by Ansel Adams
Diablo Canyon cost me some friends but strengthened my convictions. The human condition is part of the world’s structure, and a balanced approach to the environment and its significance to humanity is essential. I did not then, and do not now, believe in big stick tactics; our reason for being is not to destroy civilization but to assist in guiding it to constructive attitudes. With the perspective of time I feel that education of the public in the vast, inclusive problems of the environment will have the most rewarding effects.
Dave Brower has continued to lead many important fights on behalf of our environment. As someone said of him, “Difficult as he may be, he is of the kind that moves the world.” The smoke of conflict has disappeared over the years. The earth is a better place because of this resolute crusader for the environment.
I had tried to resign from the Sierra Club board once before. In 1958 the National Park Service was under great pressure from tourist and business interests to make travel easier between Yosemite and the Owens Valley by widening, leveling, and straightening the Tioga Road. This road crossing the Sierra is the only one in the entire range that cuts directly through true high country. While safety dictated many of these “improvements” in view of the increasing visitation, the one truly sore spot for me was the proposed route of the new road in the Tenaya Lake area. I felt strongly that the lake should not be violated. A better alternative was to go up Magee Creek and eastward to a junction with the old road at the west end of Tuolumne Meadows. This would have reduced the pressures on Tenaya Lake and the beautiful granite dome region to the east, perhaps the finest landscape of its kind in the Sierra. Wilderness with a slick highway through it is no longer wild.
The Sierra Club board refused to take action on my plea, although quite a few members of the board supported me. I was dismayed; I felt immediate action must be taken. I first sent my resignation to the board of directors and then sent a hot telegram to Washington, D.C.
My telegram apparently alarmed a few politicians: five rushed out from Washington and five more from the San Francisco regional office of the Park Service, accompanied by the superintendent and chief ranger of Yosemite. I escorted them to Tenaya Lake and pointed out the causes of my concern. After much discussion, it was my understanding that they agreed to a proposed route that would sweep under the present Olmstead Point and follow a gentle canyon down to the lake level, leaving the vast granite domes unscarred.
I returned to San Francisco and found the board had refused to accept my resignation. I had caused a minor earthquake and escaped the falling debris. Several months later, to my horror, I discovered that the route had not been altered, my solution denied, and an incredible assault on the integrity of the area had been perpetrated by cutting a nearly mile-long road across one of the largest unbroken granite slopes of the Sierra. The excuse was, “The visitor will have a beautiful view of the lake as he drives!” The damage done is truly permanent.
The Sierra Club today, with a membership of about four hundred thousand and with more than fifty regional chapters, has great political impact. It is also a major publishing house, a travel agency, and a producer of resolutions. Its emphasis has changed from a direct American conservation outlook to an inclusive sweep of environmental problems. It is difficult to imagine what the conservation movement would have been without its presence. The good that it has done can never be fully measured.
I cannot mention each of my good Sierra Club friends, and there were many, but I cannot neglect Dick and Doris Leonard, stalwart environmentalists and friends for more than fifty years. A successful lawyer, as was Colby, Dick possessed an enormous amount of energy and dedication. He is noted for his calm, measured approach to the feisty problems of the environment. People such as myself are far more explosive in expressing our convictions and in our actions, but Dick is always there to catch the ashes, so to speak. The environmental movement in America would not have advanced as far as it has, had he and Doris not been on the scene.
Another great team, Dr. Edgar and Peggy Wayburn, have made environmental history in many fields. Ed, currently the president of the Sierra Club, was the spark behind the Golden Gate Recreational Area concept, and Congressman Philip Burton, who used his great political talent to create it, was the flame. This extraordinary park is but one mile from the San Francisco shore: a unique juxtaposition. The Wayburns have also been closely associated with the Alaskan national parks and wildlife preserves. Peggy and Ed have fought a great and decisive battle on behalf of Alaska, our last frontier of wilderness. The goal is to achieve a balance of wise use and preservation of its marvelous lands and impressive resources for the future. There should be special medals cast for such heroes of the environmental movement.
Since resigning from the Sierra Club, The Wilderness Society has claimed my strongest allegiance for two reasons: its strong and specific concept of the importance of wilderness and the appointment of William A. Turnage as its executive director. In 1971 I was appointed a Chubb Fellow at Yale University. I met with many dedicated and challenging students there, but was immediately struck by a brilliant young man at the Yale School of Forestry. Bill Turnage had a degree from Yale, had studied at Oxford, and had worked for our State Department in Washington for three years before his passion for the American wilderness completely captured him. Bill has a grand love of hiking, climbing, and skiing and a great sensitivity to wilderness concerns.
Returning home to California, I suggested to Virginia that Bill would be perfect to manage Best’s Studio, a task she had magnificently performed for too many years. Bill left New Haven and moved to Yosemite, where he effectively, with the determination and energy of the young, reorganized and prioritized the business to the benefit of all concerned.
A close working relationship developed between Bill and me, as it became apparent that we shared the same heartfelt concerns about the fate of man and earth. I was fortunate to have Bill manage my business affairs and advise on the escalating demands that the decade of the seventies brought my way. During those critical years, Bill revealed a high order of intelligence and imagination.
Feeling he had accomplished what he could, Bill left Carmel at the end of 1977 to embrace the solitude that only a wilderness experience can provide—his choice, Wyoming. After a few, short months I learned that The Wilderness Society was considering him for its Executive Director. I knew Bill would be the propitious choice and was very proud when indeed he was the person selected.
Bill has no qualms in contesting ideas and opinions of the potent antagonists in Washington. Importantly, he has the determination and energy to follow through with the programs he has set in the political arena. It takes courage to face staunch opposition to the gargantuan environmental situations and, at the same time, raise funds for their solution.
I have come to the conclusion that to be complacent is to be ineffective, and to be tolerant of obvious error or injustice is unforgivable. Perhaps there is something amiss with the genes of Homo sapiens that does not innately command us to protect our home, Earth, as we instinctively protect ourselves. I am thankful for such fierce warriors as Bill Turnage and Dave Brower. I have come to think of them as the Saint Georges of the environmental movement; unfortunately, the dragon might have four more years.
12.
Commercial Photography
THE DECISION TO DEVOTE MY LIFE TO PHOTOGRAPHY brought with it the problem of how I was to earn a living. The solution was to work as a commercial photographer, not only to support my family but to allow time for my creative work. In 1930, Virginia and I built a home with a studio in the garden next to my parents’ house and I hung out my shingle: Ansel Easton Adams, Photographer.
I found myself unusually fortunate in being able to accomplish, with balance of time and energy, my creative and commercial work. Over the lean years of the Great Depression, I did everything from catalogs to industrial reports, architecture to portraiture. Our bank account would dwindle to a distressing level and I would grow deeply concerne
d, then, usually at the financial brink, with creditors gathering, the phone would ring and an assignment would present itself. This would carry us for another month or so, when another crisis would appear and be solved in a similar way. Luckily, Virginia had independent spunk and was able to provide us with a small but reliable income by working at Best’s Studio during the Yosemite tourist season. Finances necessitated my continued commercial work until the 1970s. There were exceptional years, of course, such as my Guggenheim Fellowships with grants of money that allowed large blocks of time to devote exclusively to my creative photography.
Before 1930 I was offered only an occasional photographic job. So that I could professionally handle interior photographs, I decided that I must master the technology of artificial lighting. I acquired the necessary equipment: a flash gun, black powder cap detonators, and a supply of magnesium flash powder, because this was before the era of flash bulbs, much less the electronic flash. The flash powder came in little cardboard capsules marked small, medium, and large. It was reasonably safe, providing the ignition was at a good distance from one’s eyes.
With the spring trigger-plunger set on safety, the black powder cap was inserted in the gun. The flash powder, in required amounts, was shaken onto the foot-long receptacle, covering the black powder cap. The gun was held aloft, the camera shutter opened, and the trigger released. There was a firm pffuff! and a small kick accompanying a brilliant flash of light, lasting for about one-tenth second or less. Exposure was determined by an instruction card.
I was offered my first professional assignment in about 1920. Our next-door neighbor, Miss Lavolier, taught at the Baptist Chinese Grammar School in downtown San Francisco. She asked if I would take a picture of her class. As the pupils were very active six-year-olds, she warned me it would not be easy either to get them to stand still or to have them all with eyes open.
Arriving at the school with my view camera and accompanying flash equipment, I thought I was perfectly prepared. I got the camera set up, the picture composed, and the flash equipment organized. Instructions indicated that one medium and one small capsule of flash powder should be used. I made an amateur’s mistake and spread out three large capsules that were equal to twelve of the small ones. As the room had fairly dark walls, I added another large capsule, thus compounding the error. Without realizing it, I now had the equivalent of sixteen small capsules of flash powder. I thought the heap of gray stuff looked adequate, but that was my naïve estimate of the amount of powder I should use.
All seemed ready; I pulled the slide and raised the flash gun on high. To get the children’s attention I made sounds that might pass for a Chinese mockingbird and then simultaneously fired the shutter and the charge. The light was apocalyptic. There was a thunderous PPFFFUFFF!! and my arm was firmly knocked down. I nervously reinserted the slide and looked out on my subjects. No one was in sight. There was dead silence, then a chorus of terrified wails arose from under the desks. The considerable cloud of smoke prompted Miss Lavolier to open the windows, and it billowed over the school-yard and quickly alerted the fire department, who arrived with sirens screaming. Reassuring words from the office turned them back. Pupils and desks were streaked with a fine, powdery fallout, but no damage had been done. After we all calmed down I took the class outdoors and photographed them using natural light and all was forgiven.
My confidence unshaken, I began to do portraits and weddings. For one wedding I again used flash powder, this time in a small room with very light walls. I moved the camera under a doorway while the bridal party assembled before me. When I fired the gun—pffuff!—there was a really bright light, and clouds of smoke rolled along the ceiling. The people moved out of the room until the dust had settled. I felt very sure of myself until I saw the door lintel. I had held the gun too close to the freshly painted door frame; it was hopelessly scorched. I paid for the repainting, and that totaled much more than what I got for the pictures (which, by the way, turned out really quite well). How much better it was when flash bulbs became available.
Ensconced in my studio in 1930, one of my first commissions was to photograph the British novelist Phyllis Bottome. Miss Bottome showed me some soupy portraits by English photographers, remarking, “I really don’t want anything like these, you know.” I assured her my pictures would be sharp and direct, nothing fuzzy.
I positioned her, using two metal light-box reflectors with brushed aluminum interior panels; each held a regular tungsten lamp on a separate circuit to illuminate her face. Flash bulbs were inserted; the shutter was set at one-tenth second and synchronized with the flash. The bulbs at that early state of the art were not dipped in the now-obligatory plastic safety coating and often they would explode and scatter pieces of glass and filament far and wide.
I made one exposure and realized I had a problem with my sitter—the dear lady was like a flaccid, graven image. As I made the next exposure, one of the flash bulbs exploded, scattering little pieces of glass in her white hair and giving her a considerable scare. After cleaning up, I continued; the subject had now assumed a certain dignity and poise, with a definite aspect of expectancy. While I do not recommend such fear tactics, the resulting portraits were very fine.
I found that, in addition to new techniques, there were business skills to learn to be able to succeed as a professional photographer. An old friend and Sierra Clubber, Dr. Walter Alvarez, gave me good advice that has been very helpful, especially during those years of commercial work: “When anything goes amiss, establish a clinical attitude and remain as objective as possible.” To this day, when under stress I find myself rather dispassionately observing people and their reactions as well as my own.
Albert Bender gave me important financial advice. He also recommended me as a professional photographer to many of his friends. He taught me from the beginning that everything should be clearly expressed in writing between the client and myself; it is easy to overlook some apparently inconsequential detail only to find it can become a major point of dispute when work is in progress or the statement presented. I also learned to insist on what I believe my work is worth, not more or less. I am convinced that favorable progression in the profession depends upon three chief factors: basic capabilities, an attitude of inventiveness, and cooperation.
The professional photographer takes assignments from “without,” injects what imagination he can apply, and does the best he can with the problems presented. The creative photographer, on the other hand, takes assignments from “within” and, if truly dedicated, may find that the client is tough and uncompromising! The conflict of the assignments from “without” versus those from “within” often perplexes the serious photographer.
It is also important to recognize the difference between the found situation and the contrived subjects in the studio. I am not denying that many professional studio photographs are quite beautiful, and entirely justified if they fulfill their function, but we should realize that the aesthetic qualities they possess are inherent in the organized compositions that the camera may elegantly record. The professional can build with light and color, shapes and textures, visualizing the final image as does the photographer working in natural light in the field.
I learned a lot from Anton Bruehl. He was a superb craftsman and a pioneering artist in the production of the finest professional color work of the 1930s found in Vanity Fair and other publications. During a New York trip at that time, Bruehl invited me to visit his studio; it was quite an experience. He was using a one-shot, three-color camera that produced, through a system of mirrors and filters, three black and white negatives; each made with a red, green, or blue filter; each exposed at the same instant through one lens. These separation negatives were transferred to screened engraving plates and the three colors printed in sequence, usually with an added black plate (made from the red negative) to reinforce the depth of color and tonal solidity of the printed image.
Bruehl used several large diffusing reflectors, each containing one or m
ore modeling lights and sockets for up to about fifteen large flash bulbs. Four of these were fired from the shutter contact; the others were fired by induction.
The assignment I observed was that of a young woman in a striking bouffant dress of gorgeous but subtle color. She was gracefully holding a white and gold china teacup; a well-known tea company was the client. This was the first professional model I had seen in action, and I was impressed with her patience and Bruehl’s masterful direction. When his technical crew had everything ready for the picture, Bruehl became alert, the model came to life and lifted the teacup with her appealing eyes fixed on the camera lens. The bulbs fired with a swap! sound, and a wave of heat flared over all. Immediately a pair of youths rushed to the set with ladders and shoulder bags full of fresh bulbs. They removed the fired ones and replaced them, with astonishing dexterity. Bruehl did not stint on supplies, equipment, nor staff. I recall he made at least six exposures of this subject. He had devoted more than three days to the construction of the set and the making of black and white test photographs. Bruehl was a perfectionist.
Even with great effort on my part, my studio experiences were not always as smooth as Bruehl’s appeared to be. As I began in business I was not offered any jobs photographing lovely ladies, but more mundane subject matter. In 1940, to drum up business I ran advertisements such as this one in U.S. Camera:
ANSEL ADAMS
Photographs for publicity, advertising, and editorial use.
Available for private instruction.
Best’s Studio, Yosemite National Park, California
I accepted one assignment that was so phony it was funny. A large dried-fruit company desired a compelling photograph of raisin bread. I prepared for the experience by clearing a space, getting out the lights and putting on a stern, professional appearance. The client’s delegation arrived: an account executive of the advertising company, a head of the advertising department of the fruit company, a home economist, an art director of the agency, and a man carrying a large box of bread.