by Ansel Adams
In 1945 I received a short postcard from Edward.
Dear Ansel,
Charis and I are no longer one.
Edward
I dashed off a note of concern that was soon followed by another postcard from Edward dated November 17th:
Dear Ansel,
Thanks for writing. And I will be here for at least a while. You will never see Charis and Edward together on Wildcat Hill. Divorce.
—E—
And I quickly responded:
Dear Edward,
Am hearing some Wagner on the radio; tremendous shapes and tone. Can’t help thinking of you at this time. Appreciate your letter; don’t expect you to write. Just want you to know that I am here on earth and sympathetic.
I am saying this in all sincerity—not just because I want to speak platitudes. I just thought about some people I know who string platitudes in a glittering chain on the harlot bosom of convention. People who can “feel sorry,” or who (with internal moral effort) are “sympathetic.” Frankly, I don’t feel sorry for you or Charis at all in the deepest sense. I have complete faith that you both would take the appropriate action for the particular circumstance, and who could feel really sorry for that? I do regret the surface effects—Carmel, the sea, rocks, the little house with the big mood. But I know that there will be other and more wonderful things and moods—that’s why I don’t feel basically too bad.
I believe you to be one of the greatest artists of our time—certainly the top man in photography. I mean that in every way. I am proud to know you, to know you are my friend. I am doing what I can in photography; I am doing some real good in my way. But you, in the production of your photographs, your statement of the real, vital world, do a hundred times as much as I can ever do. You have been going through a relatively thin phase; I have the feeling now that a new world is opening up for you; a new vision. Hope you understand my temerity to talk about you to you this way. Please get in physical good shape without delay. The sun is shining on all sorts of wonderful things. I wish I could go with you out into the world just as we went to Tenaya. Wonderful for me. See, I’m selfish after all! Luck to you, and a real glory.
As ever,
Ansel
On December 1st, Edward wrote:
Dear Ansel,
I have read your letter over and over. It moved me deeply. Men should retain the right to weep when occasion demands.
I will not protest your appraisal of me, my work; I want to believe everything you say!—even though I don’t think there is ever a “greatest.”
You are right, neither Charis nor I want or need sympathy. We remain to each other best friends.
A good Mex. Abrazo—
Edward
In 1949 My Camera in Yosemite Valley was published and it was a great success. The letterpress plates by the Walter Mann Company were superb, the printing excellent, and the reviews rewarding. Houghton Mifflin Company, the long-established Boston publishing firm, joined as co-publisher with Virginia, who actually financed the book, using the bit of money she had left from her inheritance. Houghton Mifflin was the national distributor. Virginia received ten thousand dollars therefrom, which almost paid for the production of the book, and she retained direct sales rights. All concerned did quite well with this production.
I had felt that Edward had not been treated fairly by those who had promoted and published his work in the past. I believed his most recent book, Fifty Photographs, published in 1947, was pretentious, presenting Edward’s prints with heavily inked reproductions and some rhetorically florid texts. Merle Armitage, the Los Angeles cultural entrepreneur, had designed and produced it; he never forgave me for my criticisms, public and private. In all fairness, this book did bring Edward’s work to an important audience. However, Edward told me he never received a penny for this project.
By this same time, Edward’s health had begun a long, slow disintegration. It finally became apparent that he suffered from Parkinson’s disease, a tragic life-conclusion. Parkinson’s made him very unsteady; his last negatives were made in 1948. Virginia and I were deeply impressed by his great body of Point Lobos work. I suggested to the director of the California State Parks that he consider some arrangement with Edward on the production of a well-designed booklet on Point Lobos. He turned the idea down with scorn. “All his photographs are of rocks and dead trees.” I had overestimated this man’s taste, but I can agree that Edward’s photographs were not of conventional guidebook character.
The success of My Camera in Yosemite Valley prompted Virginia and me to suggest cooperation with Edward on a book to be titled My Camera on Point Lobos. Edward appreciated the idea, which he approached with caution, not certain of the subject domination such a book might imply. I argued it was essential that the content be his Point Lobos work: a few of his great landscapes as well as the classic details of tree and stone for which he was garnering worldwide acclaim. Dody Warren, his capable assistant who wrote the accompanying text for the book and became Brett’s wife for a time, was very protective of Edward, but we all finally agreed on a balanced content that in no way compromised his creative directions. There are about six images that may be considered land- and seascapes; nineteen represent details of shapes and textures; all in all, a remarkable presentation of the magical quality of Point Lobos by the master photographer.
Edward selected a few excerpts from his old daybooks to end the book.
5-14-30: Point Lobos yesterday.
How many times the last year or so have I written this line! I never tire of that wonder spot, nor could I ever forget it, no matter where I go from here.
It was a perfect day of brilliant sun, and the laziest sea I have yet seen in the North. I decided to work with cypress for the first time in months: the sun on their weather-polished trunks reveals every tiny line, etched black on a surface glistening as ivory.
Harder to isolate details of a cypress than to work with rocks. And I have done so many that to find new forms was not easy. I worked with but two trees all day: but these two were so difficult, my hazard so great, that I returned home exhausted.
The second was a marvelous old root. I had found it long ago, and it was difficult to reach without a camera: but the 8x10, its weight and worse unwieldiness, made my task as dangerous—no, more dangerous than any I have faced in photography.
The tree hung over a cliff, above a sheer drop to the ocean, with only a couple of possible ledges to hold the camera. I planned carefully every step down, removed all loose rocks and branches, before making the descent. One misstep as I stood there focusing, and I never would have focused again. I was never so limited in viewpoint or so fixed in position, but from that one available spot, which did not allow me to move six inches in any direction, I found a very fine combination of roots.
I have a hard earned negative.
Mindful of Edward’s needs and remembering the scant returns he had received from previous efforts, Virginia insisted on advancing him one thousand dollars, saying, “Edward, this is all you might receive if the book is not appreciated. We want to be sure you will get something.” It was all we could afford at the time.
Our production of this book was an intensely serious effort to do justice to Edward’s photographs by achieving maximum image quality; we all worked with greatest care and devotion. I recall one especially interesting experience with Dody and Raymond Peterson, our excellent engraver. We were studying the proof of Plate #19 (Eroded Rocks, South Shore, 1948) at the engraver’s shop. This particular image was the quietest of all in the book: an expanse of smooth, gray sand, punctuated with a few emerging rock shapes in sunlight.
Dody said with honest exasperation, “Pete, this is the only one you have missed; it’s dull and flat! Look at the quiet brilliance of the original print. How come?”
Peterson said, “Dody, that’s the original you are looking at!” It was true; Peterson had etched the copper plate just enough to enhance the qualities of the original when it would appear o
n the printed page.
The chief concern with reproduction techniques lies not in duplication, but simulation of the value-effects of the original prints. Even the most advanced laser-scanning technology of the present time cannot duplicate the silver print image, but they can give magnificent simulations. In the hands of a fine printer the laser-scanner process can exquisitely enhance value separation, and I now insist upon its use whenever possible for reproductions of my black and white work.
Sad to relate, My Camera on Point Lobos was ahead of its time and was a commercial failure. As with My Camera in Yosemite Valley, Houghton Mifflin took half of the edition (the other half going to Virginia). This covered about half the costs. The direct mail sales were dismal. The book was remaindered for $2.95; today copies bring hundreds of dollars.
In 1955, Edwin and Terre Land came to San Francisco for a visit. Land, always with great interest in art and creative people, wanted very much to meet Edward, and when I told him of Edward’s precarious health Land asked, “Why not drive to Carmel tomorrow?” I telephoned and arranged for a convenient meeting time.
It was a memorable day; the Lands quickly appreciated the magic of Edward’s work and his environment. They viewed many prints and purchased quite a few. They may never know how important this acquisition was to Edward’s practical condition and how much it meant to him to have their warm presence enrich the spirit of the house on Wildcat Hill.
Before we left, Land asked if he could see where Edward kept his negatives. They were stored in a tiny structure about fifty feet from the house, raised above the ground on concrete blocks, fairly well ventilated but without humidity control and definitely not fireproof. It is foggy a good part of the summer in the Carmel Highlands, and the few hot days that occurred during the year were not enough to dry things out. Edward used simple manila envelopes for his negatives; some of these were joined with a central line of adhesive down the backs, and the dampness caused some chemical transfer therefrom to the backs of the negatives in the form of a thin, blue line. These lines were later removed with difficulty and some very valuable negatives preserved.
We found the key to the storage shed and proceeded to its door. Edward gestured and said, “There they are.” Because of the advance of Parkinson’s, he was unable to use the key. We entered the musty space and looked at the neatly ordered filing cases of negatives. Land was obviously moved by this forlorn gathering of a great man’s life work. Later he asked me about the suitable storage of these negatives and I was able to say that the Weston sons were planning to build a concrete, air-conditioned vault near the house.
As we returned to the house, Edward remained facing the shed. I realized that he could not even turn around without assistance. I helped him face the house and we proceeded slowly down the sloping path. Once back in his chair by the fireplace he thanked us for coming and bade us good-bye in a voice both forceful in effect and quavering in tone.
We entered my car and drove up the coast, each deep in thought. I could sense that Land was contemplating the experience. He asked some questions about Edward’s life history and made some meaningful comments on the solidity of his work and the touching simplicity of his studio home.
I, too, had been thinking of his simplistic life-style and his dedication. I said, “Din [Land’s name to his friends], Edward has said to me many times that I am too involved in external problems such as conservation, museums, teaching, and photography in general, and that I should make my life simpler and concentrate on my creative work. Whenever I visit him and see his work, I am led to believe he might be right.”
Land turned to me and said, “I disagree. Weston lives in a shrine; you live in the world.” I have always been thankful to Land for this remark. I admit that I have been, from time to time, on the brink of embracing escapist simplicity. However, the die was cast many decades ago and the attempt to change a basic life-pattern would have been a disaster. For Edward, such dedicated simplicity was a life-goal and it served his creativity very well.
With great affection and devotion, Edward’s sons cared for him during his last years. Brett became head nurse, for there were many times when Edward could not be left unattended. As his condition became grave, friends offered support of medical and surgical attention, but he resisted such treatment, saying, “No one is going to touch my brain!” We all knew that Margaret Bourke-White had undergone an operation for Parkinson’s without significant success. When I received news of his passing on New Year’s Day of 1958, I was saddened but frankly relieved, as were his family and wide circle of friends. Although he was debilitated and in pain, I never heard him complain. He did not deserve the final years of progressive dependence, discomfort, and depression for which little could be done.
In 1983 I saw an exhibit of Edward’s work in San Francisco. Old and new prints from the same negative, silver prints in contrast to early platinums, some prints made by Brett and some by Cole, all set on the walls along with prints made by Edward himself. There were “project prints,” proof prints, reproduction prints, original fine prints, and modern interpretations. There was no respect for the importance of printmaking by the artist, thus no decisive message, “This is Edward Weston’s creative intention.” I was dismayed and bewildered. Prints from Edward’s negatives made by Brett or by Cole are very fine and I enjoy them too. Yet Edward’s prints proclaim the artist in their own inimitable way. It is the comparative display, without even informing the audience that the negatives were performed by several individuals, that disturbed me. Hearing Bach played on the instruments of his time has a certain magic; hearing him played on the noble grand pianos of our time is an altogether different experience. I prefer the latter, but I must respect the former. I would not want to hear them both at the same concert.
In an exhibit of this type, the museum becomes the laboratory or the autopsy room; the viewer receives less of the aesthetic and personal experience and is exposed to an analytical display of erudition and evaluation. The art historian may need this kind of dissection, but not those who seek the personal and aesthetic intention of the artist. The artist who has left the world is helpless to control the vagaries of curators and historians. In the zeal to show all sides of the artist’s creativity, it is not infrequent that an exhibit is presented that is more concerned with facts, comparisons, and the curator’s fancies than the qualities of the work as a whole. In Edward’s case, the scraps of production, the reject, the prints that did not quite meet the creative intentions were gathered along with some of his most beautiful work, in a thoughtless mélange for all to see. This exhibition was unjust to a dead and defenseless great artist. Fortunately, Edward has had many sensitive and beautiful exhibitions.
Brett still lives near Carmel and our friendship continues. He calls me “Pasha” and I call him the “Silver-Halide Siegfried.” His greetings are clavicle-cracking bearhugs, delivered with enormously hearty gusto. Brett is only nine years younger than I, but he still goes on strenuous photographic trips with his friends, often to the desert country east of the Sierra, working out of his well-stocked camper-van.
Brett has lived a full life. He loves fast cars and fine women and uses the best photographic equipment. He has amazing creative energy and has published more portfolios of his work than any other photographer. His photographs have always been vivid and vigorous and, in recent years, very successful in gallery sales. Edward had the greatest admiration for Brett’s photography and chose Brett to print his own negatives when Parkinson’s made it impossible for him. After a time, Brett passed the printing on to brother Cole, because he needed all his time for his own work.
Brett believes most strongly in himself and in his creative objectives. He admires those who work in similar directions and does not pretend to be objective in his critical judgments. He lives in an intuitive world, distrusting techniques that he does not understand, preaching the “triumph of instinct.” His instincts have treated him very well indeed.
Experience enhances intui
tion, and if the intuition is strong and bravely realized, the artist is in a most favorable situation. The price of trial-and-error training is high in time and energy. In my own experience I worked on an uncertain empirical basis until I began teaching and developed the Zone System. But Stieglitz, Edward Weston, Brett Weston, and most of the photographers in history progressed most handsomely without the system. I am convinced that if such a technical approach had been available in their time, their craft problems would have been simplified. No one will ever know. As Brett states, “I am a primitive. Ansel is a scientist.” This is an overgeneralization. I am not a scientist. I consider myself an artist who employs certain techniques to free my vision.
In retrospect, Edward was a great artist, worthy of all the devotion the world of art and creative photography holds for him. He was one of my dearest friends, a man of genius and compassion. Like the music of Bach, Weston’s images well define the perceptions and sensibilities of the art and artists of his time: wonderfully organized shells or peppers, in contrast with highly personalized images of landscapes or fragments of the world about him, compelling portraits and nudes as wonderful as any ever made.
Immediately after Edward’s death, I wrote to Edwin Land:
January 5, 1958
Dear Din,
Edward Weston’s passing evokes a number of thoughts about photography. I find myself questioning a lot of directions and situations, and Weston’s death closes an era and makes these questions pointed, and sometimes disturbing.
Edward represented the artist, and there have been very few indeed in the domain of photography. His technique was about as empirical as anything could be. His equipment severely simple. He rarely photographed anything he did not find interest in; his pictures were reflections of his inner spiritual and unconscious drive. Many events conspired in his favor, and yet—without conviction and energy, and an almost monk-like existence, he could not have produced the vast body of work which places him at the apex of his art.