by Ansel Adams
We reached the Diving Board at about noon, tired and hungry. It was beautiful, but the enormous face of Half Dome was entirely in shade, and I felt I must wait a few hours until the sun revealed the monolith. It was one of those rare occasions when waiting was justified.
Following lunch washed down with water from melting snowbanks, I made a picture of Virginia standing on one of the thrusts of the Diving Board. The camera was pointed to the west, and with the first plate I forgot to shield the lens from the direct sun. I made a second plate to be sure. I now had only two plates left for one of the grandest view-experiences of the Sierra, the face of Half Dome itself.
At about two-thirty I set up the camera at what seemed to be the best spot and composed the image. My 8½-inch Zeiss Tessar lens was very sharp but, as usual with lenses of this design, did not have much covering power; the image formed by the lens was just large enough to cover my glass plate when centered thereon. I had to use the rising-front of the camera, as tilting the camera up more than a small amount would create the unwanted effect of convergence of the trees. Over the lens I placed a conventional K2 yellow filter, to slightly darken the sky. I finally had everything ready to go. The shadow effect on Half Dome seemed right, and I made the exposure.
As I replaced the slide, I began to think about how the print was to appear, and if it would transmit any of the feeling of the monumental shape before me in terms of its expressive-emotional quality. I began to see in my mind’s eye the finished print I desired: the brooding cliff with a dark sky and the sharp rendition of distant, snowy Tenaya Peak. I realized that only a deep red filter would give me anything approaching the effect I felt emotionally.
I had only one plate left. I attached my other filter, a Wratten #29(F), increased the exposure by the sixteen-times factor required, and released the shutter. I felt I had accomplished something, but did not realize its significance until I developed the plate that evening. I had achieved my first true visualization! I had been able to realize a desired image: not the way the subject appeared in reality but how it felt to me and how it must appear in the finished print. The sky had actually been a light, slightly hazy blue and the sunlit areas of Half Dome were moderately dark gray in value. The red filter dramatically darkened the sky and the shadows on the great cliff. Luckily I had with me the filter that made my visualized image possible.
The date was April 17, 1927, and the results of this excursion were three very good plates: Monolith, The Face of Half Dome, Mount Galen Clark, and the one of Virginia on the edge of the Diving Board, On the Heights.
Monolith has led a charmed life. It survived my darkroom fire in 1937 with only charred edges that are cropped from the final print anyway. I have not dropped the glass plate nor sat on it. It rests in my vault, still printable, and represents a personally historic moment in my photographic career.
Visualization is not simply choosing the best filter. To be fully achieved it does require a good understanding of both the craft and aesthetics of photography. I was asked by Modern Photography to write an article about creative photography for their 1934–5 annual. This was my definition of visualization.
The camera makes an image-record of the object before it. It records the subject in terms of the optical properties of the lens, and the chemical and physical properties of the negative and print. The control of that record lies in the selection by the photographer and in his understanding of the photographic processes at his command. The photographer visualizes his conception of the subject as presented in the final print. He achieves the expression of his visualization through his technique—aesthetic, intellectual, and mechanical.
The visualization of a photograph involves the intuitive search for meaning, shape, form, texture, and the projection of the image-format on the subject. The image forms in the mind—is visualized—and another part of the mind calculates the physical processes involved in determining the exposure and development of the image of the negative and anticipates the qualities of the final print. The creative artist is constantly roving the worlds without, and creating new worlds within.
When I met Alfred Stieglitz in 1933, I told him of my concept of visualization, and he responded with his explanation of creative photography.
Once he had been querulously asked, “Stieglitz, what is a creative photograph, and what is this creative photography you are talking about and how do you go about making a machine be creative?”
Stieglitz replied, “I have the desire to photograph. I go out with my camera. I come across something that excites me emotionally, spiritually, aesthetically. I see the photograph in my mind’s eye and I compose and expose the negative. I give you the print as the equivalent of what I saw and felt.” I think that his explanation is the most valid statement extant on the genesis of a creative photograph.
Anticipation is another prime element of creative art and essential to visualization. Some years ago I was talking with Edwin Land, a brilliant scientist and close friend. We talked about the remarkable photographs of Henri Cartier-Bresson, with his images of people in motion arrested at precisely the optimum expressive moment of time and place.
Land pointed out that the moment captured on film was realized through anticipation. Had Cartier-Bresson released the shutter at the “decisive moment” as revealed in his pictures, the psycho-physical lag would have resulted in capturing the moment after the ideal position in the composition.
Anticipation is one of the most perplexing capabilities of the mind: projection into future time. Impressive with a single moving object, it is overwhelming when several such objects are considered together and in relation to their environment. I believe that the mind, working at incredible speeds, is able to probe into the future as well as recall the past. Our explorations of the past support the present, and our awareness of the present will clarify the future.
As with all art, the photographer’s objective is not the duplication of visual reality. Photographic images cannot avoid being accurate optically, as lenses are used. However, they depart from reality in direct relation to the placement of the camera before the subject, the lens chosen, the film and filters, the exposure indicated, the related development and printing; all, of course, relating to what the photographer visualizes.
The exhilaration, when anticipation, visualization, mind, equipment, and subject are all behaving, is fantastic. Sometimes disaster breaks the chain: a light-leak in the film holder, the omission of a filter-factor or a lens-extension factor, a sharpness-spoiling gust of wind at the moment of exposure, the frustrations of the shutter that sticks, the cable-release that develops a kink, the slow collapse of the tripod leg (unnoticed until the exposure has been made), and the glorious pageantry of a great cloudscape just after the last negative has been exposed. When one of these things happened to me in Beaumont Newhall’s presence, he would blandly quote:
“A blank he lived and a blank he died;
“He never remembered to pull the slide!”
I do not know any photographer who was not thrilled over his first exposures and who does not continue to be excited as his pictures evolve and his craft improves. With all of my analysis of photography, there is still something quite incomprehensible to me about the photographic process. A friend once said to me, “The two most beautiful sounds in the world are the opening and closing clicks of the camera shutter.” How clearly I recall the stately sound of my old Compur shutter, carving one second out of time in which the measured throng of photons poured through the focused lens and agitated the myriad halide crystals of the negative emulsion. The physics of the situation are fearfully complex, but the miracle of the image is a triumph of imagination. The most miraculous ritual of all is the combination of machine, mind, and spirit that brings forth images of great power and beauty.
Photography is an investigation of both the outer and the inner worlds. One might consider that if one is born an explorer he will never find existence dull. The first experiences with the camera involve looking a
t the world beyond the lens, trusting the instrument will “capture” something “seen.” The terms shoot and take are not accidental; they represent an attitude of conquest and appropriation. Only when the photographer grows into perception and creative impulse does the term make define a condition of empathy between the external and the internal events. Stieglitz told me, “When I make a photograph, I make love!”
7.
Albert Bender
ONE EARLY SPRING DAY IN 1926 CEDRIC WRIGHT TELEPHONED to say, “Come over tonight and bring your earthquake nose, music fingers, and some prints to show.” When I arrived in Berkeley at that evening’s impromptu party, Cedric’s home was already awash with musicians, artists, professors, the rich, the poor: a typical cross section of Bay Area intelligentsia.
The food served was identical to that of a Sierra Club outing into the High Sierra: big bowls of spaghetti with meat balls, green salad, baskets of French bread, a gelatin dessert, and cookies. The rich, strong coffee, poured from a huge pot, tasted almost as good as it did in the mountains.
After dinner, Cedric picked up my box of prints and led me to a smiling little man sitting on a couch. “Here’s Ansel Adams. He plays pretty good piano and takes damn good photographs.” Then to me, “This is Albert Bender. He lives in San Francisco, too, and he likes art.” I had heard of Albert Bender’s reputation as a serious patron of the arts.
Albert stood, shook my hand, and said, “Let’s find some brighter light. I want to see your pictures.” Apprehensively, I followed him to a well-lit corner and watched as he carefully examined about forty of my photographs of Yosemite and the High Sierra.
He finished, smiled, and said, “Fine! Come and see me at my office tomorrow morning about ten. I want to look at these again.” I floated through the remainder of the evening—this was the first important interest in my photographs from someone outside my musical and mountaineering circles.
The next morning, promptly at ten o’clock, I was ushered into Albert’s office at 311 California Street. He was a partner in a leading insurance firm in the city, not large, but possessed of a remarkable clientele. His desk was a chaotic mass of letters, envelopes, postcards, books, and pamphlets: an ever-accumulating mound of memorabilia into which he could delve and immediately find whatever he sought. He greeted me warmly, talked a minute with his staff, made a phone call, then took me to a small table, pushed aside some books and periodicals, and said, “Let’s look at them again.” During his thorough inspection of my photographs he received at least two visitors and six phone calls, but nothing disturbed the intensity of his concentration on my work. After he finished, he looked me squarely in the eye and said, “We must do something with these photographs. How many of each can you print?”
I replied, “An unlimited number, unless I drop one of the glass plates.”
He then said, “Let’s do a portfolio.” I remained outwardly calm, but was electrified by his decision.
We quickly established the probable costs and the time required to do the job. He called Jean Chambers Moore, a respected publisher and dealer in fine books, and arranged for her to publish the portfolio and the Grabhorn Press to do the typography as well as the announcement. Edwin and Robert Grabhorn had developed a worldwide reputation for their incredibly beautiful typographic design and printing. Having decided upon an edition of one hundred portfolios (and ten artist’s copies) of eighteen prints each, Albert suggested a retail price of fifty dollars for each portfolio. It was a whirlwind morning. This was my first experience with such decisive organization; red tape was not a part of Albert’s world.
Albert was a true philanthropist. He never requested money from his friends for any purpose unless he had first contributed. When he had concluded the arrangements for the portfolio, he said to me, “Of course, I’ll take ten copies. Here is my check for five hundred dollars.” He later bought ten more. He was back on the phone and, before lunchtime, with a magnificent job of promotion, he had sold more than half the portfolios, assuring the project’s financial success.
His first call was to Mrs. Sigmund Stern, who was kindly, wealthy, and always supportive of the arts. “Top o’ the morning to you, Rosalie! I have a young friend here who has done some fine photographs. We are going to make some portfolios and I have taken ten.” She said she would take ten, too, and asked Albert to bring me to dinner. The same approach was used for several other benefactors of the arts, with considerable success. San Francisco has had a great tradition of support for its arts and artists, with Mrs. Stern one of the brightest lights. That tradition has continued with her remarkable daughter, Elise, and her husband, Walter Haas, and through them to their children. The Sterns, Haases, and Goldmans feel that great responsibility accompanies wealth. This one family has proven vital in establishing northern California as an area of enlightenment, bringing the creative works of man to all citizens.
Jean Chambers Moore decided she dare not publish the portfolio if it had the term photographs in the title. She was adamant against my objections; she was the experienced publisher, not I. We needed to sell the remaining half of the portfolios, and at that time creative photography was not considered commercially viable, as hardly anyone considered it to be a fine art. Hence, we coined a bastard word to take the place of photograph—Parmelian Prints. I am not proud at allowing this breach of faith in my medium. And then, to add to my chagrin, when I saw the finished title page I found an error, Parmelian Prints of the High Sierras. The name Sierra is already a plural. To add an s is a linguistic, Californian, and mountaineering sin.
Albert’s nickname was Mickey, from his Irish ancestry. He was born in 1866 in Dublin, Ireland, the son of a rabbi and a Catholic mother. Albert came to San Francisco at the age of seventeen, penniless. First employed in a relative’s insurance office, Albert later went into business for himself and his firm was one of the most respected in San Francisco.
Albert was in many ways an extraordinary person, and his acquaintances and admirers were legion. However, his circle of truly close friends was small, and I always felt him to be a lonely spirit.
His apartment was a splendid clutter of meaningful things: a small but marvelously kept library with most volumes inscribed to Albert, signed portraits, a few paintings by his late cousin, Anne Bremer, and a comfortable collection of elegant furniture. Most of the important art objects he acquired over the years were passed on to museums almost as fast as he received them. He had very special interests in fine printing and rare books and gave numerous examples of these to the libraries of San Francisco, the University of California, Mills College, Stanford University, and as far away as Dublin, Ireland, where he established Bender Collections in memory of his parents.
Albert’s housekeeper, an elderly woman without culinary imagination, provided him with scrambled eggs for almost every meal, year after year. He did not drink anything stronger than soda pop but nevertheless kept a bar for his friends, though he had no conception of the amenities of wine and liquor. He would have the housekeeper set out Scotch, ginger ale, and paper cups. I am glad to report that several of us arranged for a better display of potables, furnished ice, and saw to it that he had sufficient bar glasses so that paper cups were finally abandoned.
Every St. Patrick’s Day Albert gave a great party, claiming it was also his birthday. For this occasion he wore an authentic cardinal’s robe and looked extremely ecclesiastical. It was safe to assume that every person of regional consequence would be there. Catholics, Jews, Blacks, Orientals, Hillsborough Caucasians, beautiful women and once-beautiful women, artists, writers, stage people, book people, printers, musicians, characters, and crashers—all were welcome and made very merry.
Albert did not drive but relied on his friends, including me, to pilot him around in his 1926 Buick Coach. He made frequent grand tours to libraries, museums, and to the studios and homes of many artists and writers. As we drove, he recited quantities of Shakespeare, delivered with histrionic gestures and facial expressions as required
. He could quote the poetry of Robert Burns with a marvelous burr.
Albert would telephone and ask me, “What are you doing today?”
Except under extraordinary work deadlines I would reply, “When do you want to leave, Albert?” Practically every excursion was an important event to me, for these were my introductions to a new world of creative people.
One of our regular treks was to visit the revered California poet Ina Coolbrith. When I met her, she was in her eighties and lived in a stuffy, little apartment with two elderly female companions. Albert kept her in cash and on each visit brought her a bottle of fine port.
After my first visit, one of Ina’s companions phoned me and asked for a medical prescription for port wine, saying, “You know, the bottle that dear Albert brings does not last very long!” Albert had jokingly introduced me as “Doctor” (he had granted me his Ph.D.—Doctor of Photography) and they had taken it literally. I was helpless! I told an amused Albert about this call, and we soon presented Ina and her friends with an ample supply. The consumed a considerable quantity of port, which probably kept them in stable health throughout Prohibition.
One Friday morning in June 1926, a few months after we had first met, Albert telephoned and said, “How about the weekend? We can go to Carmel and see the poet Robinson Jeffers and others. Can you get away this afternoon and we will come home late Saturday?”
Naturally I could get away! I had never visited Carmel. Our route led south through the late, lamented orchards of the Santa Clara Valley; the groves became factories as the land was transformed into Silicon Valley, the heartland of computer technology. After a lunch stop at Gilroy, we drove over a winding grade to Salinas, west to the ocean at Monterey, over Carmel Hill to Carmel, and a final five miles south to the Carmel Highlands and its Peter Pan Lodge, a charming little place, with a number of tiny rooms attached like barnacles to its squarish hull. The lady hosts were effusive, the view of the sun setting over the Pacific remarkable, and the dinner tasty.