strand's various picture series of this time. A p -
parently it was a period of experiments and ex-
plorations that never resulted in anything complete
or definitive. Even the small Mexican Portfolio is
no more than a preface to the comprehensive pub-
lications of the fifties. The main goal that Strand
pursued and never realized in these years has
been identified as "photographing a small local-
ity, ideally an isolated village and its people. He
had hoped to do this in New Mexico, but in his
singular commitment to the landscape he never
allowed himself enough time to pursue another
project." 2
New England
From 1935 to 1943 Strand devoted all his efforts
to film production. In 1944 he resumed still pho-
tography. His renewed photo-campaigns in Maine
and Vermont provided the material for Time in
New England published in 1950. This book is
Strand's first attempt to render a comprehensive
portrayal of a certain locality and its people.
Strand did not simply record what he found in
present day New England. Apparently he was
too much aware of historical factors that took
part in the formation of the land and its people.
The difficult task of opening up historical per-
spectives is facilitated by the introduction of liter-
ary sources, selected and chronologically ar-
ranged by Nancy Newhall, concerning rural life
in New England since the first settlement. Care-
fully combined with these texts, Strand's photo-
graphs surprisingly turn into documents of the
different historical phases that the relationship of
man and nature undergoes in the course of civ-
ilization.
At the beginning of the book w e find pictures of
4
the N e w England coast as it must have appeared
to the first colonists: the gray, desolate sea;
gloomy, low clouds; rocks w o r n by the surf; end-
less, w i l d forests. These are the natural factors,
the primitive state before civilization.
The picture of a wall of unhewn boulders
erected in the snow marks man's first, laborious
attempt to claim a place in nature. Pictures of
gravestones call to mind the hardships of this
fight. An orchard with blooming fruit trees exhibits
first signs of fertility. A church and a meeting
house represent basic social institutions. Photo-
graphs of populated, cultivated land become in-
creasingly frequent. Fields and pastures replace
the original forests. Everywhere, friendly white
farm houses spread out. Pictures of sailing boats
bear witness to the domination of the sea.
However, the progress of civilization is not com-
pletely smooth. Strand places great emphasis on
the moments of crisis, for example the revolu-
tion of 1776 or the beginning of the women's
rights movement around 1850. Of course pho-
tography cannot directly recreate t h e . actual
events of the past. However, through accompany-
ing texts Strand's pictures are charged with sym-
bolical connotations that allude to these historical
events. For example, trees struck by lightning
and a house fallen in disrepair stand for the dis-
astrous consequences of the Salem witch trials;
the struggle and the victory of the Abolitionists
are compared to a fissured rock next to a bloom-
ing tree. The more artificial such analogies be-
come, the less they are of benefit to the photo-
graphs. Moral concepts seem basically alien to
natural objects like trees or rocks. Strand's im-
ages of nature are stronger when they are al-
lowed to stand for themselves.
Strand leaves no doubt that the emergence of
industrial technology and the subsequent forma-
tion of big urban centers represent the most de-
cisive crisis or rather the turning point in the
civilizing process of New England. As shown pre-
viously, the misery of urban life was the main
subject of Strand's early w o r k s . In Time in New
England any direct depiction of this misery is
excluded. Only indirectly, through pictures of de-
serted, decaying houses in the country the be-
ginning of the modern time is signalized to the
viewer: the people lose their relation to nature, re-
treat from the soil, leave ruins behind. Two sym-
bolic photographs accentuate this principal
change. The first one shows the entrance hall of
a country house. Invitingly, the door towards the
interior stands open; one understands that peo-
ple come and go, that a sociable and friendly at-
mosphere awaits the visitor. The accompanying
text (ca. 1800) includes reminiscences of a winter
journey in a sled, of a public dance in a small
t o w n , of hospitality and companionship—forms of
a simple, rural society still far from alienation.
In the second photograph the same atrium re-
curs, but the door is closed and due to a change
of the viewpoint an urn appears in the foreground.
The corresponding text is a diary report of Emily
Dickinson's funeral (1886). That her house and
garden, her hospitality, her natural, modest w a y
of life are lost forever is the message conveyed
by the picture of the closed door and the urn.
However, Strand's last w o r d is positive. At the
end of the book he directs attention to areas
where industrialization has not yet been v i c t o r i -
ous, where the relation between man and nature
remains undisturbed. There still are fishermen on
the coast of Maine, there still are farms all over
New England. Through the juxtaposition of a farm
girl and a blooming fruit tree Strand finally ex-
presses his confidence in the future of the land
and its people. Once more, though, the philo-
sophical concept is so obtrusive that it takes away
from the beauty of the pictures.
Looking at Strand's book as a whole one can
distinguish three main phases in the man-nature
relationship it sets out to investigate. At first,
man is inferior to nature; he hardly can prevail
against its hostile power. Later, a state of balance
is reached: people still depend on the land, they
still invest all their energy in it, but already the
harvests are rich, already security and cultural
achievements emerge. Finally man wins a danger-
ous victory; he renounces nature, retreats into
the artificial w o r l d of the big cities, while the coun-
try continues to hold a promise for those who are
willing to adjust to it.
France
Strand's second b o o k — L a France de Profil
(1952)—also emphasizes the historical aspect of
the relation between land and people. A sequence
of four pictures symbolically reveals the full range
of changes due to occur: a fissured, snow-covered
mountain peak symbolizes the primitive state of
earth before the beginning of civilization. Two
pictures of farmers gathering hay and of sailing
boats in a harbor show land and sea reconciled to
man. Deserted, ruined houses alongside a river
finally document the disregard for nature.
In La France de Profil Strand dwells neither on
the beginning nor on the end of this historical
cycle. Mainly he tries to describe the state of
balance between man and nature characteristic
of provincial France. Photographs of growing
fields, copious barns and contented farmers are
predominant. A special chapter is dedicated to
the peaceful cafes and the universal, unrestrained
sociability in the French rural towns.
However, Strand is aware of negative aspects
as well. A series of pictures demonstrates that
the w o r l d wars and the trend toward the urban
centers have depopulated the land. Sleepiness,
even desolation, threatens to overcome the rural
communities. But again, Strand expresses hope
at the end of the book. The portrait of a (much
too) determined looking boy and a view of grace-
ful, airy sailing boats are introduced to convey a
spirit of enterprise and action.
One of the last photographs deserves special
attention. It represents a cluster of grapes cov-
ered by a film of poison that protects them against
insects. Strand implies: agriculture in provincial
France will survive with the help of modern meth-
o d s ; rational use of technological achievements
is in accordance with nature.
As far as the basic philosophy is concerned,
La France de Profil has much in common w i t h
Time in New England, yet it is much less im-
pressive than its model. Strand's reliance on sup-
plementary texts produced by a mediocre author
was bound to have bad consequences. Historical
documents—well selected and chronologically ar-
ranged by Nancy Newhall—had provided a clear
structure for Strand's first book. In contrast Claude
Roy's poems, essays, marginal comments and
quotations split the second book up into fragments
that appear to be interrelated only vaguely and
loosely. The light, superficial tone of these liter-
ary insertions defies the seriousness of Strand's
photographs. Roy's inconsiderate, however charm-
ing, chauvinism is particularly incompatible w i t h
Strand's broadly humanitarian orientation. In the
preoccupation with symbols both the writer and
the photographer coincide, but this too is detri-
mental to the book. Too many open or closed
doors and open or closed w i n d o w s are presented
in pictures and explained by lyrics to the increas-
ingly indifferent reader.
Italy
Presumably, Strand himself was not complete-
ly satisfied with La France de Profil. In his next
book (Un Paese, 1955), he does away with his-
torical perspectives and symbolism. Instead of a
whole country his subject is now a small town.
The text records what the townspeople themselves
have to say about their w o r k and their living
habits. (Interviews and editing: Cesare Zavattini,
a native of the town)
Luzzara is situated in the Po valley. In the first
pictures Strand shows the river and the plain, not
the town. The natural setting appears as the prin-
cipal, conditioning factor to which the human set-
tlement is only secondary. A railway bridge and a
line of boats suggest, however, that the river has
long since been made serviceable to men.
The fields and woods, too, show signs of mani-
fold cultivation and utilization. Strand seems to
emphasize that a special type of agriculture is
prevalent in the Po valley. W e are not presented
with the rolling woodland, rich grain fields and
ample cattle herds so common to New England
and France. Instead the land is flat, only modestly
fertile and so thoroughly domesticated that no
sense of greatness and spaciousness remains.
M o s t obviously, it is split up into countless small
pieces. Everybody seems to possess some share
of the land. A n d with infinite diligence every
square foot of the soil is taken care of. Not even
minimal crops such as berries and willow switches
are neglected. The very fact that the land is hardly
large or fertile enough to provide a living for
everybody forces the people to acquire an inti-
mate knowledge of it, to live in close contact with
it. This symbiosis is Strand's subject and in it he
seems to find the delicate state of balance for
which he continuously searches: on the one hand
nature is not any more a hostile, indomitable
power opposed to man, it rather renders him
services. O n the other hand, man has not y e t
alienated himself from nature; instead he devotes
his strength and intelligence to it.
The closer Strand leads us t o w a r d s the t o w n the
more numerous the signs of cultivation become.
With a picture of the town entrance he finally be-
gins to describe Luzzara itself. However, one
never forgets that the town has its roots in the
country. Again and again, views of fields and
farms point back to the rural environment. Of the
inhabitants only those are honored by portrait
photographs who are committed to some kind of
agricultural w o r k and whose physical appearance
reflects this occupation. In addition, there are
pictures of craftsmen: a blacksmith, a saddler, a
shoe maker, two women weaving hats. A hardware
store and a dairy complete the description of a
principally self-sufficient town community. Proc-
essing the basic raw materials of nature (milk,
leather, straw, metal) these people meet the daily
needs of their lives through their own manual
labor.
It is unlikely that in 1955 there was no industry
yet in Luzzara. Certainly, many industrial products
w e r e commonly in use. However, in Strand's Luz-
zara there are no factories, no cars, nor any other
creations of the machine age—except bicycles,
which appear to be counted among the small num-
ber of basic, legitimate human instruments. The
town and its people are interesting to Strand only
insofar as they stand in direct relation to nature.
How these people relate to each other is ex-
plored in photographs of market streets, cafes
and private houses. In the public sphere, various
forms of activity and sociability predominate. In
the private sphere, family ties are most apparent.
Social barriers hardly seem to exist. The viewer is
invited to assume that the direct relation of man
to nature also causes a direct, unalienated inter-
course between men.
Un Paese seems to reflect a change in Strand's
use of photography. In his first two books, the
pictures serve to represent historical develop-
ments and philosophical ideas, a procedure which,
to a degree, conflicts with the nature of a medium
most appropriate to record visible, present things.
This abstract purpose could be achieved only
through the introduction of a verbal framework
that charges the images with a symbolism basic-
ally alien to them. How many great photographs
must Strand have sacrificed because they did not
" f i t " ! How many pictures lose their beauty be-
cause some intellectual " m e s s a g e " interferes.
Instead of offering a summary of the whole
process of civilization, Un Paese depicts just one
moment in this process, the state of balance be-
tween man and nature. This restriction allows
Strand to do without an ideological framework.
The pictures become independent, stand for them-
selves, speak their own language. In an unpre-
tentious, direct and precise way they explore only
the present. The result of this modest approach is
visually more diversified and more impressive
5
6
7
8
than everything Strand previously achieved with
a rather ambitious use of extraneous material.
Outer Hebrides
Strand's fourth book, Tir a'Mhurain (1955), is
based on a quite simple concept too. The pictures
document the character of the land and its peo-
ple, while Basil Davidson's text adds some use-
ful topographic and ethnographic information.
In Tir a'Mhurain, nature appears in a harsh, un-
tamed, rather than a domesticated state. The
islands of the Outer Hebrides are corroded by
inlets, dotted with sand troughs and boulders,
overcast by heavy clouds. Everywhere the threat-
ening power of the elements is felt. Arable land is
missing; the scarce pastures are barely sufficient
for a few cattle and sheep. The farm houses,
stables, and barns have thick walls, tiny w i n d o w s
and over-dimensional thatch roofs. Yet, without
the protection of trees and hills, solitarily placed
on the naked ground, these buildings seem to be
left to the inclemency of sea and sky. The cloth-
ing and bodily appearance of the people, too, are
dictated by the hard climate. In contrast to his
earlier books, Strand does not compose portrait
photographs in groups. Instead, he now confronts
pictures of single persons with pictures of vast,
unfriendly landscapes. It becomes evident that
the people of the Outer Hebrides are involved in
a continuous struggle against the threatening en-
vironment. In Tir a'Mhurain Strand does not deal
with a state of balance between human and
natural forces, but rather with the preceding
phase of the difficult foundation of human civiliza-
tion. However, he leaves no doubt that even this
primitive state is more satisfactory and dignified
than existence in modern urban centers.
Again, the temperate, direct application of the
camera gives the book a strong impact. Occasion-
ally, however, Strand's overemphasis of the
health and earthbound strength of men and an-
imals must be met with reservation.
Egypt
Strand's most recent book (Living Egypt, 1969,
text by James Aldridge) also deals mainly with
a relatively early state of civilization. A s usual,
Strand starts out with the natural situation. The
first photograph shows the wide, majestic River
Nile nourishing a narrow strip of fertile land below
the desert's imminent rock and sand formations.
In the following pictures one finds a water wheel
propelled by an ox and a boy carrying a water
jug on his head. Later, canals, irrigation ditches
and oases are depicted. Several more views of
the River Nile occur, and the last chapter focuses
on the great dam at Aswan. It becomes clear that
Egypt's crucial problem is the preservation, dis-
tribution, and utilization of water. Secondary to
the river, the sun and the sand, in Strand's view,
are the primary natural factors conditioning life
in Egypt. Bright light and deep shadows make the
presence of the burning sun felt in every picture.
O n e is always aware of the desert somewhere in
the background extending its dry, soft sand well
into the center of the towns.
Again and again Strand tries to capture the
closed, almost hostile character of the tall, white
brick houses in these towns. Only a few w i n d o w s
and doors can be seen, but they are small and
unobtrusive. To provide a refuge from sun and
sand appears to be the main purpose of this
architecture.
Wherever Strand shows people in the streets,
in the fields, or at the river, he makes the viewer
conscious that they, too, are shaped by the given
natural conditions. Rarely any faces or hands can
be seen except in explicit portrait photographs.
The sun forces the people to seek protection un-
derneath ample clothing. Repeatedly there are
pictures of peasants without any apparent occu-
pation squatting humbly and patiently in the sand
of a village street. In most of these pictures Strand
makes a point of showing a donkey or a goat lying
next to the peasant. Evidently this is meant to
convey the idea that both the " f e l l a h s " and the
domestic animals share the same, primitive form
of existence. Reduced to passive, undemanding
creatures they manage to live in the sun and
the sand. It is impossible to be closer to nature
than the Egyptian peasants in Strand's photo-
graphs. But this relation is not equal. It keeps
man in complete submission and obedience to na-
ture. Most achievements of human civilization re-
main to be established against the resistance of
a hostile environment within which man is little
more than an animal.
However, through a dramatic picture sequence
at the end of the book Strand documents that the
struggle for these achievements has begun, that
a " r e v o l u t i o n " takes place, that " m o d e r n Egypt is
emerging from her past and her p o v e r t y . " 3 The
first picture of this sequence shows a harbor
crowded with tankers and merchant ships. It is
Port Said, Egypt's link to the world, especially to
the industrially advanced nations. The second pic-
ture is the portrait of a steel worker. Later the
powerful structure of the steel mill itself is shown.
Further photographs represent mechanics and en-
gineers operating machines. Apparently, Strand
tries to describe both the emergence of modern
technology and the birth of a new class of peo-
ple.
Finally, through the intelligent juxtaposition of
two photographs of the Aswan Dam under con-
struction Strand gives the viewer visual proof of
the enormous technological accomplishment em-
bodied in this project. The picture on the left is
taken from above and represents a gravel desert
interspersed with dirty puddles. The picture on
the right is shot from below and shows the soaring
buttresses of the dam. The flat, fragmented rub-
ble is in contrast to the upright concrete structure
— o r d e r supplants chaos.
At this point it should be remembered that
Strand strictly ignored modern technology in his
earlier works. Its thorough and apparently posi-
tive evaluation in his most recent book is sur-
prising. Upon closer examination it seems that this
change in Strand's attitude is motivated, and at
the same time limited, by his old philosophy of
the machine. Automobiles, or other consumer and
luxury products of Western industry, are still ex-
cluded from his vision. Only useful machines that
serve the progress and welfare of a whole nation
have become acceptable and interesting to him.
Characteristically, it is the structural beauty and
rational organization that he emphasizes most in
his pictures of Egyptian industrial plants. A n d
whenever he represents men working at machines
he suggests that this w o r k is of a careful and in-
telligent nature. In socialist Egypt, especially in
the Soviet-made steel mill at Helwan and High
Dam at Aswan, Strand seems to have found the
incarnation of his old dream: human control over
technology.
Once more Strand has introduced a historical
perspective. The first part of the book deals with
primitive agricultural Egypt as it existed for many
thousand years. In the second part w e are con-
fronted with modern Egypt as it rapidly develops
its industrial power. Since these two extreme
states of civilization are simultaneously present in
the Nile Valley Strand was not forced to resort
to a symbolic use of images. Unlike Time in New
9
England or La France de Profil, Living Egypt re-
cords historical progress directly and realistical-
ly, much to the benefit of the book.
However, the contrast between old and new
Egypt is so great that Strand must have felt the
need to tie it all together in some special way.
Here, his inclination towards symbolism triumphs
again. The very last picture in the book repre-
sents the fertile plain of the Nile Delta: water,
grain fields and fruit trees promise an abundant
harvest. This last view is paired with an exposure
of an ancient tomb relief of a cow being milked
and her calf. It is a well-calculated juxtaposi-
tion which points back to the beginning of the
book. There the River Nile and the relief of a bull
function as counterparts. The symbolism is ob-
vious: the river embodies the male principle, while
the valley represents the female principle. 4 This
biological symbolism at the same time carries his-
torical connotations. The photograph of the river
which stands at the beginning implies that the
fertilizing potential has always been present. Now,
however, with technological progress the inhabi-
tants of the Nile Valley, like the man who milks
the cow in the relief, have the power to reap
the benefits of their environment. They are no
longer subordinated to an uncontrolled natural
setting. It is this prospect of prosperity which
seems to be represented by the final picture of the
fertile plain.
Constant motifs
In the first part of this article the main em-
phasis was placed on the great variety of na-
tional and geographic characteristics recorded in
Strand's books. It should not be overlooked, how-
ever, that Strand's steady pursuit of one prin-
cipal question—the relationship of man and na-
ture—gives considerable conformity to these
books. First of all, there is negative evidence
of this conformity. Countless things that have be-
come part of human life all over the w o r l d simply
do not appear in any of Strand's w o r k s . Strand re-
fuses to represent cities, he ignores the existence
of the automobile and most other consumer prod-
ucts of the industrial society. With great strictness
his camera focuses instead on surprisingly few,
but recurring, constant motifs. These constant
elements will be discussed in the following para-
graphs.
Strand's portraits of native people are par-
10
ticularly uniform; the same principles are ob-
served over and over again: each person is shown
frontally, motionless, and fully aware of the cam-
era; and each portrait is set in a narrow frame, so
that not much of the environment can be seen.
Through the elimination of transitory activities and
surrounding objects Strand succeeds in directing
our attention to the individual person, to what he
believes to be the strength, health and beauty of
people living in harmony with nature. He makes
the viewer aware of an incredibly broad variety
of facial features and physical appearances. Also,
he apparently preferred to portray people whose
hairstyles, hats, clothes and personal utensils dis-
play a great wealth of vernacular characteristics.
In each of these practical, but at the same time
modestly decorated, garments there is something
individual and unique. Strand seems to celebrate
this diversity as a contradiction to the mass-pro-
duced clothing of the industrial society.
In spite of the strict concentration on the in-
dividual and the narrowly chosen frame, his por-
traits usually include some smaller or larger part
of a home. Strand demonstrates that these people
are connected to a certain place, that the need
of a shelter is a basic condition of human life.
Quite frequently, Strand shows a face in such
close vicinity to a door post, a w i n d o w frame or a
tree trunk that the viewer is compelled to compare
and to discover similar textures in skin and w o o d .
Both seem w o r n by weather, both exhibit the fa-
miliar traces of aging, both are subject to natural
forces. Thus, Strand emphasizes the coherence of
man and nature in agricultural societies as op-
posed to their alienation in the industrial cultures.
Occasionally Strand portrays groups of people:
man and wife, mother or father and child, brothers
and sisters or a whole family. Consistently some
form of blood relation is expressed. The accent
is on the primary, natural ties between people.
A few times one finds representations of larger
numbers of people, that is, of rodeos, bazaars,
markets or religious ceremonies. Only these prim-
itive, traditional forms of communal life were ac-
cepted by Strand as legitimate subjects. There
are no photographs of large, merely accidental
meetings, or of modern mass rallies.
Strand's photographs of man-made things are
as exclusive in character as the portraits. The in-
dividual object absorbs full attention, everything
else, even people, is marginal or completely left
out. Strand loves to represent houses and barns,
especially, as independent, isolated units. Mostly
their closed exterior is shown, while pictures of
inviting, comfortable interiors are very rare. Strand
mainly investigates how these buildings face their
often hostile environment, how they stand out and
" s u r v i v e " in nature. He neglects to analyze how
they accommodate inhabitants.
Strand's churches and gravestones tend to as-
sume a sense of nearly absolute independence.
Their color is pure white; often their bases are
not shown, so that their connection to earth re-
mains unclear; and repeatedly the shot is taken
from an angle which gives these monuments a d i -
agonal upward movement. Apparently Strand in-
terprets them as reflections of man's spiritual en-
deavor to escape or transcend nature.
Art w o r k s are regularly included in Strand's
books. Without exception these are non-sophisti-
cated, vernacular productions, rarely going be-
yond the simple imitation of native plants and
animals. Religious art appealed to him only if it
still contained primitive superstitious elements.
Apart from man and man-made objects, nature
is Strand's major, consistently recurring theme.
Here, too, he searches for individual forms. Close-
ups of boulders, driftwood, of moss, herbs and
flowers reveal the inexhaustible variety of even
the smallest natural objects. Strand makes no dis-
tinction between stone and plant; in both he dis-
covers traces of the same formative forces. Espe-
cially he tries to explore contrasting configura-
tions through his close-ups. A rough, splintered
branch stands against a soft, velvety leaf; crisp
grass blades cut into the sleek flesh of a mush-
room; bright blossoms of a garden flower are
surrounded by dark, austere forest vegetation.
Occasionally, a male-female symbolism seems to
be intended.
Whole landscapes are not very numerous in
Strand's books, but they clearly form a special
category; in a way they represent the essence of
his w o r k s . It has been noted before that Strand
represents all other subjects with a sense of ex-
clusiveness. His portrayals of people, buildings,
plants strictly focus on the individual while sec-
ondary things are eliminated. Only in his land-
scape photographs these various independent
subjects appear reconciled to each other and in-
tegrated into a larger context. They are no more
then parts—the land is the whole.
However, the integration is rarely perfect. Strik-
ingly often Strand uses special filters in order to
give a pure, white appearance to birds, horses,
boats, houses, garments or gravestones. Thus,
these individual objects are set apart from the
surrounding land and do not seem to share fully
the coherence and duration of nature.
Notes on Strand's ideological concepts
Strand's photographic activity since 1926 can
be described as a ceaseless exploration of iso-
lated geographical and social situations which ex-
hibit examples of pre-industrial, nature-connected
f o r m s of civilization. In order to render a c o m -
pletely " p u r e " picture of these model situations,
Strand rigorously excludes the signs of the cap-
italistic W e s t e r n society. Even in Mexico or the
Outer Hebrides he must have found cities and
factories, cars and bill-boards, fashions and af-
fluence, but his photographs do not bear witness
of these. (Several recent series indicate, however,
that at least his attitude towards useful machines
becomes more positive.)
In addition, there is another, equally significant,
omission: Strand does not represent misery. In
Living Egypt, Aldridge reports that the Egyptian
peasant " d i e s young and while he lives he is sick
and in pain most of the time. Until the revolution
of 1952, eighty-seven per cent of the population
suffered from the eye disease trachoma, and
ninety per cent suffered from endemic water borne
diseases." Of Strand's numerous portrait photo-
graphs in Living Egypt and other books not one
represents a sick person. A n d although Strand
usually documents the living conditions of poor
people, he never allows any hunger, despair,
servitude, ugliness, dirt or disorder to show. The
image he creates of the native populations of the
Egyptian, Mexican or Scottish rural regions is
the image of free, strong, healthy, beautiful men
and women in a simple but dignified and well-func-
tioning environment. A t the same time he wants
the viewer to understand that it is the manual
labor and the reliance on nature which accounts
for the absence of all shortcomings in these
rural communities.
Purged of sophisticated Western trappings as
well as of common misery and servitude, Strand's
picture cycles become Utopian projections of a
free human existence in harmony with nature.
That such an ideal f o r m of life was ever achieved
in pre-industrial societies, as Strand apparently
tries to demonstrate, and that it ever could be
realized again in a post-industrial civilization, as
he seems to hope, is extremely doubtful.
Certainly Strand was not the first to express
this hope. He seems to rely on familiar ideologi-
cal precedents. The myth that only life in nature
makes a good, healthy man is a common A m e r i -
can myth. Already in 1841 Ralph W a l d o Emerson
deplored the departure of the young generation
f r o m nature:
" W h a t a change! Instead of the masterly good
humor and sense of power and fertility of
resource in himself; instead of those strong
and learned hands, those piercing and learn-
ed eyes, that supple body, and that mighty
and prevailing heart which the father had,
whom nature loved and feared, whom snow
and rain, water and land, beast and fish
seemed all to know and to serve, w e have
now a puny, protected person guarded by
walls and curtains . . . "
Consequently Emerson asks:
" . . . if it were not the nobler part . . . to put
ourselves into primary relation with the soil
and nature, and abstaining from whatever is
dishonest and unclean, to take each of us
bravely his part, with his own hands, in the
manual labor of the w o r l d . " 5
Similar ideas, interwoven with strong political
and patriotic sentiments are pronounced by W a l t
Whitman:
" D e m o c r a c y most of all affiliates with the
open air, is sunny and hardy and sane only
with nature . . . American Democracy, in its
myriad personalities, in factories, w o r k s h o p s ,
stores, offices—through the dense streets
and houses of cities, and all their manifold
sophisticated life—must either be fibred,
vitalized, by regular contact with out-door
light and air and growths, farm scenes, ani-
mals, fields, trees, birds, sun-warmth and
free skies, or it will certainly dwindle and
pale. W e cannot have grand races of mechan-
ics, w o r k people, and commonalty (the only
specific purpose of America), on any less
terms. I conceive of no flourishing and heroic
elements of Democracy in the United States,
or of Democracy maintaining itself at all, w i t h -
out the Nature element forming a main p a r t —
to be its health-element and beauty-element
— t o really underlie the whole politics, sanity,
religion and art of the New W o r l d . " 6
These quotations leave little doubt that Strand's
concept of a free, healthy life in accordance with
nature derives from an American tradition. It is
ironic that the search for a reality corresponding
to this concept has led him far away from con-
temporary America. Socialist and communist coun-
tries, Romania, Nasser's Egypt, Nkrumah's Ghana,
have been the favored subject of his most recent
camera work.
The role of the machine, especially, seems to
fascinate him in these countries. There f o r the
first time Strand takes pictures of construction
w o r k e r s , mechanics, engineers, of power plants,
steel mills, agricultural machinery, etc. Evidently,
the purpose of these pictures is to underscore
three things: that the machines are under intelli-
gent, human control, that they are rationally or-
ganized and that they are integrated in the natu-
ral environment, rather than destroying it. In con-
trast to Strand's earlier picture series, a synthesis
between past and present forms of civilization
emerges. Modern technology appears included in
the reconciliation of man and nature. It remains
to be seen if there is justification for Strand's
confidence that this reconciliation actually is be-
ing accomplished by certain socialist and c o m -
munist countries. Recent developments in Egypt
and Ghana seem to indicate otherwise. Inde-
pendent of this question, Strand's w o r k s will stand
as postulations of a more human w o r l d . 7
1. Nathan Lyons, Photographers on Photography, Engle-
wood Cliffs, N.J., Prentice-Hall, Inc., and Rochester, N.Y.,
The George Eastman House, Inc., 1966, p. 139.
2. Harold Henry Jones I I I , "The Work of Photographers Paul
Strand and Edward Weston, with an Emphasis on their
Work in New M e x i c o , " thesis manuscript in the Research
Center of IMP/GEH.
3. Paul Strand and James Aldridge in the preface to Living
Egypt, New York, An Aperture Book, Horizon Press, 1969,
unpaged.
4. Besides these first and last pictures there seem to be
three others with an obvious symbolic message: following
the view of the crowded harbor of Port Said one finds a
juxtaposition of the empty Suez Canal and a window with
closed shutters—an allusion to the closing of the canal in
the war of 1967.
5. R. W. Emerson, " M a n the Reformer," in The Complete
Works, v o l . 3, Boston, The Riverside Press, Houghton
Mifflin Co., 1929, pp. 239, 235.
6. Walt Whitman, Specimen Days, Boston, David R. Godine,
1971, pp. 120-1.
7. Thanks are extended to the University of Louisville for a
research grant and to Robert J. Doherty for generous advice.
11
"The Thing Itself is Such a Secret and so Unapproachable"*
Walker Evans, the eminent American photogra-
pher, who taught photography at Yale until his
retirement several years ago, talks informally with
today's students about his life, his art and the
mysteries of the creative process.
I guess I'm the only survivor of my age of the
school of non-commercial and extremely self-
virtuous young artists that I was when I was your
age. We wouldn't do anything we were asked to
do, and we fought around it. Of course that kills
most people. For some reason or other it didn't
kill me. And I feel that since I've progressed
rather slowly, I still have a long career ahead of
me.
Could you tell us something about the experi-
ence of working with James Agee on the book,
Let Us Now Praise Famous Men?
Oh yes. That of course is the most conspicuous
thing I've done, entirely due to Agee. I have a
lot of false renown because I was working with
a tremendous man, and I'm embarrassed just talk-
ing about it because Agee's character doesn't fit
*Reprinted with permission from the February, 1974, issue
of the Yale Alumni Magazine; copyright by Yale Alumni
Publications, Inc.
12
the apotheosis he's gone through. He was a very
humble man and also very opposed to all kinds
of establishments, particularly including the aca-
demic, and to put his name in a circle like this—
well, he didn't like to be in that kind of an at-
mosphere. But I will say, he was a great friend of
mine before we went off and worked in the South
together, and he was distinctly the leader-in-
stigator of that project and I don't think we could
have succeeded without his talent with people.
Incidentally, part of a photographer's gift
should be with people. You can do some wonder-
ful work if you know how to make people under-
stand what you're doing and feel all right about
it, and you can do terrible work if you put them on
the defense, which they all are at the beginning.
You've got to take them off their defensive atti-
tude and make them participate. Agee was very
good at that. He and I moved into some very re-
mote but typical farming families in the Depres-
sion, at a time when everything just reeked of pov-
erty. There wasn't a cent of money around. And
these people were in terrible shape, but typically,
because everybody else was. And I suppose, with-
out meaning to, that what I was doing was photo-
graphing human poverty. I just couldn't help it. We
were all in it. Everybody was desperate. I find that
it's very hard to describe what that was like.
Did it take long to overcome their nervousness?
Not really, because Agee was very gifted in the
field that I was just talking about—making people
The four photographs which appear here are from
Evans' FSA period.
feel all right. In fact, they began to love Agee and
to be awfully interested. He also took great care
to let them know that this was not an invasion or a
burden that would set them back in any way. At
that time we didn't know it was going to be a book
—this was just for a magazine article—and he
told them all about it and made them feel that they
were participating. We made ourselves into pay-
ing guests, with their understanding, and they
hadn't seen any money for the longest time, and
although that wasn't a corrupt gesture it did make
them feel a little bit ahead of the game. Since the
game was zero right then.
How long was it before any of the work was
actually published?
It was quite some time, as a matter of fact. What
was first done was a two-part article that was re-
jected by the magazine that had commissioned it,
and Agee asked for a release of rights. He then
got a small advance from a publisher and wrote
the book, but it took three or four years. I believe
we were there in 1936 and the book was published
in '41, so there was a long period and a whole lot
of sub-adventures—the book was rejected by the
first publisher and taken to a second. It's a com-
plicated and not very interesting story. But it's
typical of the history of any venture. If you're
going to start to do something you're going to have
setbacks bringing it to fruition. Any venture is a
rocky road. Your education is, too.
You talk about yourself rebelling against the
13
Establishment and about the misfortunes of De-
pression times, but your photographs are not
critical. I find them more of a glorification—glorifi-
cation of the plain and simple reality.
I'm pleased to hear you say that, because I
didn't like the label that I unconsciously earned of
being a social protest artist. I never took it upon
myself to change the world. And those contem-
poraries of mine who were going around falling for
the idea that they were going to bring down the
United States government and make a new world
were just asses to me. I knew by then that nobody
was going to do that. And that kind of history has
repeated itself. People in the late '60s, not long
ago, had those same ideas, and there hasn't been
a single dent in the forces that they were going
to bring down.
But certain photographs really do have politi-
cal content, starting with, for example, Hine's
photographs of children working in the mills at
the turn of the century.
Well, Hine can be used more than I can for that
purpose—and there's a good reason. Hine did in-
tend to arouse political action, or at least arouse
an interest in child labor. I cared to have certain
things read into my work, but I really don't intend
to have my ideas and my work and my vision
used as political action.
Since you raised the question of whether I'm
a politically-minded artist or not, the answer is
no, I'm not. I never undertake direct political
action. Every time I've had a political idea it has
proved perfectly wrong. For example, when I
heard Mr. Nixon's speech—you remember the
famous one that he made with his little dog—I
was just convinced, "Well, that's the end of Rich-
ard Nixon." The next morning the country hailed
him as a white knight.
In your picture of the dock workers in Cuba,
it was obviously a very hard existence. The
faces are as black as coal dust, or whatever it is
they were working with, and yet your pictures
seem to show them almost as cheerful.
Well, you must remember, I didn't attempt to
put that in. I want to record what's there, and
you're right—those people have no self-pity and
no sense of very much of anything. They were
just as happy as you are, really. Are you happy?
Maybe you're having a worse time than they were.
Do you think in photographing, say, suburban
America—which is a very wide part of American
life today—you could use the same approach, of
14
just looking at the very surface to portray it?
It doesn't work. I've tried. I thought, "Here's
a great, significant sector of America," but I've
been bored looking at the work of those who
have done it and I've been bored with my own
work.
But have you seen any good ideas in photo-
graphing suburban America?
The movie called THE GRADUATE was satirical
and quite true, quite penetrating, but that's not
still photography. And there's a long tradition of
it in writing, identified by Sinclair Lewis. His
characters like Babbitt are relentless pictures of
middle-class American life. But I can't imagine
myself photographing a group of people sitting
around a country club, or whatever they call it.
I've never found them satirical enough material.
Some people have said that you knew more
about America in the '30s than anybody else.
How did you learn? You understood America.
Well, yes, but only instinctively. That and many
other questions come to me now as unanswerable
and inexplicable. I knew a whole lot of things—
I can see now in retrospect—instinctively and un-
consciously, and that goes along with a theory
of mine: that almost all good artists are being
worked through with forces that they're not quite
aware of. They are transmitters of sensitivities
that they're not aware of having, of forces that are
in the air at the time. I've done a lot of things that
I'm surprised at now which show a lot of knowl-
edge that I didn't have or knew I had. I can now
learn something from my own pictures.
Was it hard to find America at that time after
going to Andover?
Well, that's a large and subtle question, and
that's also something I don't know much about,
but I've thought about it. Yes, I'm a product of a
very Establishment place like Andover, for ex-
ample, but I was always rather against it, even at
the time. I didn't want to admit that I was in such a
classical establishment, and I used to go around
pretending that I wasn't, or that I was uneducated,
and that was a youthful force. It was false think-
ing, but I've got my balance about that now.
Privilege, if you're very strict, is an immoral
and unjust thing to have, but if you've got it you
didn't choose to get it and you might as well use
it. You're privileged to be at Yale, but you know
you're under an obligation to repay what's been
put into you.
Actually, in my generation only a very few peo-
ple were anti-establishment or were revolutionary
or were artists. But now there's a great change,
one of the most remarkable revolutions in thought
and style that we have ever seen. For one thing,
young people today have a place to go if they
want to run away. We didn't have any place to go.
The Communist Party let us down by the Stalin
Pact and by the Moscow trials. The whole world
offered us no escape from our condition and our
past and authority. We couldn't get out of it. But
if you look at a phenomenon like Woodstock you
realize that there's a mass of people all in the
same boat, who take care of each other. We had
no strength in union. There wasn't any union.
Do you think that this change in consciousness
has resulted in an increase in good photography?
That's a complicated question. I have a theory
that the extensive interest in non-commercial
photography that can be taken seriously now is
due to the association between your minds and
your idealistic yearning for honesty. And you have
assumed that photography is an artistic medium
and that it is more adaptable to honest work than
words and drawings and paintings. I believe that's
responsible for the enormous interest in non-
commercial photography, though I'm not sure
you're right about thinking that this is an honest
medium or one that opens up possibilities of hon-
est expression.
It seems to me that you are an early pioneer
of this very movement you've been describing.
One reason for your appeal is that you have al-
ways been a photographer of extraordinary hon-
esty and simplicity—that what you've been looking
for in America is something unadorned and plain
and true.
You must remember that this is an unconscious
phenomenon, and it is to me an amazing accident
of art history and psychological history and Amer-
ican history that I was unconsciously working in
terms that surfaced, so to speak, in your genera-
tion. You talk about simplicity. When I first made
photographs, they were too plain to be consid-
ered art and I wasn't considered an artist. I didn't
get any attention at all. The people who looked at
my work thought, well, that's just a snapshot of
the backyard. Privately I knew otherwise and
through stubbornness stayed with it. I think I knew
what I was doing but I didn't know that I was
bringing into play these characteristics you're
talking about. You talk about honesty. I didn't
know I was honest—I was just doing that in-
15
16
17
stinctively. It just so happens that in a university
the habit of mind is reflective and analytical, but
that's exceptional. The so-called man in the street,
if he exists, is neither reflective nor analytical.
When you take pictures some kind of change
occurs. There's something different between your
photographs and if you went to that place and
looked at it with the naked eye, and I was won-
dering—you must have reflected on this, just hav-
ing taken all those photographs—what effect your
mind has when you make the conscious decision
to push the button.
Indeed I have. I think it's fascinating, but it's
insoluble also. But I'd venture, if I could do it in
a humble way, to claim to be an artist, and the
motivation of artists is a great mystery. Who
knows why a paragraph by Tolstoy is an inspired
and often an almost deathless thing. It's a piece of
literature and high art, and a New York Times edi-
torial never is. It couldn't be. Yet they're both
uses of language.
Do you think it's possible for the camera to lie?
It certainly is. It almost always does.
Is it all right for the camera to lie?
No, I don't think it's all right for any thing or
any body to lie. But it's beyond control. I just
feel that honesty exists relatively in people here
and there.
I guess what I'm trying to ask is, if you take a
beautiful photograph of a garbage can, is it lying?
Well, somebody wrote a whole essay called
"There's No Such Thing as Beauty." And that's
worth thinking about. A garbage can, occasion-
ally, to me at least, can be beautiful. That's be-
cause you're seeing. Some people are able to see
that—see it and feel it. I lean toward the enchant-
ment, the visual power, of the esthetically rejected
subject.
Is that simply because they present a chal-
lenge to you?
No, I'm just made that way. It's partly rather
perverse. I got a lot of my early momentum from
disdain of accepted ideas of beauty, and that's
partly good, it's partly original. It's also partly
destructive. I wasn't a very nice young man. I
was tearing down everything if possible. I only
see that in retrospect. It was just in me, as there
are certain curious things in you that you'll won-
der at, later on when you're my age, but you won't
ever get to the bottom of.
To get back to the difference between non-
commercial photography and journalism, if a pic-
18
ture is honest I don't see what difference it makes
if it's hung in a gallery or printed on a page.
I don't either. In fact, I'm rather suspicious of
hanging a picture in a gallery. I cut out remarkable
pictures from the daily press all the time.
Have you ever tried color film and do you think
it renders a less honest image than black and
white?
No, I've tried it. I'm in a stage right now that
has to do with color and I'm interested in it. But
I don't think that the doors open to falsehood
through color are any greater than they are
through the manipulation of prints in black and
white. You can distort that, too. I happen to be a
gray man; I'm not a black-and-white man. I think
gray is truer. You find that in other fields. E. M.
Forster's prose is gray and it's marvelous.
Most of the people who have been doing color
seem to be drawn to the dramatic, like Ernst Haas.
I understand all that, but I've now taken up that
little SX-70 camera for fun and become very in-
terested in it. I'm feeling wildly with it. But a year
ago I would have said that color is vulgar and
should never be tried under any circumstances.
It's a paradox that I'm now associated with it and
in fact I intend to come out with it seriously.
At the beginning you said that you were a late
starter and you felt that your career still had a
long way to go. What are you doing now?
Well, I just told you one thing. I'm very excited
about that little gadget which I thought was just
a toy at first.
What are you trying to do with it?
Oh, extend my vision and let that open up new
stylistic paths that I haven't been down yet. That's
one of the peculiar things about it that I unex-
pectedly discovered. A practiced photographer has
an entirely new extension in that camera. You pho-
tograph things that you wouldn't think of photo-
graphing before. I don't even yet know why, but
I find that I'm quite rejuvenated by it.
What do you think of the modern emphasis on
technology?
Well, I don't think much of it and so I'm very
confused about that new camera. I took it to
England last summer and a friend of mine who is
an art critic said, "But it's a precept that hard
work and mastering a difficult technique is a
necessary part of artistic achievement, and there-
fore this thing is immoral." True, with that little
camera your work is done the instant you push
that button.
But you must think what goes into that. You
have to have a lot of experience and training and
discipline behind you, although I now want to put
one of those things in the hands of a chimpanzee
and a child and see what happens. Well, not the
chimpanzee—that's been done before. But I want
to try that camera with children and see what
they do with it. It's the first time, I think, that you
can put a machine in an artist's hands and have
him then rely entirely on his vision and his taste
and his mind.
Maybe that's one of the worst things about the
SX-70—that there is no technical hurdle. Just any-
one can take shots.
Well, that isn't the worst thing. That's always
been true with anything, whether there's any
technical need or not. For example, we're all taught
to write, and anybody can sit down and write
something. Not everybody can sit down and write
something that's worth writing.
It seems that a lot of new pictures are just in-
terested in displaying what's in the picture with-
out much emotional feeling about it. Alfred Stieg-
litz said what he was most interested in was an
intensity of feeling that he got from the object
itself.
I think in his case he was led into too much
introspection about artistic matters. The more he
thought about that, the less of an artist he became.
When he began to think that he was photograph-
ing God, he was photographing nothing. But he
did some wonderful work, say, around 1906 in the
Paris streets. The reality of those streets—he
caught it. He was a master technician, and those
are very endearing works. But those pictures of
clouds are nothing to me, absolutely nothing. And
he thought they were the greatest things he ever
did.
What do you tell your students?
First of all, I tell them that art can't be taught,
but that it can be stimulated and a few barriers
can be kicked down by a talented teacher, and an
atmosphere can be created which is an opening
into artistic action. But the thing itself is such a
secret and so unapproachable. And you can't put
talent into anybody. I think you ought to say so
right away and then try to do something else. And
that's what a university is for, what it should be—
a place for stimulation and an exchange of ideas
and a chance to give people the privilege of be-
ginning to take some of the richness of general
life that's in everybody and has to be unlocked.
Anything Can Happen—and Generally Did" GO WEST (1925): Brown Eyes and Buster Keaton.

19
The name of Buster Keaton (1895-1966) appears
as co-director or director on almost every film he
made from 1920 through 1929 when his final silent,
SPITE MARRIAGE, was released. In spite of his
activity in the sound period and stints on TV, Kea-
ton's reputation as a great figure in the world of
film is based on his earlier work. The following in-
terview was conducted in Los Angeles in 1958.
Well, I was born with a s h o w — w i t h a tent show,
in fact. It was a one-night stand in Kansas, a little
town called Piqua. A n d the show left my mother
and me there for two weeks and then she rejoined
the show. So I was born really with the show.
. . . M y father and mother with their act got into
vaudeville and got to New York, and of course
they had a make-up on me as soon as I could walk.
My father had slap shoes on me, misfit clothes,
even a bald-headed Irish w i g on me. But by the
time I was four years old, I was a regular member
of the act, getting a salary. . . . [ W e were billed as]
"The Three Keatons."
. . . The " B u s t e r " ? I got that [name] for falling
down a flight of stairs when I was six months old,
and I lit at the bottom of my father's partner in
the show. And he says, "That's a buster!" A n d the
old man says, "That's a good name for ' i m . " So
that's the name I got. M y father's partner was
Harry Houdini . . . the Handcuff King.
. . . [The dead pan] was a natural. A s I grew up
on the stage, the experience taught me that I was
the type of comedian that if I laughed at what I
did, the audience didn't. W e l l , by the time I went
into pictures when I was 2 1 , working with a straight
face, a sober face, was mechanical with me.
. . . In the spring of 1917 vaudeville wasn't quite
as good as it used to be, and I went to our agent
and told him I wanted to get out and [he] said,
" A l l right. Send your folks to your summer home
in Muskegon, Michigan, and I'll put you at the
Shuberts." So they signed me at the Winter Gar-
den for The Passing Show of 1917. I had about
ten days to wait for rehearsal to start when I met
Roscoe [ " F a t t y " ] Arbuckle on the street on Broad-
way and he says, "Have you ever been in a motion
picture?" And I said, " I ' v e never even been in a
studio." He says, " W e l l , I'm just startin' here for
Joe Schenck. I've left [ M a c k ] Sennett . . . and . . .
[Schenck's] puttin' me up here to make pictures
in the Norma Talmadge studio." He says, " C o m e
20
on down and play a scene with me and see how
you like it. I'm startin' tomorrow morning."
. . . I went down and did a scene in the pic-
ture [THE BUTCHER B O Y (1917)] and as long as
I had a few days to spare, he carried me all the
way through the picture. Then he talked to me like
a Dutch uncle. He says, " S e e if you can get out of
the Winter Garden. Stick with me." . . . So that
was it. . . .
. . . [There w a s ] no script. W e simply talked
over what we were goin' to do and we got our
ideas, and went to work. Arbuckle was his own
director and I'd only been with him probably about
three pictures when I was his assistant director.
In other words, I was sittin' alongside the camera
when he was doin' the scene. A n d he taught me
the cutting room also because he was his own
cutter. . . . W e made about six pictures in New
York and then moved . . . to the [ W e s t ] Coast be-
cause we were too crippled and too handicapped
in the East trying to do exteriors. [In] those type of
pictures, at least 75 percent of all our pictures
w o u l d be exteriors.
Did you learn much about timing from Ar-
buckle?
No, I had that long before I came into pictures.
Because I did the same type of w o r k on the s t a g e —
"The Three Keatons" was a rough knockabout act.
. . . [ A r b u c k l e ] would turn you loose. Because he
didn't care who got the laughs in his pictures.
He wanted 'em in there.
. . . The Arbuckle pictures were Paramount re-
lease [1917-1919], and as soon as Joe Schenck
sold Arbuckle to Paramount—I mean his con-
t r a c t s — . . . [ S c h e n c k ] turned the troupe over to
me and set me out makin' pictures of my own. He
got me the old Chaplin studio so it became the
Keaton Studio. A n d I was right next to the old
Metro. Well Marcus Loew wanted our pictures im-
mediately, so before I made one he signed us.
A n d even before I made one of my two-reelers
he put me in a big featured picture that was [based
on] a famous show in New Y o r k called The New
Henrietta . . . [where] it starred William H. Crane
and Douglas Fairbanks—this was before Fair-
banks went into pictures. [ S c h e n c k ] even sent
out the New York stage director, Winchell Smith
[to supervise the f i l m ] . (John Golden was the
owner of the show.) So they put me in the Fair-
banks part for this big feature. This was before I
ever put on misfit clothes and started makin' my
own. The character was called "Bertie the Lamb,"
and his father is a Wall Street multi-millionaire. So
I had to dress with the best clothes that the tailors
could fit me to for the makin' of that picture—a
little bit unusual for me. THE S A P H E A D [1920]
was the name of it.
Then, following that, I made my first series of
[my o w n ] two-reelers and I made eight for 'em.
On the ninth picture I broke a leg on a studio-
built escalator and that laid me up for six months.
. . . It was called THE ELECTRIC HOUSE [1922-
1923] and we shelved everything I had shot on it
and then later on . . . I re-made the picture.
. . . W e always had a scenario department and
I found that the ideal size was three men to w o r k
with you. They were Jean Havez, Clyde Bruckman
and a Joe Mitchell. . . . I had off and on Bob [Robert
E.] Sherwood (he w r o t e a story for me and I
didn't do i t — w e couldn't get a finish to it). . . .
. . . I started makin' features in '22 and I didn't
leave my studio until '28 to go to M G M , but I
did my regular two pictures a year—there was a
spring and a fall release. None of those p i c t u r e s —
that's OUR HOSPITALITY, THE NAVIGATOR,
THE GENERAL—all of 'em—there was never a
script on any one of those pictures. . . . A n d our
detail w o r k in things like HOSPITALITY and THE
GENERAL, period pictures, had to be correct. W e
did our own research right up there in the scenario
room. W e were very particular about details, cos-
tumes and backgrounds, props and things like
that. A n d never a script. Because when we had
what we knew was a story, and had the materia!
and the opportunities to get our high spots, w e ' d
bring in our cameraman, our technical man w h o
builds our sets, the head electrician and the prop
man—those boys are on weekly salary with u s —
we didn't just hire 'em by the picture, they w e r e
right there. A n d we go through what we had in
mind on things. They make notes. They know
what's going to be built. The prop man knows
the props he's got to have and the stuff to be
built. The electrician knows what he needs in the
way of lights and stuff like that. By the time that
we're ready to shoot, there's no use havin' it on
paper because they all know it anyhow.
And with us, we may lay out a routine in a
nice set that we've built for this and we start out
in this thing and we find out w e ' r e not gettin'
any place. The material is not w o r k i n g out the way
we thought it w o u l d .
. . . [ W e knew that because] we could feel it.
Not only looking at our own rushes, we could feel
21
it also. Now, in a broom closet or somethin' like
that, we're liable to find a very good routine. So
we shift right then and there. W e just devote our
time on that and the thunder with that big set. W e
didn't care about [ b i g ] production. W e didn't give
a darn about that. So—if we were w o r k i n ' by the
script, you see, that w o u l d throw the whole thing
right out the window. Well that w o u l d happen to
us with the first and second day of shootin'. . . .
W e didn't shoot by no schedule at all. W e didn't
know when we started whether w e was goin' to
have the camera up five weeks or ten weeks. A n d
it didn't make any difference. W e owned our own
camera. W e ' r e not paying rent on anything. All our
people are on weekly salary anyhow . . . W e ' v e
just got two pictures a year to make and that's
all there is to it.
I'll show you what happens to you. Up until I'll
say 20 years ago, if I phoned out to the Produc-
tion Department at M G M and says, " I want an in-
sert of a man's hand coming in and picking up a
book off of a desk." N o w that's not a big lighting
job. That's not a big set job. It's nothing. That
cost me 20 years ago exactly $8,000. So today,
20 years later, that same scene would cost almost
$12,000. Where it didn't cost us [in the early
1920s] only the price of the film w e bought, which
is $2.68 cents—somethin' like that. That was the
difference. So if I don't w o r k to schedule at M G M ,
I wreck that studio, according to their system.
Which of course is t h e —
Another thing that hurt is that w e lose all chance
of spontaneity—ad libbing, in other words. Be-
cause half of our scenes, for God's sakes, w e only
just talked over. W e didn't actually get out there
and rehearse 'em. W e just walk through it and talk
about it. W e crank that first rehearsal. Because
anything can happen—and generally did. And w e
got our best sequences that way. . . . We used the
rehearsal scenes instead of the second take.
Today, and especially since sound came in
(they were pretty strict before on rehearsing
scenes until the director thought they were per-
fect before he'd crank). With us, we used to say
one of the hardest things in the w o r l d to do in
pictures is to unrehearse a scene. In other words,
you get so mechanical that nothing seems to flow
in a natural way. Cues are picked up too sharp and
people's actions are just mechanical. Well now to
get that feeling out of it is unrehearse the scene,
and we generally did that by going out and play-
ing a coupla innings of baseball or somethin'.

22
23
Come back in and someone'd say, " N o w what
did I do then?" I'd say, " I don't know. Do what
you think best and then go ahead and shoot."
That's unrehearsing a scene. Coffee break or
somethin'. . . .
ONE WEEK [1920], my first two-reeler was a
very big laughing picture, and the biggest one I
ever made was called H A R D L U C K * [1921]. . . .
Eddie Cline co-directed most of the two-reelers
with me . . . [and Elgin Lessley was the camera-
man.] In fact everybody in our staff—that went for
the assistant prop man, the assistant director, the
cameraman, they were all gag men—you couldn't
stop t h a t . . . .
Well [in making THE P L A Y H O U S E (1921)], we
just set out to kid Thomas H. Ince. Ince started
takin' himself very seriously and his pictures come
out saying, "Thomas H. Ince presents Dorothy
Dalton in FUR TRAPPING O N THE C A N A D I A N
BORDER. Written by Thomas H. Ince. Directed by
Thomas H. Ince. Supervised by Thomas H. Ince,
and this is a Thomas H. Ince Production." W e l l ,
w e started the picture with that, saying "This is
a Keaton Picture. Keaton Presents Keaton. Super-
vised by Keaton." (Laughs). . . .
I was the cameraman. I was the e l e c t r i c i a n —
everything that there was to be, and then I set
out to be the only one in the picture. A n d I did a
minstrel first part. I was nine times on the screen.
I was the whole orchestra. Nine exposures. Then
I put different makeups on and I was four different
sets of characters in the boxes. A n d for a finish,
I was the w h o l e audience. . . . W e set an all-time
record with the nine exposures. . . . This ex-
posure thing is very tedious [to do, h o w e v e r ] .
But the mechanical things of a picture like THE
B O A T [1921] w o u l d hold you up longer. W e l l ,
for instance [in t h a t ] , I built a family cruiser in the
basement of my house and had to knock out the
end of the house to get the boat out of it. Then
when I got it on the landing cradle and launched
it, she went straight to the bottom. W e l l , it t o o k
us three days to get that launching because we
kept running into bugs. She simply w o u l d not go
straight down to the bottom. . . . But this past year
when they did THE BUSTER KEATON STORY at
Paramount [1957], and they wanted that scene
with Donald O'Connor playin' me, I could get all
the bugs out of it for 'em before they built it. So
they got the scene in one morning—the first take.
*HARD LUCK appears to have been lost completely.
24
. . . [In ONE W E E K ] my uncle give me the
portable house and my aunt gave me the lot to
build it on, as a wedding present. Only my former
rival for the girl's hand changed the numbers on
the crates so when I put the house up it was the
darndest looking thing you ever saw. A n d then
for a finish, I found out I'd built it on the w r o n g
lot.
. . . I remember w e had trouble one summer.
Standard Lab had all our negatives and handled
all our film w o r k from the studio. A n d durin' the
heat of one of our severest summers, the cooling
system went out and all of those negatives just
fell apart. The emulsion ran right off of 'em with
that heat, see. So we lost pretty near all our nega-
tives. So the only thing that w o u l d be in existence
[ n o w ] w o u l d be what prints were out and hadn't
been run to death and all chewed up. . . .
. . . After eight pictures with Metro, I released
11 First Nationals [ t w o - r e e l e r s ] . Then I came back
to Metro to do features.
. . . W e l l , that's what put us into feature-length
pictures because an exhibitor, if he got one of a
[short] Chaplin, a Lloyd or one of mine, he w o u l d
bill it above the feature picture he had. And of
course w e never got any big stars on the bill with
us. W e never got any Bill Harts, Mary Pickfords,
Gloria Swansons or Fairbanks or anybody. W e
got the darndest stars y o u ever heard of. W e l l ,
your natural rentals in those d a y s — f o r instance
if he paid $300 rent for a two-reeler for the week,
he w o u l d be paying $900 for the feature. W e l l , long
as the exhibitor was featuring us anyway, w e
weren't gettin' the best of the program by doin'
it. W e stopped makin' two-reelers—and went into
features.
. . . I wasn't impressed with motion pictures
until Sennett hit his stride with the Keystone Cops
and then I saw THE BIRTH OF A N A T I O N [1915].
From then on I was sold. I was sold from then
on. I was a picture fan. Then of course the next
picture that caught my eye was Sennett's [fea-
ture-length c o m e d y ] TILLIE'S PUNCTURED RO-
M A N C E [1914].
. . . [Griffith's INTOLERANCE (1916) w a s ]
terrific. . . . It's a beautiful production. That was
somethin' to watch then. Y o u weren't used to
seein' big spectaculars like that.
. . . [In THREE AGES (1923)] w e used Wallace
Beery as a villain. A n d what I did was just tell a
single story of two fellows calling on a girl, and
the mother likes one suitor and the father likes
the other one. A n d in fighting over the girl and
different situations we could get into, and finally
winning her. But I told the same story in three
ages. I told it in the Stone Age, Roman A g e and
Modern. In other words, I just show us calling on
the girl, the two of us, gettin' sore at each other
because w e w e r e in each other's way. Then I w e n t
from the Stone Age to the Roman Age, did the
same exact scene with the same people, only the
setting was different and the costumes. A n d the
same thing in the Modern Age. So every situation
w e just repeated in the three different ages. That
was the picture.
. . . It was all right because as far as story
construction goes it didn't mean much to the audi-
ence, but there was enough laughs to hold up.
. . . The second picture was really a big seller,
called OUR HOSPITALITY [1923] and there I
used a story of a feud in the South, and placed
the period in . . . [1831] to take advantage of
the first railroad train that had been built. That's
when they just t o o k the stagecoaches and put
flanged wheels on 'em. A n d they had those silly
lookin' engines—one called the Stephenson
" R o c k e t " and [one called] the " D e W i t t C l i n t o n . "
A n d they're naturally narrow-gauge, and they
weren't so fussy about layin' railroad track [then]
— i f it was a little unlevel, they just ignored it.
They laid it over fallen trees, over rocks (laughs).
So I got quite a few laughs ridin' that railroad.
But when [in the picture] I got down South to
claim my father's estate, I ran into the family who
had run us out of the state in the first place. A n d
the old man of the outfit wouldn't let his sons
or anybody shoot me while I was a guest in the
house 'cause the girl had invited me for dinner.
W e l l , I'd overheard it and found out. As long as
I stayed in the house I was safe. But I had a good
story to tell and it rounded out swell and it was
a big seller for me.
. . . The next picture was SHERLOCK, JR.
[1924] . . . I did a lot of trick photography w o r k
in that thing. . . . [ A b o u t that gag where I dive
right through the middle of a person.] No, I just
did this recently on Ed Sullivan's "Toast of the
T o w n . " I put it in the Donald O ' C o n n o r film, see.
A n d they sent me East to plug the picture, so
naturally Sullivan had me there. A n d w e had this
set built, and he says, " I t ' s marvelous what the
trick department with the cameras can d o . " A n d
I said, " I want to show y o u how to do this cam-
era t r i c k . " So I did it in front of his [TV] audience.
25
Of course, it is no camera trick. You do it in full
view of the audience and on a full-lit stage. There's
no lighting effects, no mirrors or anything. And
it's really a great trick and it shocks an audience.
And after the show was over, Sullivan sent for
me. And I went up to his dressin'-room and he
says, " S o I can sleep t o n i g h t — h o w ' d you do it?"
I wouldn't tell 'im.
Now, tell me about THE NAVIGATOR [1924].
That's your favorite film?
Yeah. W e were w o r k i n ' on a story, the scenario
department, and w e didn't have a good idea y e t -
all fishin' around for somethin'. And I had just lent
my technical man to Metro, to Frank Lloyd. He
wanted to do THE SEA H A W K and that called for
about five fourteenth century sailing vessels. So
he was up and down the Pacific Coast lookin' for
those hulls that they could build up into those
pirate ships. . . . But he had just gotten back in
town, and he says, " W h i l e I was in 'Frisco, I ran
into an ocean liner—500 foot long—a passenger
ship. And they're just about to sell it for junk."
Says, " Y o u can have it for $25,000 and do any-
thing you want with it." Says, " H e r name's the
Beaufort. She was very much in the press at one
time because I believe she brought the D u c h e s s —
or somethin'—of Russia out the night before that
slaughter took place over there, with the Czar of
Russia and his family. So they sneaked her out
of Russia over to the United States."
Well, w e went to w o r k right then and there
and says, " N o w , what could w e do with an ocean
liner?" Says, " W e l l , we can make a dead ship
out of it. No lights aboard. No water running. Just
afloat." How could we get it afloat? W e l l , we set
out to figure out how to do that and to write a
story around it. Only to get a boy and a girl alone,
and adrift in the Pacific Ocean. And w e plant the
characters so that the audience knows that she
never saw a kitchen in her life, doesn't know how
to boil a cup of tea. I am the son of a very wealthy
man in San Francisco, so I've been waited on
all my life with valets, chauffeurs, and private
tutors and everything else. So I don't know what
I'm doin'. A n d set those two characters adrift in
the Pacific Ocean on a dead ship. W e l l , that's THE
NAVIGATOR. And it w o r k e d out beautifully.
. . . The opening gag in that picture with me is
one of the most stolen gags that was ever done on
the screen. I think I knew at one time of 27 times
it had been done by other companies. W i t h us, the
gag was more to establish the fact that I was so
26
helpless, that I went to call on the girl, and I came
down and got in my car with a chauffeur and a
footman. The footman wrapped a blanket around
my knees—a big open Pierce-Arrow Phaeton—
and drove across the street. That's all. I got out to
call on the girl. I asked the girl if she'd marry me
and she said, " N o , " and I come back down [to the
c a r ] . The guy opened the door in the car for me,
and I said, " N o , I think the walk will do me g o o d . "
So I walked across the street with the car f o l -
lowin' me, makin' a U-turn.
How about the underwater sequence? Did you
have any trouble with that?
Terrible problems with that. W e l l , w e says, we'll
try and build a camera box and shoot some place
off the shores of Catalina. That's good clear wa-
ter. But when w e got over there we found out
that time of year there was a milky substance in
the water that you couldn't see very good in.
Says, " W e l l , the next thing is we rent the tank
down at Riverside." And of course the tank isn't
deep enough for us. So we'll build it up another
ten feet. Because I've got to have the rear end of
an ocean liner in it—the propeller and rudder.
Because in the picture w e drift ashore on a can-
nibal island in the Pacific and spring a leak in the
stuffing box. W e l l , it can only be fixed from the
outside. A n d . . . [she sends] me down in a deep-
sea diving outfit . . . [while she pumps air to m e ] .
W e l l , w e thought that would w o r k out fine be-
cause w e know the clear water we're goin' to get
down there. But the base of the swimming pool is
built to only hold seven or eight feet of water.
W o u l d n ' t take 18. The bottom just went out from
under it. The weight of the water pushed the
bottom out. So we wrecked that pool. Had to build
them a new swimmin' pool. It's the Municipal Pool
down there, for God's sakes.
So then we moved to Lake Tahoe. So I was
one month up there shooting that sequence. One
of the worst problems in Tahoe was the water
so clear you could really see, but so cold that I
could only stay down about 30 minutes at a time.
[That w a s ] as long as I could stay down. It'd go
right through y a . . . .
Did you ever use the preview system much in
your own films, Buster?
Always. . . . W e l l , w e used to sneak a picture out
of town. One of our main reasons for takin' it out
of town was that so none of the carpenters or
extra people or anybody connected with studios
w o u l d be in that audience. Because if w e had an
outstanding sequence or cute gags or good gags or
anything like that, these people w o u l d sell it to
other studios. Sometimes they'd sell it and some-
times just to get in good with somebody, says,
" H e r e ' d be a good gag for y o u . " . . .
And we had that happen to us a few times. So
our p r e v i e w s — w e ' d take 'em out to Los Angeles,
Long Beach, San Bernardino, Santa Barbara, Riv-
erside, Santa Ana—places like that. A n d w e don't
tell the audience they're lookin' at a preview. See,
we want a cold reaction. W e ' d send the print down
there to the exhibitor, and he's goin' to have two
shows that night, he runs the picture twice. And
he advertises—a Keaton picture, that's all. So
we're in there to get . . . a normal reaction. W e l l ,
w e have never made a picture—I know I never
did, and I know [Harold] Lloyd never did, and I'm
sure Chaplin never did—that w e didn't go back
and set the camera up again. Because w e helped
the high spots, and re-did the bad ones, and cut
footage out, and get scenes that would' connect
things up for us. W e always put a make-up on
and set the camera back up after that first preview.
And generally after the second one, also. . . .
. . . [ W e used the preview system from my]
first picture. Arbuckle, in those days, it didn't
make much difference to him. They says, "This is
it," and that was it. But when it started gettin' a
little more s e r i o u s — w e took advantage of the pre-
view. But our system was not lettin' the audience
know so that the audience wouldn't yes us. The
minute you got in one of the major s t u d i o s — o h , I
fought my head off at M G M when I went t h e r e —
and find out that they ballyhoo it. So that you got
the audience in there, the minute it says, " M G M
Presents," the audience applauds. A n d different
characters come on the screen, they applauded
'em. They applauded the director's name, they
went out of their way to laugh at things that the
normal audience didn't laugh at. They yessed the
b'j—the life—right out of ya. (Laughs.) W e l l , that
hurt me. I didn't want that at all. I couldn't stop 'em.
W e l l , that's because, w o r k i n ' at a major studio, all
companies are assigned to a producer. W e l l , the
producer wants to make sure that the high brass of
the studio sees a good picture even at the first
preview.
Did you ever cut a major gag clear out of a
picture?
O h yes. Because it didn't fit.
Do you remember, did that happen in the case of
THE NAVIGATOR?
 It did. I had a beautiful gag in THE N A V I G A T O R .
I'm down tryin' to fix the stuffin' box of that ocean
liner, and here's a school of fish goin' past and
there was a big jewfish tryin' to get through the
school of fish, and he couldn't make it. So I
reached down there and pulled a starfish off of a
rock, and let it grab my breastplate and I stepped
in the middle of the school of fish and brought 'em
to a stop and then turned like a traffic cop and
brought the big fish through. A n d when he went
through, then I turned and brought the traffic on
its way again. A n d the gag folded right up [went
smoothly] like a million bucks. It was perfect. A n d
it was a son-of-a-gun to do. It took us three days
to get the gag. W e had somethin' like 1200 rubber
fish, all around 10 inches long, and they had t o
be solid rubber so they wouldn't float and hang
'em all with violin string, catgut. A n d a piece of
apparatus built by the Lewellyn Iron Company,
and sink four telegraph poles under water up
there to operate this apparatus overhead, to con-
trol the school of fish. But the gag photographed
perfect. A n d we previewed this picture, and not
one giggle did it get. W e didn't trust that preview.
Says, " W e ' l l keep it in for a second [ p r e v i e w ] .
Somethin's w r o n g . " W e kept it in for a second.
A n d the same thing. It finally dawned on us—I had
gone down there to fix that stuffing box. The girl
and I both are at the mercy of cannibals off of a
cannibal island. I had no license in the w o r l d to
go help a fish go through a school of fish. I quit
what I went down to do.
. . . [People were w o r r i e d about the situation.]
And also get mad at me for doin' it. Anything else
could happen to me. That was all right. Like a
lobster gettin' on my pants. A n d I used his claws
for a clipper, for a pair of pliers. A swordfish tryin'
to interfere with me. That was all right. Now, to
prove the gag, I put the gag in our " C o m i n g At-
t r a c t i o n " runner. W e used to call 'em runners.
The theater w o u l d say: " C o m i n g Next W e e k . " A n d
they'd just show you flashes of a picture that
was goin' to come. I put that gag in it, and it was
an out-and-out belly laugh. [That's because it was
out of context.] No story. . . .
. . . [SEVEN C H A N C E S (1925)] was not a good
story for me. That was bought by someone and
sold to Joe Schenck without us knowin' it. A s a
rule Schenck never knew when I was shootin' or
what I was shootin'. He just went to the preview.
But somebody sold him this show that w a s done by
Belasco a few years before. . . . A n d he buys this
thing for me and it's no good for me at all. . . . A n d
the only thing that saved me was that I accidentally
dislodged a coupla rocks in the chase scene and
they chased me down the side of a hill. Well, when
we saw that at the preview, and the audience sat
up in their seats—they expected somethin'—for
the first time in the picture—we built 1500 differ-
ent shape size rocks and took 'em out on the ridge
route and completed a sequence. It's the only
thing that saved the picture.
. . . [ W e shot G O WEST (1926)] about 60 miles
out of Kingman, Arizona. W e were really out in
open country . . . four cameramen (that's [ i n c l u d -
ing] the assistants), electrician—generally takes
about three men with him (because w e took a
generator, which takes a couple of men), technical
man—takes a couple of dozen carpenters, a prop
man must take about four extra helpers with him.
. . . Then w e house 'em up there, s e e — w e take
tents and everything else and a portable kitchen.
. . . Well, I had one bad disappointment in that
thing. I thought I had a funny sequence when I
had my cattle—I turned 'em loose—and I actual-
ly turned 'em loose here in Los Angeles in the
Santa Fe depot in the freight yards, and brought
'em up Seventh Street to Broadway ( n o — u p to
Spring Street). And we put cowboys off on every
side street to stop people in automobiles from
comin' into it. A n d then put our own cars with
people in there. A n d I brought 300 head of steers
up that street. I'd hate to ask permission to do
that today. But then I thought that by goin' in a
store, and I saw a costume place, and I saw a
devil's suit (this was r e d ) — w e l l , bulls and steers
don't like red, they'll chase it. 'Course I w a s tryin'
to lead 'em towards the slaughter house. I put
that suit on and I thought I'd get a funny chase
sequence, and have the cows get a little too close
to me, and get scared. Then really put on speed
tryin' to get away from 'em. But I couldn't do it
with steers—steers wouldn't chase me. I actually
ran and had cowboys pushin' em' as fast as they
could go, and I fell down in front of 'em and let 'em
get within about ten feet of me before I got to my
feet. But as I moved, they stopped, too. They piled
up on each other. They didn't mind a stampede at
all. But they wouldn't come near me. W e l l , that
kind of hurt when y o u think that's going to be y o u r
big finish chase sequence. W e had to trick it
from all angles. . . . Some parts I liked, but as a
picture, in general, I didn't care for it.
. . . BATTLING BUTLER [1926] I liked. It was a
good picture. I told the original story that was
taken from the stage show except that I had to add
my own finish. I couldn't have done the finish that
was in the show . . . [where] he just finds out in
the dressing room up at the Madison Square Gar-
den that he don't have to fight the champion and
he promises the girl he'll never fight again. And
of course the girl don't know but what he did
fight.
But we knew better than to do that to a motion
picture audience. W e couldn't promise 'em for
seven reels that I was goin' to fight in the ring and
then not fight. W e knew that w e had to fight. So
we staged a fight in the dressing room with the
guy who just won the title in the r i n g — b y having
bad blood between the fighter and myself. A n d it
w o r k e d out swell.
[Then THE GENERAL (1926-1927)]—Clyde
Bruckman [the co-director] run into this b o o k
called "The Great Locomotive Chase," a situation
that happened in the Civil War, and it was a pip.
Says, " W e l l , it's awful heavy for us to attempt,
because when we got that much plot and story to
tell, it means we're goin' to have a lot of film
with no laughs in it. But w e won't w o r r y too much
about it if we can get the plot all told [laid out]
in that first reel, and our characters—believable
characters—all planted, and then go ahead and
let it roll. A n d every other situation is more dra-
matic than it is funny." Well, that was the finished
picture, and—it held an audience. They were
interested in i t — f r o m start to finish—and there
was enough laughter to satisfy.
I tell you one thing I was kind of proud of my-
self for. I made that picture in '26. Thirty years
later, W a l t Disney did it [as THE GREAT L O C O -
MOTIVE CHASE (1956)], and I guarantee you
we had a better picture.
. . . It was shot up around Cottage Grove,
Oregon. Because not only the scenery was per-
fect for it, but all the narrow-gauge railroads from
those lumber camps [ w e r e t h e r e ] . A n d so much of
the equipment. Because w e bought engines up
there and with very little w o r k remodelled 'em
into Civil W a r engines. Then w e built a passen-
ger train and a freight train on their flat cars.
They had the rolling stock for us. So w e just
built box cars and passenger coaches and all
the track in the w o r l d w e wanted to use was al-
ready laid for us. A n d it looked aged, which w e
wanted, and b a d l y — y o u k n o w — t h e y don't bother
keepin' it looking good, they don't care what
27
grows around it. . . . I wanted it that way.
Did the actual locomotive "The General" ap-
pear in that?
O h no, no. W e reproduced that. Because that
original locomotive they'd have never let that one
out of the depot in Chattanooga. . . . I believe
they moved it to Atlanta, Georgia. Because the
run of "The G e n e r a l " was from Atlanta to Chat-
tanooga—that's where this chase t o o k place.
How did the [mounted] cannon sequence de-
velop?
W e found that. It's an actual gun of the Civil
War. The first railroad gun. A n d we duplicated that
cannon. It almost looks like a prop we invented.
That's the only thing that kind of scared us. When
it come to using it. They said, " E v e r y b o d y ' s going
to say, 'Oh, they invented the prop just to get
the gag.' But it's an actual reproduction of a rail-
road gun built in the Civil War. . . . W e found it
in more than one book.
Were there more people involved in the making
of that film than in any of your others?
Well, when it come to do the battle scenes, I
hired the National Guard of Oregon. Got 500 men
there. And we managed to locate about 125 horses.
Then in getting the equipment up from Los A n -
geles, we had to have a lot of it made. W e had to
have artillery pieces and army saddles and stuff
like that and uniforms for both gray and blue. . . .
[I housed the men] for a week in tourist cars
given to us by the Union Pacific on a siding. W e
put up a big tent for a mess hall. A n d put 'em
in blue uniforms and bring 'em goin' from right
to left, and take 'em out, put 'em in gray uniforms,
bring 'em goin' from left to right (laughs). A n d
fought the war.
There was some criticism at the time, and I'll
tell you who was the man who mentioned it—and
that was your friend Robert E. Sherwood*—who
was a little upset by the fact that you showed men
being killed in a comedy.
Well, he was a little sensitive about that. Be-
cause you've had to kill people in comedies.
You've done that for years. But as a rule, if we
could help it, we didn't.
I liked COLLEGE [1927]. . . . [In that] I tried
to be an athlete when I was an honor student in
high school and of course I flunked everything
then. Until I got into a jam. They made me cox-
*Then editor of the old humor magazine, Life, and its mo-
tion picture critic.
28
swain of the boat in order to make an athlete River. I went to a launching of some millionaire's
out of me. O h — o n e of my best gags in it was I new yacht, one of the Vanderbilts, and I made a
was at the Coliseum doing a warm-up with all the mistake and set my camera up on part of the
other athletes, see. No people in the grand- cradle that launched the boat. So I was launched
stand. . . . with the boat. In a finish I photographed a disap-
[This was followed by S T E A M B O A T BILL, JR. pearing gun—one of those great big things that
(1928) which Keaton liked " v e r y much," and for they had come up and shoot. W h i l e I'm photo-
which the climax was altered to accommodate a graphing one, I didn't know it, but I was right up
cyclone instead of a flood.] against another one that nearly t o o k the seat of
[Then:] THE C A M E R A M A N [1928] is one of my my pants off (laughs).
pet pictures. It's the simplest story that you can . . . [Later in the film] I got mixed up in that
find, which was always a great thing for us if we Tong W a r down there and because they saw me
could find it. I was a tintype cameraman down at photographin' they came at me. I didn't seem to
Battery Park, New York. Ten cents a picture. have any choice but to just leave my camera and
. . . I saw the Hearst W e e k l y [newsreel] man dive out the w i n d o w into a fire escape and get
and a script girl with him [at a parade] that I got away from 'em. And then go ahead and round
one look at and fell hook, line and sinker. W e l l , out the story. W e previewed it and we thought
immediately, I went down and sold my tintype the last reel was a good reel . . . and the last reel
thing to a second-hand dealer and bought a sec- just died the death of a dog. It dawned on us what
ond-hand motion picture camera. A n d of course I that was. I deserted that camera. So I had to go
got one of the oldest models there w a s — a Pathe. back and re-make that—even with the trouble of
A n d I went to the Hearst offices . . . and they got tryin' to get away from those wild Chinamen in the
one look at me and my equipment and says, " n o . " Tong War. I still kept my camera. Then it was all
(Laughs intermittently here.) The girl saw me right (laughs). It was O.K.
make the attempt and she says, "There's only one
way you can do anything. You gotta go out and
photograph somethin' of interest. A n d if they see
it and they can use the film you shoot, they'll buy
it from you. A n d if you can do that more than
once then they'll put you on as a member of t h e — "
W e l l , I set out to be a newsreel cameraman. A n d
of course I had my problems. . . .
There's one unfortunate gap in our print. Ap-
parently the negative had deteriorated. It's the
part where you go out for the first day and every-
thing goes wrong. There's just a little bit of that
left
That's a shame because some of the biggest
gags are there.
Tell me about what was in there.
W e l l , the No. 1 was I think I saw a lot of people
around a Park Avenue hotel and I got there and
they says, " I t ' s the admiral that's coming o u t ! "
So I busted through the c r o w d and I photographed
the admiral going right from the main door into
his limousine. Only the mistake I made was, I
photographed the doorman. That was my first
error. Then I got over to the Hudson River and
got a shot of the battleship, and then a parade on
Fifth Avenue, and I double-exposed it by acci-
dent. So I had the battleship comin' down Fifth
Avenue and the parade comin' down the Hudson
29
Symposium
On February 20 and 21, 1975, the International
Museum of Photography at George Eastman House
is sponsoring a symposium entitled "The Art
History of Photography: Recent Investigations."
In recent years an increasing number of uni-
versity art historians have become involved with
the study of the history of photography. These
historians bring their specialized tools and meth-
odologies for the study of art to the understanding
of the history of the photographic image. Their
concerns range from the historiographic and
chronological to the history of ideas and aes-
thetics.
The participants and their topics are:
Peter C. Bunnell (Princeton University):
"The Concept of the Equivalent: The Work of
Alfred Stieglitz."
William Innes Homer (University of Delaware):
"Stieglitz' Credo of Modernism: Its Manifes-
tation in Paul Strand's Early Photographs."
Eugenia P. Janis (Wellesley College):
"The Man on the Tower of Notre Dame: New
Light on Henri Le Secq."
Estelle Jussim (Simmons College):
"The Syntax of Reality: Photography's Trans-
formation of Nineteenth Century Wood-En-
graving into an Art of lllusionism."
Ulrich Keller (University of Louisville):
"Photographs in Context."
Ira Licht (University of Rochester/Museum of
Contemporary Art):
"USSR in Construction: Lissitzky and Rod-
chenko."
Elizabeth Lindquist-Cock (University of Rhode
Island):
"Photography for Artists: William Bradford's
Arctic Folio."
Anita Ventura Mozley (Stanford University):
"Thomas Annan of Glasgow: A Conservative
Photographer."
The symposium will take place in the Dryden
Theater at the museum, Thursday, February 20,
2:00-6:00 p.m.; and Friday, February 21, 10:00
a.m.-12:00 noon, and 2:00-6:00 p.m. Abstracts of
the papers read will be available during the sym-
posium.
A registration fee of $15.00 (regular) or $7.50
(student) will be required. For information contact
(716) 271-3361, extension 24.
30
Synoptic Catalog of the International
Museum of Photography Collections
(continued)
The synoptic catalog is a selective survey of the
photographic and allied resources of the Inter-
national Museum of Photography at George East-
man House. Negative numbers refer to our Print
Service files.
H. H. HILL [active Hamilton, N.Y., 1880s].
4 albumen cabinet portraits.
John K. HILLERS [b. 1843-d. 1925].
30 albumen prints; 1 albumen print from the Geo-
logical & Geographical Survey of the Territories,
David Octavius HILL [b. Perth, Scotland, 1802-d. Second Division; 127 stereographs.
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1870] and Robert ADAM-
SON [b. Burnside, Scotland, 1821-d. St. Andrews,
L. HILLMAN [active Watkins, N.Y., 1870s].
Scotland, 1848].
10 stereographs of Watkins Glen.
1 landscape watercolor, signed "St. Andrews, D.
O. Hill;" 5 original calotype negatives; 133 orig-
inal calotype positives; 20 original calotype posi- E. R. HILLS [active Brookline, Mass., ca. 1868-
tives in The T. B. Johnston Album; 56 original 1878].
calotype positives in the album Photographic Por-
4 stereographs.
traits; 47 carbon prints by Jesse Bertram in Calo-
types by D. O. Hill and R. Adamson, selected from
his collection by Andrew Elliot, Edinburgh, 1928; Harvey HIMELFARB [b. New York City, 1941- ].
plus 2 additional carbon prints by Jesse Bertram 5 prints.
for the Elliot book and 12 further carbon prints,
possibly by J. Craig Annan. Also: 71 modern prints
A. L. HINDS [active Benton, Maine, ca. 1868-
in various processes by A. L. Coburn from orig-
1878].
inal negatives; 42 modern prints by the Glasgow
University Library from the original negatives; 8 3 stereographs. [Illustration: "Maine," n.d. (ca.
modern prints from the original negatives; 10 1870). (7.7 x 14.9 cm.) Neg. 19687].
photogravures from Camera Work; 2 photogra-
vures, source unknown. In addition: 15 lithographs
and title page (lithograph) in Sketches of Scenery
in Perthshire drawn from nature and on stone by
D. O. Hill, Perth, ca. 1821; various engravings in
The Land of Burns, A Series of Landscapes and
Portraits Illustrative of the Life and Writings of
the Scottish Poet, Glasgow, 1840. [Illustration:
"Naroji," plate 29 from Photographic Portraits,
n.d. (ca. 1843). (20.2 x 15.0 cm.) Neg. 19688].
Lewis W i c k e s HINE [b. Oshkosh, Wisc., 1874-d.
1940].
Over 6,500 prints, including prints by both Hine
and the Photo League; appoximately 900 glass
negatives, 1075 nitrate negatives and 1950 safety
film negatives. Number of distinct images ac-
cording to Hine's original categories: 24 aircraft
w o r k e r s ; 234 army camps; 22 automotive w o r k e r s ;
27 barge canal series; 6 Boy Scouts; 8 candy
w o r k e r s ; 184 child labor; 92 children; 154 Chil-
dren's A i d Society; 5 cigar w o r k e r s ; 46 craftsmen;
10 "dissecting a photograph, photo s t u d y ; " 428
educational services; 73 Ellis Island; 408 Empire
State Building; 20 fishermen; 12 firemen; 149
France; 129 garment w o r k e r s ; 9 Geetlings, C. H.
[portraits o f ] ; 158 Girl Scouts; 4 glass w o r k e r s ;
23 grocery w o r k e r s ; 161 Health Services; 20
Hine, Lewis W.; 10 Hull House; 3 industrial safety;
12 industrial scenes; 7 laboratory w o r k e r s ; 74
maritime w o r k e r s ; 49 mechanics; 252 men at
w o r k ; 61 miners; 188 miscellaneous; 18 mother
and child; 145 negro life; 7 paper w o r k e r s ; 62 per-
sonal; 53 Pittsburgh series; 22 playgrounds; 209
studio and commercial; 2 sweatshops; 3 telegraph
w o r k e r s ; 21 telephone w o r k e r s ; 7 tenements; 28
textile w o r k e r s ; 27 T.V.A.; 20 unemployment; 1
unidentified; 302 welfare; 73 women at w o r k ; 161
W.P.A.; and 147 w o r k relief. A l s o : research col-
lection of uncollated newspaper clippings, cor-
respondence, pamphlets and other Hine related
ephemera. [Illustration: Railroadworker from " M e n
at W o r k " series, n.d. (ca. 1920). (17.6 x 12.5 cm.)
Neg. 19680].
D. H. HINKLE [active Germantown, Pa., late 1860s-
early 1890s].
3 carte-de-visite portraits, one dated Dec. 31,
1869, and another Feb. 1891.
George W. HISSONG [active La Grange, Indiana,
1880s],
4 stereographs, all landscapes.
E. Walter HISTED [American, b. Britain; active ca.
1900-1910].
4 platinum prints, all portraits.
James M. HOAG [d. Adrian, Mich., 1879; active
1860s-1870s].
3 carte-de-visite portraits.
(D. R.) HOAG (d. 1864) & QUICKS [active Cin-
cinnati, Ohio, 1860s].
2 carte-de-visite portraits of military wedding
signed Hoag & Quicks; 1 carte-de-visite portrait
signed Hoag Quick & Co.; 1 ninth plate ambrotype
signed Hoag.
HOARD & TENNEY [active Winona, Minn., 1870s].
4 stereographs of landscapes.
W. HOFFERT [active Berlin, 1890s].
10 albumen cabinet portraits of theatrical person-
alities. [Illustration: "Kuhn—Erika," n.d. (1890s).
14.7 x 10.5 cm.) Neg. 19686].
W. HOFFMAN [active Dresden, Germany, 1865-
1875].
3 cartes-de-visite, all landscapes.
J. HOGARTH [British, active 1850s].
15 albumen prints reproducing drawings, two of
which are hand colored, in Views in Lucknow,
London, 1858.
A. HOGSTRATEN [active The Hague, Holland,
1890s].
5 albumen prints on linen of the Hague, Holland.
Rev. J. HOLDEN [active Britain, 1850s].
2 albumen prints; 1 albumen print in The Sunbeam,
London, 1859; 1 salt paper print in The Photo-
graphic Album for the Year 1857, London, 1857.
Silas A. HOLMES [d. New York City, 1886].
2 sixth plate ambrotypes in double case; 1 carte-
de-visite portrait; 2 ninth plate daguerreotype
portraits in double case; 3 stereographs.
HOLT & GRAY [active New York City, ca. 1861-
1868].
8 stereographs, scenes of St. Croix.
W. E. HOOK [active Manitou Springs, Colorado,
1880s].
2 albumen boudoir prints and 1 stereograph.
J .D. HOPE [active Watkins, N.Y., ca. 1868-1878].
24 stereographs of Watkins Glen.
HOPE [active New York City and Goshen, N.Y.,
1860s].
9 carte-de-visite portraits labelled "Photographed
by Hope, 233 Broadway, N.Y.;" 2 carte-de-visite
portraits labelled "Hope, late of 233 Broadway,
Succ'r to Frank Edsall, Goshen, N.Y."
31
A. C. HOPKINS [active Palmyra, N.Y., 1880s-
1890s].
12 albumen cabinet portraits and 3 carte-de-visite
portraits.
Emil Otto HOPPE [b. Munich, Germany, 1878-d.
1967].
1 gelatin silver print; 2 platinum prints; 12 photo-
gravures from Studies from The Russian Ballet,
1911. [Illustration: untitled, 1909. (20.1 x 14.9 cm.)
Neg. 19721].
HOUGH BROS, [active Rochester, N.Y. 1890s]. W. H. HOWARD [British, active 1860s].
3 albumen cabinet portraits. Possibly related to a 4 albumen prints.
carte-de-visite portrait labelled "E. K. Hough,
Artist; S. E. Hough, Manager, New York City".
William R. HOWELL [active New York City,
1870s].
Thomas HOUSEWORTH [b. New York City, 10 carte-de-visite portraits, several of celebrities
1829-d. San Francisco, 1915]. and one dated January 16, 1872; 3 cabinet por-
1 albumen print from the series "Houseworth's traits; 1 stereograph. [Illustration: "Pauline Mark-
Celebrities;" 3 albumen prints of Yosemite ham," n.d. (ca. 1870). (9.5 x 5.8 cm.) Neg. 19683].
Valley; 67 cartes-de-visite and 163 stereographs
including views of San Francisco, Sacramento
City, Calaveras County, Yosemite Valley, and the
Central Pacific Railroad, all labelled Thomas
Houseworth & Co. Also: 2 albumen prints; 1 cab-
inet; 7 stereographs; and 3 hand-colored stereo-
graphs labelled Lawrence and Houseworth. [Il-
lustration: "Occidental Hotel, Montgomery Street,
from the Russ House, San Francisco," 1865. (7.8
x 15.5 cm.) Neg. 19684].

S. S. HOWLAND [probably British, active 1870s].

J. HORSBURGH [active Edinburgh, 1860s].
3 carte-de-visite portraits.
Eikoh HOSOE [b. Yamagata, Japan, 1933- ] .
9 prints, 4 of which are reproduced in the book
Killed by Roses, 1963; 2 in Ordeal by Roses, 1971;
2 in Embrace, 1971; and 1 in Kamaitachi, 1969.
[Illustration: Untitled print of Yukio Mishima, 1963.
(37.2 x 55.3 cm.) Neg. 19685].
E. P. and J. S. HOVEY [active Rome and Roches-
ter, N.Y., 1880s-1890s].
1 cabinet portrait and 1 carte-de-visite portrait
labelled E. P. Hovey, Rome; 2 carte-de-visite por-
traits labelled J. S. Hovey, Rome; 4 cabinet por-
traits labelled Hovey & Brainerd; and 5 carte-de-
visite portraits labelled Hovey and Hartman, Roch-
ester.
24 albumen prints in hand-written manuscript Jour-
Robert HOWLETT [d. 1858].
85 albumen prints, 77 of which are loose folios
from the album The Leviathan, London, n.d. (ca.
1857-1858); 2 salt paper prints in the album Photo-
graphs, Exchange Club, n.d.; 1 salt paper print
in album Pictures of the Photographic Exchange
Club, 1855. [Illustration: untitled, from The Levia-
than, n.d. (ca. 1857-1858). (28.6 x 35.7 cm.) Neg.
19682].

HOWARD & CO. [active Plattsburg, N.Y., 1870s].

5 carte-de-visite portraits.

W. D. HOWARD [British, active 1860s].

6 albumen prints in book Six Photographs of Ack-
worth, 1864; W/F. H. Lloyd album: Photographs
Among the Dolomite Mountains, containing 23
albumen prints; 4 stereographs, all dated 1864.

32
International Museum of Photography
at George Eastman House
Office of Extension Activities
900 East Ave., Rochester, N.Y. 14607

CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHY SINCE 1950 NEWMAN, ARNOLD

50 prints—$200/month 50 prints—$200/month
Ackland Art Center, Chapel Hill, N.C.
PHOTO/GRAPHICS
Nov. 15-Jan. 15
25 prints—$150/month
University of Guelph, Guelph, Ontario
Western Kentucky University,
Feb. 1-Feb. 28
Bowling Green, Ky. Dec. 1-Dec. 19
DAVIDSON, BRUCE
Schedule of Bookings: Eastern Washington State College,
25 prints—$100/month
Cheney, Wa. Jan. 27-Feb. 14
December 1 9 7 4 - M a y 1 9 7 5 Millbrook School, Millbrook, N.Y. Nov. 15-Dec. 15
Culver-Stockton College, Canton, Mo.
DEJA-VU/RALPH GIBSON March 1-March 31
ATGET, EUGENE 45 prints—$200/month SISKIND, AARON
41 prints—$160/month On extended tour by United States Information
DOISNEAU, ROBERT Agency
Juniata College, Huntington, Pa. Dec. 1-Dec. 31
25 prints—$100/month
Oakton Community College, Morton SMITH, W.EUGENE
Photographers Gallery, Seattle, Wa. Jan. 1-Jan. 31
Grove, II. Feb. 1-Feb. 28 25 prints—$100/month
Wheaton College, Wheaton, II. March 15-April 15 FRANK, ROBERT General Motors Corporation, Warren, Mi.
Orange Coast College, Costa Mesa, Ca. 25 prints—$100/month Dec. 9-Jan. 9
May 10-June 10 Slater Memorial Museum, Norwich, Ct. Mulvane Art Center, Topeka, Ks. Feb. 2-Feb. 26
BULLOCK. WYNN Jan. 12-Feb. 9 Photographer's Gallery, Seattle, Wa.
On extended tour by United States Information The Lindenwood College, St. Charles, Mo. March 15-June 15
Agency April 1-April 30 TERMINAL LANDSCAPE
Kansas State University, Manhattan, Ks. 40 prints—$160/month
HARRY CALLAHAN/CITY
May 15-June 15 University of Nebraska, Lincoln, Ne. Jan. 13-Feb. 5
75 prints—$300/month
FROM THE GEH COLLECTION Orange Coast College, Costa Mesa, Ca.
140 prints—$550/month
100 prints—$400/month Feb. 15-March 15
CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHERS IV Georgia Southern College, Statesboro, Ga. TULSA/LARRY CLARK
On extended tour by United States Information Dec. 30-Jan. 22 49 prints—$200/month
Agency LEWIS HINE II University of Delaware, Newark, De.
50 prints—$200/month May 1-May 31
CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHERS V International Center of Photography, UELSMANN, JERRY
On extended tour by United States Information New York, N.Y. Nov. 15-Feb. 15 30 prints—$125/month
Agency
Mulvane Art Center, Topeka, Ks. Feb. 2-Feb. 26
KRIMS, LESLIE
CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHERS VI The Lindenwood Colleges, St. Charles, Mo.
25 prints—$100/month
50 prints—$200/month April 1-April 30
Saint Mary's College, Notre Dame, In. MUYBRIDGE, EADWEARD WEST OF THE ROCKIES
Feb. 1-Feb. 28 35 prints—$140/month Slater Memorial Museum, Norwich, Ct.
CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHERS VII Photographers Gallery, Seattle, Wa. Jan. 12-Feb. 9
25 prints—$100/month Feb. 1-Feb. 28 WESTON, EDWARD
Northern Michigan University, Marquette, Mi. Zoller Gallery, University Park, Pa. On extended tour by United States Information
Dec. 1-Dec. 31 March 15-April 15 Agency