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Portraits

Consider the image of the pueblo woman I bought recently on eBay for a few dollars. There was no information about it—not when it was taken, of whom, or by whom. There is nothing of particular anthropological interest, nothing striking about the pose or her expression, and we can't even be sure whether she is a native American or just a tourist in a shawl. It was probably made by an amateur— it is a small print (3" x 4½")—in the 1920s or 30s. The develop- ment and printing was incompetent. Nevertheless, we consider it a fine portrait, not just a snapshot. Why?

To respond adequately, we need to establish some background.

Of all the photographs made during the first two decades following the invention of photography, it is estimated that 99% of them were portraits. That is not surprising, since much of art consists of portraits. There is a long tradition of the titled, the well-known and the affluent sitting for a formal portrait—in oil, of course. The advent of photography in 1839 meant that everyone could have a picture of themselves and their families. Portrait studios in England, Scotland, France and America soon were producing prints of scientists, divines, artists, writers, generals and politicans—but also of street vendors, shopkeepers, whores and even street urchins. The Dauguerrotypist's tent was ubiquitous near any Civil War encampment, and the cost was such that even the lowliest private could have his picture taken. The tintype, Ambrotype and the carte de visite were about as common as baseball trading cards were to become in the middle of the next century. Regardless of the process, the emphasis was on the subject—did the camera capture a good likeness?—and the criterion of success was the approval of the sitter.

But well before the technology was into its second decade, the raison d'être for an image of an individual was not invariably the making of a good likeness. Some photographers took pictures of criminals and lunatics, in the hope of assisting criminologists and policy-makers to discern the characteristics of the aberrant personality. A good likeness was the least of their concerns. Travelers to exotic lands brought back images of pashas and aborigines, of pygmies and geishas, and few viewers ever asked if they were good likenesses. It was sufficient to show an elaborate costume, a painted face, tattoos, nose rings, and non-Aryan features.

When was the last time the clerk at the Motor Vehicle office asked you if you here pleased with the photo ID she just took? The point is that we do not expect all pictures of people to be good likenesses. Some are merely functional, but others are intended to be good images, first and foremost.

By the middle of the twentieth century photographers raised the question explicitly, asserting that a good likeness was not the ultimate criterion. Phillipe Halsman, one of the leading commercial portraitists said that the best portrait is an unmasking of the subject— “If the photograph of a human being does not show a deep psychological insight, it is not a true portrait but an empty likeness.” That strikes me as pretentious crap—even psychotherapists after months of consultation rarely claim to have achieved deep psychological insight into their patients. But Halsman was on to something significant. He shifted the emphasis away from the sitter to suggest that the photographer's insight, perspective or personal style was important. Arnold Newman, who died recently, proclaimed that before any portrait can be a good portrait it has to be a good photograph. His concern was not insight but on the relationship between the sitter and his/her environment—the space he/she inhabits. It seems to us that what is central to much recent portraiture (apart from the gimmicks and the dreadful stuff cranked out in the shopping malls) is the concept of the interpretive portrait—where the photographer and/or the viewer is expected to bring something to the meaning of the image.

OK, you say, but what the hell does that mean? A good likeness is often important, especially if it is family or a well-known figure. But it can't stop with that. Newman usually included the space the sitter inhabited—his tools, working environ, style of dress—and the term usually applied to those images was environmental portraits.Others eliminated all that and shot their subjects against a plain drop cloth. Some, like Richard Avedon, often moved in very tight on their subjects and captured every blemish, stray hair, and wrinkle. A few of Dorothea Lange's best portraits, like this one, don't even show all of her subject's face, or show it largely obscured by a hand or an elbow. What is common among these approaches is that the photographers are willing to suggest something—a connection, an attitude, an issue unresolved. They suggest by what they include and what they exclude—their distance from the subject, what part of the face is left in shadow, what the sitter is doing with her hands, and so on. That means that we, the viewers, are now actively involved, not just passive observers. How can one not be involved with the migrant mother in Lange's most famous image?

The involvement need not be as emotional as that Lange evokes. It can be as simple as summoning forth the recollection of a painting of Georgia O'Keefe or Josef Albers when we see them posed against a background that suggests their work. That involvement may also be evoked by the recognition of an artistic tradition (or the defiance of a tradition) as when Paul Strand poses a krone from the Hebrides in the manner of a woman of the Spanish nobility as Goya might have painted her.

On that note, let us return to the pueblo. We regard this as a fine portrait because of the formal composition—the arrangement of light and dark areas, the elimination of the irrelevant and the inclusion of enough of the environment (the ladder and the shape and texture of the adobe walls) to tell us something more about the subject. We don't need to know which pueblo, just as we don't need to know the subject's name to appreciate it. The pose is relaxed, even casual, and there is a bemused expression on her face. We recognize that the shawl and long skirt over pants was not a conventional, middle American style, but it is not quite exotic. No pottery, weaving, silver work—she is treated as a person, not an archetype or category. You've probably seen promotional photos for the Southwest with women balancing fancy pots on their heads, or dressed up in their finery and silver-and-turquoise jewelry siting at a loom weaving a rug with sheep grazing in the background—what commercial hokam!

There are more nineteenth century portraits on this website in the history section, and we have prepared an activity designed to provide some practice in working out your own approach to an interpretive portrait. Before you proceed to that assignment, we suggest you go to the Feature section (use the link below) to examine two more portraits very closely.

more on portraits  
                                                                                                 


This is the third issue of a website devoted to approaching photography as an art form that (mostly) embraces the traditional canons of drawing and painting—which is to say there is an emphasis here on line, shape, color, light, perspective, texture, and so on. We appreciate that there is much more to photography than that, but an awareness of traditions— from Lascaux to Rauschenberg—may be useful to beginning and intermediate photographers as they explore and experiment. There will certainly be treatment of the craft and technical aspects, but our focus will be on composition in the very broadest sense of that term. There are two basic questions we will pose—What do you point your camera at? and Where do you stand? When one addresses those questions many of the other decisions are fairly well determined. We invite you to explore this issue and tell us what you think.
                                                                                                            —FLG


No. 3 September 2006

   Photography is not simply a craft
   or art, but a means of seeing and    thinking about our world.


previous issues:

#2 isolate your subject

#1 shadows


We plan on publishing semi-monthly, with each issue based on an aspect of composition, with images from our own work and from a few contributors. There will be links to other photographers and artists, and an activity or assignment whereby one might practice and gain at least an understanding of the several dimensions of using perspective, shadow, or whatever is the topic for that issue.

Our primary audience is anyone seriously trying to learn how to make better images. If photography is not your passion (or at least one of them) we suspect there will not be much here for you. We invite participation from instructors and students, and expect to feature the work of both in subsequent issues.
We anticipate the emphasis and perhaps the breadth or depth of our treatment will change over time, as we get a better understanding of the needs and preferences of our audience.

We believe that much can be learned from studying other images, including painting and drawing, as well as the nineteenth century photographic images that make up the History section of this website, and throughout we will make reference to art and photography we see as relevant.

One of the unanswered questions implicitly raised by the very existence of this site is whether photography can be taught. We have argued both sides of that issue, without resolving it. But photography can be learned, and that is the proposition to which we are dedicated.


The image in the title graphic was taken in a New York subway. The one at the top of this column is a just-emerging hosta. The three portraits are from our new book, Think Like a Photographer, published by Mondo Publishing. You see more about it in the November issue. The top two images are by Alison Jones and the bottom one by Frank Greenagel.