by Ansel Adams
Edward responded in a letter dated January 28, 1932:
Your article I appreciated fully, it was an intelligent consideration, by far more so than most I get because it was a subject close to your own heart.
No painter or sculptor can be wholly abstract. We cannot imagine forms not already existing in nature—we know nothing else. Take the extreme abstractions of Brancusi: they are all based upon natural forms. I have often been accused of imitating his work—and I most assuredly admire, and may have been inspired by it—which really means I have the same kind of (inner) eye, otherwise Rodin or Paul Manship might have influenced me! Actually, I have proved, through photography, that Nature has all the “abstract” (simplified) forms Brancusi or any other artist can imagine. With my camera I go direct to Brancusi’s source. I find ready to use, select and isolate, what he has to “create.”
In 1929, Edward moved to the artists’ colony of Carmel, where he opened a small portrait studio. He traveled on occasion to San Francisco and Los Angeles for portrait assignments and to keep in touch with friends and fellow photographers. In 1932 Edward and I joined in the Group f/64 effort and became devoted friends. We had both come to be sympathetic to each other’s work, though we were never on an identical wavelength.
Edward distrusted science and technology. I would ask him, “Edward, how can you deprecate science in general and technology in particular; you use lenses (they certainly do not grow on trees) and photographic film and paper products of scientific research and high technology. You have electric lights and power, running water and a telephone. Please explain.”
The question would never be answered, but responded to by, “Don’t you see how much death and destruction through war and pollution science has brought us?”
In 1942 Edward had an exhibition at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. He could not drive a car, so Virginia and I went to Carmel and drove him to Santa Barbara for the opening. It was a happy affair, with some of Edward’s best work displayed to a half-adoring, half-perplexed audience.
On the drive home, we passed a large field, on whose distant edge was an interesting assemblage of weather-beaten planks and posts. I saw it out of the corner of my eye and continued driving. In a few minutes an image of what I had seen disturbed me; I had a growing sense of the importance of a potential photograph.
I said to Edward, “I saw something back there that bugs me. Do you mind if I turn back?”
“Not at all,” he replied, “I think I saw the same thing.”
We retraced more than a mile, parked the car, and carried our cameras across the wide field. The object turned out to be a pigsty with one embarrassed pig. We both made pictures; mine, Boards, Farm near Santa Barbara, is shown here for the first time. I never saw Edward’s results.
This was one of the not too frequent occasions where a transient image makes an impression on the mind, though the photographer is not aware of it at the time. It seems to digest; the subconscious mind develops the impression into a quasi-visualization, then the conscience moves in and, with insistent pressure, makes the photographer feel quite troubled unless he returns to the source. On every occasion that this has happened to me, the subject was worthy of renewed attention. When I have not returned I am gently haunted with a sense of loss.
I was always a bit astonished (and perhaps a little envious) at Edward’s achievements with the female of the species. The residue of New England mores in my genes inhibited my approval of his leaving home and family and resolutely entering a new world. I knew his first wife, Flora, but slightly. She seemed cheerful and wholesome. I am sure she had no easy time of it, although I felt she accepted life as it turned out to be. Regardless of Edward’s deviations from conventionality, there seemed to be an aura of affection and understanding among the entire family. Edward equated gentle license with creativity; he could not imagine art without sex. Others I have known who exhibited intense activity “with the skirts” (as Francis Holman would say) left trails of wrath, disillusionment, and remorse, usually with psychopathic overtones. Not Edward. He blithely moved from one affair to another, leaving behind compassionate Minervas rather than furious harpies. His sons emulated him to a degree—with the exception of Neil, who has had a long and happy marriage—and ventured to the altar several times, carrying on with macho enthusiasm.
Edward’s second marriage was a remarkable success. Charis Wilson is a gifted and beautiful person with great charm and intellect. For years, both before and during their marriage, it was a most sympathetic and rewarding association. Charis was his wife, model, editor, coworker, and best friend. When Edward received his Guggenheim Fellowships, the first ever awarded to a photographer, in 1937 and 1938, he and Charis traveled and photographed. Their book from these years, with his photographs and her text, is the classic California and the West.
During the winter of 1936, Edward and Charis came to Yosemite for the first time. It was a wonderfully snowy winter and the day after they arrived we had a fine snowstorm. I took great pleasure in driving Edward about the valley. I had some concern that he would not react photographically to Yosemite. He feared beautiful “postcard scenery”—but if the world before him contained shapes and qualities that he could realize as an image, he would respond, be it mountains, relics of barns, rocks, surf, seaweed, or people. I dedicated myself to being his guide and chauffeur, though I still wistfully think of the opportunities I missed by not having my camera with me. When I saw his results, I felt the sacrifice was worthwhile.
There were to be hundreds of spectacular Yosemite snowstorms for me in the years to come, though time and circumstance made me treat each great weather event as the one-of-a-kind situation it was. I had visualized for many years an image of Yosemite Valley from Inspiration Point and exposed many sheets of film in an effort to achieve that visualization. Finally, in 1944, a sudden heavy rainstorm hit, which at midday changed to wet snow. I drove to my chosen site and quickly set up my 8x10 camera to capture the marvelous vista spread before me. The clouds were moving rapidly and I waited until the valley was revealed under a mixture of snow and clouds with a silver light gilding Bridal Veil Fall, realizing the photograph Clearing Winter Storm. While nature had not provided a drama this remarkable during Edward’s winter visit, he made many effective photographs in and about the valley and seemed content.
Edward and Charis had been living in a rented apartment in Carmel. In 1937 his son Neil built them a simple house and studio on Wildcat Hill in the Carmel Highlands. Edward loved nearby Point Lobos; it was a very fertile source for his work and is still considered a mecca for photographers from all over the world.
Charis and Edward had no children; they had cats. Over the years these cats multiplied until Edward’s sons would say, “They infest the place!” Each cat was a named and cherished individual. Unfortunately, most of them were half-wild and sick. This was a strange dedication, a mad family of creatures that Virginia and I could not understand.
I invited Edward and Charis to join me in the summer of 1937 on a short excursion to the spectacular Minaret country southeast of Yosemite. This was to be their first trip into the High Sierra. I received a letter in May of that year from Edward shortly after I proposed our trip. We corresponded throughout the years, and many of the letters were similar to this one, with a request for technical advice.
Dear Ansel—
No word as to your proposed Sierra trip. Is it off, or still too early?
I have made the last desert expedition of the year, or season. Getting too warm. We went across the Colorado Desert taking the old stage route from near Julian to near Coyote Wells. A very exciting adventure too long to be written. Will tell you. Got a beautiful negative of a fresh corpse. Part of the tale.
One reason I write you at this time is for opinions and information on lenses. I’m sure you have 10 times my knowledge at your fingertips.
My Turner-Reich, 12-21-28, which I bought because it was a good bargain, has proved quite satisfactory under most con
ditions. I had the diaphragm fixed so that it stops down 3 extra notches after the f/64 it came with. The single elements have all the definition I demand when used with the smallest apertures except when I use the 21 inch with bellows completely extended. I can’t work close, of course, with 28 inch. 90% of my present work is done with 21 inch. I could swear that I focus carefully, but when I develop find that I’m off. This only happens when I get beyond f/64 or so. I tried a newspaper in brilliant sun to see if focus changed, and I tried light bulbs placed so I would have to use swings, but discovered nothing. I must admit my eyes are not what they were but I can’t believe I’m so far off.
All this has led me to believe that I would like a doublet of not less than 19 in. nor more than 22 in; 20 or 21 would be perfect. I would want up to date color correction. I would prefer a slow lens because I don’t want to pay too much and because it would be lighter, less bulky.
But what do you say? Have you any ideas knowing my needs?… Thanks!
Afectuosamente (and to V—)
Edward—
I replied on June 3:
Dear Edward,
It was swell to hear from you—and I look forward to the picture of the corpse. My only regret is that the identity of said corpse is not our Laguna Beach colleague [William Mortensen]. I am convinced there are several stages of decay.
By no means is the Sierra trip off. Only—what with mosquitoes and high water—the season is not just right for a high country trip.
As for the lens trouble you write about.… Any good modern lens is corrected for maximum definition at the larger stops. Using a small stop only increases depth; beyond a certain point definition is actually impaired.
I think what you want for your best solution to the problem is a Zeiss Protar No. 6, 19 in.… This lens is quite light in weight. You could always add the second element to it (or have a set of elements to use singly or in combination). The Protar gives the most beautiful “breathing” image of all lenses—you cannot enlarge as many times as you can with the Dagor, but for contact work and moderate enlargement it cannot be excelled. I would like to show you some of the stuff I have made with my 5½-inch Protar.
I am feeling much better. We look forward to seeing you very soon. Let me know what I can do for you—if anything. I hope you are getting some swell stuff.
We waited for late July and less annoyance from mosquitoes. Edward and Charis joined me in Yosemite Valley. We then proceeded in my Oldsmobile over the Tioga Road to Tenaya Lake, then Tioga Pass and on to Mammoth, Minaret Summit, and Agnew Meadows in the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River. I had made plans in advance for a packer to get our equipment and supplies to Lake Ediza, leave us there for several days, then pick us up for the return trip to Agnew Meadows.
Edward had never been in such a surround of mountain magnificence, and at first he seemed quite unsettled. He soon began to see pictures and make exposures, exploring a good part of the region with obvious enthusiasm. He made many 8x10 negatives and exhausted the forty-eight sheets of film (in twenty-four loaded film holders) that he had carried with him—and the trip was only half over.
Then came the problem of reloading film. There were no conveniences such as a motel bathroom that could be made into a darkroom at night. We were in true mountain wilderness with sleeping bags, one small tent, and a very bright moon. I had some 8×10-inch sheet film and a changing bag with me.
I said, “Edward, it will be okay. You can use my film and bag.”
With a very serious expression Edward said, “I don’t know how to use a changing bag.”
It takes a little practice to unload and reload sheet films successfully in a changing bag, keeping the film, film boxes, separating sheets, holders, and slides in working positions, while not scratching or touching the emulsion side of the films with inevitably sweaty fingers. If Edward had never used a bag, this was not the first time to try it. I gallantly assured him, “I will change the films for you.”
He showed a combination of relief, gratitude, and concern. These were his films and would I handle them carefully enough? I understood his position; I would not appreciate others loading my film, but there was nothing else to do. After changing films scores of times in the wilds, I felt I had sufficient experience.
We set up the little tent and Charis promised to keep the mosquitoes off my neck while my hands were trapped in the bag by the elastic sleeves. Our resident mosquitoes were augmented with additional hordes as dusk approached. When darkness was sufficient, Edward crept into the tent to join us and perched on a folded jacket. He handed me six holders at a time; when one set was done we unzipped the bag and exchanged for a fresh set of holders. My bag was designed for 4x5 holders; 8x10 holders were difficult to manipulate, but I did manage; all the while Edward, fearful of light leaks, draped a dark sweater over the bag, and Charis, behind me, swatted and swished heroically with a bandanna while the murderous mosquitoes, undaunted, devoured us.
About two hours later we finished the entire job. Edward expressed his undying gratitude, which I accepted as justified. While it was a fearfully uncomfortable undertaking, it made possible the exposure of forty-eight more Weston negatives.
I have a favorite photograph from this trip that I made of Edward photographing Charis, who was swaddled with layered oddments of clothing and her head turbaned with an old sweater as a desperate barrier against those mosquitoes. I had promised her that if we went high enough there wouldn’t be any of those savage mosquitoes. We unfortunately proved that they thrive on the blood of photographers even at the ten-thousand-foot level.
In a few days, tired, dirty, and happy, we were back in Yosemite Valley, enjoying a fine dinner Virginia had prepared for us. Suddenly a salesgirl from Best’s Studio pounded on the window, yelling, “The darkroom’s on fire!” The fire had proceeded rapidly, destroying many of my negatives before it was put out. Edward and Charis more than amply repaid my work in the changing bag with their own hard work as we fought, with partial success, to save, rewash, and dry my negatives. I estimate I lost about one-third of my life’s work that night.
As I brought Edward to the Sierra, he introduced me to Death Valley. Since photographing there in 1937 with Willard Van Dyke, Edward produced a major revelation of the area through his creative eye. Photographs by other photographers gave an impression of dull and depressing vistas. When I first traveled to Death Valley in 1941, my vision was encouraged by Weston’s photographs, and successive excursions convinced me of the area’s grandeur and beauty; its vast desert wildness is unmatched in North America. The Mineral Rights Act of 1872 intrudes on many dreams of preservation and protection by allowing for unacceptable mining exploitation of this and other fragile areas throughout the country.
Death Valley is very difficult to photograph: a few obvious opportunities and a vast number of recalcitrant situations that try the photographer’s patience and craft. Contrary to the universally accepted opinion that Death Valley is good for pictures only in early morning or late afternoon, Weston demonstrated that fine images could be made at high noon. While he reveled in brilliant values of light and shadow, he also perceived the aesthetic possibilities in the play of subtle values in flat light. For many photographers he achieved the impossible.
Nancy Newhall and I collaborated on the book Death Valley in 1954. In our advice to photographers we wrote:
The journey down to Badwater or up to Dante’s View, or the tramp across the dunes themselves is worth getting up in the black of night to know. The deep glitter of night pales, slowly the mountains rise, the salt flats glimmer. In transparent shadow you set up cameras and wait for a Dantean vision of sunrise.
I remember many sunrises in Death Valley, especially one near Stovepipe Wells in 1948. After sleeping on the camera platform atop my car, I woke before dawn, made some coffee and stoked my stomach with beans reheated from last night’s supper. I then perched my camera and tripod across my shoulders and plodded heavily through the shifting sand dunes, attempting to
find just the right light upon just the right dune. The sun floated above the margins of the Funeral Range, promising a very hot day. Just then, almost magically, I saw an image become substance: the light of sunrise traced a perfect line down a dune that alternately glowed with the light and receded in shadow. The result is Sand Dunes, Sunrise, Death Valley National Monument.
I frequently visited Edward and Charis; when I was near Carmel I would stop for a day or two, bunking on the couch or floor. Edward’s home was his studio, and he continued to earn his small living from occasional sales of his photographs and infrequent portrait assignments. I was present for a number of Edward’s private showings of his photographs, something of a ritual. Friends assembled, the print easel was set up, and the viewing light adjusted. When all were seated, Edward would wipe his glasses, take a print from the top of the set he intended to show, place it reverently on the easel, step back, and we would all look at it for a minute or more. Print after print would follow until the set had been displayed. Throughout this performance there was usually complete silence; an occasional appreciative grunt would be heard, but the general attention was rapt and still. When the viewing was over, conversation would break out. All sensed that something magical had occurred, an event they would not forget.
Edward had great faith in the potentials of creative people and he would enter into the exchange of ideas with a positive gusto. However, he was quick to recognize the lack of creativity in any person and had little patience with them. The person so identified received no mistreatment in any way, only total neglect. When such persons came unannounced to Edward’s home, he would greet them at the door and simply stand quietly before them, initiating no conversation and answering questions with minimal words. They would soon catch on and depart.