by Ansel Adams
This can be confirmed by looking at photographs in a lighted gallery through a black mailing tube, standing at a distance where the print area alone is observed and not the wall. The print is looked at through the tube for about ten seconds, then the tube is suddenly removed. The print will quickly drop in value, before the pupil of the eye is able to react.
For many years I have been annoyed by the constant and monotonous use of white or near-white walls in museum displays of photography. I have had several exhibits where the wall color was close to ideal for my prints: a chocolate brown at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, and a deep khaki-brown at the Academy of Sciences in San Francisco were two of the best. I chose a forest green for the color surrounding Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico on the cover of Examples: The Making of 40 Photographs. I find it very successful.
Continuously projecting concepts and methods into the future, the advent of the SX-70 camera and process in 1972 opened further worlds of visual exploration and communication. While it was truly a quality instant process for the millions, creative photographers also responded to this brilliant new system. The simplicity of operation and the handsome color print obtained encouraged new and experimental work. Among millions the brand name “Polaroid” is now a household word.
Land continued his commitment to the serious photographer with his creation of special film holders and an appropriate processing unit that produces 8×10-inch instant color prints of extraordinary quality and impact. The 20×24-inch camera followed, and he has also constructed a camera, actually an entire room in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, with which 72×40-inch prints can be made of paintings and tapestries at a scale of approximately one-to-one. These photographs are extremely accurate in color and detail and compare rewardingly to the originals. The implications are obvious; faithful replicas of important paintings, and so forth, can be displayed in appropriate locations anywhere in the world, not as mediocre copies but as precise simulations, closely conveying the magic of the originals. Conventionally enlarged color prints do not possess the accuracy and conviction of these large contact-quality images.
In 1979 the National Portrait Gallery requested that I make the official portraits of President Carter and Vice President Mondale, the first by a photographer (to the dismay of many portrait painters). I had not done professional portrait work for years, and I agonized over the potential hazards of the assignment. From other photographs I had seen of Carter I was aware he might be a difficult subject. His smile was infectious but photographed like a lighthouse; on the other hand, I could not visualize him in facial repose. I also imagined taking his priceless time, with all the complex arrangements involved, and then having a streak of bad luck with equipment, circumstance, and imagination. To fail would be more than embarrassing.
I considered the problem for a few days and then had a fortunate glimmer of a solution. I telephoned my good friend John McCann at Polaroid and inquired if they would be interested in cooperating with me in this complicated job. If so, I would at least have immediate feedback in terms of acceptable likeness on sheets of Polacolor material. They enthusiastically agreed; the 20×24-inch camera would be at my disposal with all the lighting equipment required and a staff of four to assist! Fortified with those happy answers and knowing I would have my own very capable assistant John Sexton with me, I accepted the assignment.
The White House is a beautiful expression of traditional American interior design. I observed that when you are in the White House you become part of the decor. I could not conceive of drawing up a chair or even sitting in many of them. I studied most of the White House spaces and considered several possible sites for the presidential portrait, finally selecting a spot by the marble fireplace in the private dining room. A dark-green Early American wallpaper with primitive scenes in unobtrusive design was appropriate to the close-up portrait that was desired.
The sitting was thoroughly rehearsed; one of the assistants who was physically about the same as the President was the stand-in. It was wonderful to have unlimited opportunity to check everything: lighting balance, focus, and composition. John Sexton made a careful notation of equipment position and then, as a luncheon was scheduled, the Polaroid people packed up and removed everything. We resumed refined testing in the afternoon. We then had to pack up and remove all the equipment from the White House as the next trials were to be in the Vice President’s residence. I was to photograph the President the afternoon of the following day and was advised I had one hour, at most, for the job; and the day after I was to photograph the Vice President with an even shorter allotment of time.
The Vice President’s residence was a far more attractive subject; thanks to Joan Mondale’s taste, smooth light-valued walls supported a fine collection of contemporary art. My only problem was that, because of the rather small space, I had trouble with the shadows cast on the walls from the several lights. I finally determined an ideal location: the Vice President would stand on the stair landing with the stairwell receding in simple planes of value, accented by the corner of a vivid, crimson painting.
The next afternoon we were back at the White House, set up and ready to go. The President entered the room and fitted into the scenario perfectly. He was cordial and cooperative and quickly grasped my objectives. I made the first trial exposure. All appeared as hoped for, but I had one problem: the President was so interested in the process that he would leave his position by the marble fireplace and come to the camera to observe the processing operations. The sandwiched negative and color print are laid on the floor until the seventy-second development time is complete. The negative is then peeled from the print, which in a minute or so acquires the set color, though it continues to improve subtly over the next few hours. It is quite an exciting experience to see this take place before one’s eyes. The President had to be coaxed back to his critical position against the wallpaper on numerous occasions. In precise placement, his head related beautifully to the background detail; two inches to the right or left created confusion. The camera is not one with which I could follow the subject. At one point I was not succeeding verbally in correctly replacing the President, so I walked up to him and gently pressed his shoulders into a more agreeable angle to the camera. Suddenly, a firm, stem hand rested on my shoulder; I did not realize that it is taboo to touch the President, and the Secret Service man was very alert. While unsettling at the moment, it was cause for genial laughter from all, including the President.
President Carter’s dignified and friendly face was handsomely recorded. Four good photographs were made; the Portrait Gallery got the best, President Carter received one, Polaroid chose one, and I have mine as a prized possession and evidence of an exciting and successful assignment. The 20×24 images are one of a kind.
My favorite photograph from the sitting was not the presidential portrait but the one I made with my 4×5-inch camera of President and Mrs. Carter standing in the doorway of the East Room, holding hands and smiling into my lens.
The same general procedure was followed for the Vice President’s portrait. He was most cordial and patient; I could not have asked for better cooperation. We had a little difficulty adjusting the 30-inch lens, and the Vice President utilized the delay by working on papers on the dining room table. His limousine was waiting for him, but he evidenced no haste or concern. I developed great respect and a sense of friendship with the Mondales. Joan is outstanding in her gracious human qualities and her dedication to contemporary American arts. She is called “Joan of Art” for her enthusiastic backing of government support for the arts.
I give a good share of the credit for the success of this project to Edwin Land and Polaroid. Land’s extremely active mind encompasses the worlds of science, art, and human values. A mutual friend once said to me, “Land is not only one of the great minds of the age but he has also one of the great hearts.” His prime concern rests in people and everything he has accomplished relates to ideals of civilized man. He truly believes that everyone p
ossesses creative potentials and that in only a few rare instances of genius has this potential been partially revealed.
Few corporations have ever been run as Land ran his Polaroid Corporation. The reality of great success forced a huge increase in manufacturing capability and thus a much larger, internationally based company. Business could no longer be conducted quite the way he liked. He preferred a simpler and more creative pattern of research and production, and retired from Polaroid to create new laboratories dedicated to optical research.
Din has been closely associated with the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, serving as its president from 1951 to 1954 and supporting the building of the beautiful new headquarters in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His philosophy and humanity are revealed in the statement he made on April 2, 1979, on the occasion of the opening of the new home of the academy:
Each stage of human civilization is defined by our mental structures: the concepts we create and then project upon the universe. They not only redescribe the universe but also in so doing modify it, both for our own time and for subsequent generations. This process—the revision of old cortical structures and the formulation of new cortical structures whereby the universe is defined—is carried on in science and art by the most creative and talented minds in each generation. For individuals to contribute to this constantly evolving projection of mental structures upon the universe, it is necessary for them to concentrate on one area of knowledge or experience, and thus they limit themselves by excluding many other areas. This Academy’s function is to associate many specialized lines of concentration by gathering the individuals in whom they are embodied. Thus, while each person is narrowed by his own specialization, the group as a whole is enriched.
The transfer of concepts as models from one field to another requires intimacy, informality and friendliness because the transfer usually is not a conscious process. Models for physics may come from music, for chemistry from physics, for art from cosmology.… The great historic periods of spectacular human advance, within time spans of relatively few generations, may have been periods in which society made possible the concentrated interplay of the separate contributions of creative individuals. There is no way in which we can tell whether we are entering such a period of history, but whether or not we are, the role of the Academy seems clear.
20.
Teaching
RECENTLY, A YOUNG PHOTOGRAPHER BROUGHT HIS portfolio to me and asked for my comments. It was immediately apparent that he was attempting serious work. A few of his images were quite fine; all were refreshing because he was trying to establish a personal vision, to “see.” Unfortunately, his craft varied in quality, and he often used two octaves of tonal value for six octaves of potential expression.
How could I communicate my thoughts to this young man without in any way dulling the bright edge of his enthusiasm? I refused to give insincere approval or captious disapproval. I attempted a rational discussion with the photographer on the problems and dedication involved, because I feel obligated to be frank. A critique is an evaluation of shades and levels of capability. What if Alfred Stieglitz in 1933 had dismissed my work with a shrug? It is easy to say that if I believed in myself I would not be swayed by the opinion of others. But the right word at the right time can have immense significance, and thus I explained to the young artist the excitement I felt in his attempt as well as the challenges ahead for him.
I gratefully remember the many helpful comments I received from various sources. Perhaps few were immediately applied, but continuing input from without surely helped progress within. John Marin was someone who took the time to pass on his thoughts to me. He had been generous with comments on art and on my photography since our meeting at Mabel Dodge Luhan’s many years before. His watercolors, deceptively simple and broad in color, are disciplined works that clearly display brushstroke efficiency and space-controlled energy. One morning in Taos I watched him paint his Taos Peaks watercolor: with his paint-tipped thumb he delineated the peaks with three sharp, swift gestures! It was an extraordinary example of intuition and complete command of the hand, mind, paint, and paper surface.
Marin would spend days wandering around the Taos country, sometimes painting but mostly looking about, watching cloud formations and, “Just sitting on a rock waiting for something to happen.” He stored impressions in his mind, and when the creative pressures asserted themselves, he would work almost feverishly for hours, completing one watercolor after another with enormous energy and concentration. Then, after the production cycle was over, he would return to a passive, soaking-up period. Marin would make statements such as, “I am always exploring something—a rock, a tree, a face, or a cloud—the more I look, the more I see,” and, “Keep the camera-eye going; it can’t hurt you!”
Marin followed the great tradition of “pass it on”: a tradition of sharing knowledge in which I had been raised. My father considered a profession an obligation to be practiced well and passed on to others through teaching and example. He taught that selfishness was a prime sin, and I suppose the sharing desire comes in part from his attitude. As a child, as soon as I understood anything I wanted to share it. Having found a moment of illumination and clarity, I had the urge to repeat the event for myself and bring others to the experience.
My piano teachers never demonstrated for me any music that I was studying. The Socratic method was applied, which ensured maximum individuality in each piano student. My teachers were severe in their technical standards and unforgiving of lazy and sloppy work. If I did not know my notes, I was sent home. If I persisted in errors, they would seldom be corrected by example but by comment, usually conscience-stirring. They stressed personal interpretation and listening to as much music as possible to clarify personal direction. Convinced of the results I enjoyed with the type of music teaching I was exposed to, I was determined to apply those teaching methods to photography.
Perhaps my negative experiences in school encouraged my own urge to teach, but to teach in a completely different way. While I taught music, I was concerned with passing on the inspiring instruction I had experienced from my own teachers. I never gained sufficient facility or experience in my own music to go much beyond the beginning stages of teaching piano. Probably because of my greater passion for photography, I was a far more effective teacher of that medium from the start.
Except for occasional workshops, my first photographic teaching experience was in 1940 at the Art Center School in Los Angeles. I agreed to teach there because I felt it had much to offer; the industrial design division remains without peer to this time. Their photography department, however, was limited, and I saw teaching there as an opportunity to improve photography in the functional as well as creative areas.
The director of the Art Center, Edward “Tink” Adams (no relation), had, by sheer willpower and aggressiveness, raised the school to the top level in its fields: commercial art, design, and advertising. Whenever Tink was mad, he had the habit of breaking pencils. On one occasion he broke several during a ten-minute discussion I had with him on the aesthetic-spiritual potentials of photography.
At the Art Center School, I quickly found I had little to teach but the way I did it. This was in opposition to my concept of instruction in music. The students copied everything I did (even the food I ordered for lunch) simply because I gave them no sensible alternative. That had to change.
With the cooperation of Fred Archer, instructor in photographic portraiture, I set out to plan a way by which the students would first learn their “scales and chords” to achieve technical command of the medium. It took several weeks in refinement before I could teach it to students. I called my codification of practical sensitometry the Zone System. In Examples: The Making of 40 Photographs I defined it as:
ZONE SYSTEM. A framework for understanding exposure and development, and visualizing their effect in advance. Areas of different luminance in the subject are each related to exposure zones and these in turn to approximate values of g
ray in the final print. Thus careful exposure and development procedures permit the photographer to control the negative densities and corresponding print values that will represent specific subject areas, in accordance with the visualized final image.
The Zone System worked well, and the students progressed rapidly in their craft. What pleased me most was that they discovered their latent individuality; once they could visualize their images and apply their well-practiced craft, they were able to express themselves with conviction and enthusiasm. Craft facility liberates expression, and I am constantly amazed how many artists think the opposite to be true.
In photography it is vitally important to assume that the student wants to express something, vague as his ideas may be. It is the teacher’s responsibility to discover what this expression may be. Many had personally important things to say, but only a few special teachers could help them. The teacher must guide the student carefully, asking if his image says what he wanted to say and what he tried to visualize as the completed print before the exposure was made. It must be the student’s image, not one imposed upon him.
Edward Kaminski, a close friend and teacher at the Art Center School, was a remarkable and inspiring teacher with an enormous fecundity of ideas. Ed would take a group of beginning art students to the beach. From a well-worn sack he would extract a variety of objects—a faucet, a piece of broken glass, a sponge, a door knob, a tangle of wire—and would scatter them among rocks and seaweed, saying, “Now look; find things that seem to go together; think of the possible pictures.” At first floundering, the students would gradually recognize relationships of shape, form, and values and would become really excited and enthusiastic. Ed also encouraged the students to peer through rectangular cut-out framing cards for ideas of optimum composition. This frame is a teaching tool I still use.