Ansel Adams

  Minor was the moving spirit in the founding of Aperture, a revered journal of creative photography. Since the days of Stieglitz’s Camera Work in the early years of this century, there has been a conspicuous absence of publications presenting creative photography, especially its avant-garde directions. Most photography magazines are glorified camera sales catalogs. I wrote to Dorothea Lange, an early Aperture supporter, explaining:

  March 28, 1954

  Dear Dorothea,

  Ever since the f/64 days I have preached the need for a truly creative journal of photography. I tried to incite interest in New York when I was at MoMA. I was and am quite unable to sponsor such a journal personally—both financially and in terms of time and energy. But the project was always lurking in the background and there were frequent nibbles and gusts of enthusiasm—but nothing happened.

  Minor and I saw eye to eye on the need for a journal. I encouraged him to launch it; it seemed a natural for him, immersed as he was in teaching, writing, and photographing along the lines of his own particular direction. I encouraged him to undertake the project, and I assured him I would do everything I possibly could to help. We had a meeting; I got a lawyer out to listen in just to be sure that the plan being formulated did not contain legal bugs. I offered to give a fine print to everyone sending in a $25.00 subscription; I think the total number of prints was about 60.

  Love,

  aa

  I have been often asked how we found the name Aperture. Pure luck of the draw. One day in February 1952, Minor and I were sitting in our home, talking about this future journal, when Minor said, “We have it all in the bag except the name.” He listed some of the suggestions: Exposure, Stop, Vision, Seeing, New Seeing, Visualization, Camera Vision, New Camera Vision, Photo Digest, and The Photographer, and I replied I thought all of them dreary.

  “What’s your idea?” asked Minor.

  I thought for a few minutes and came up with Aperture. It clicked and by spring, Aperture was on its way. It was the most imaginative journal of its day; some thought it far out, which, fortunately, it was. The reproductions were of the best quality and the texts kept pace with the imagery.

  Over the years I disagreed with some of the content as being neoscholastic and dominated by Minor’s devotion to his mystical approach to photography. These differences were not important; no one could work with Minor without recognizing his genius and dedication. Through various tribulations of finance, format, and direction, Aperture continues to function.

  My impulse to “pass it on” was further expressed in writing. My first book, Making a Photograph, had been a surprising success. Following my spell of teaching at the School of Fine Arts, I decided to write a series of basic photographic textbooks based on the techniques I had developed, including the Zone System. The first volume, Camera and Lens, appeared in 1948, quickly followed by The Negative (1948), The Print (1950), Natural Light Photography (1952), and Artificial Light Photography (1956). The dust jacket of the first edition of Camera and Lens explains the purpose of the series.

  The basic principle of Adams’ forthright new approach to photography is startlingly direct and obvious. “Know what you’re after,” says Adams, “before you begin!” Then each step falls into its proper place and order, because you have the logic of photography as explained in this Basic Photo Series at your command.

  Camera and Lens and the other Adams books teach you to think “backwards” from the final print you desire, even before you open a shutter. With the print desired in mind, you preselect the picture proportion, the degree of enlargement, the paper contrast, the handling of negative (development depends upon exposure), the lighting conditions, the arrangement, the film, the lens-stop, and the exposure. Production of fine photographs becomes a controlled process, not hit-and-miss.

  Camera and Lens received a warm welcome. When The Negative appeared, however, there was a more varied response. There was criticism that the Zone System was too complex, technically erroneous, and unnecessary. I had done a considerable amount of practical research and had ample proof for myself that the Zone System worked for professionals and students alike. For technical confirmation, I asked Dr. E. C. Kenneth Mees, director of the Kodak laboratories, and Dr. Walter “Nobby” Clark, his associate, to check the accuracy of the Zone System and its codification of the principles of applied sensitometry. Their favorable comments supported and encouraged me.

  The publishers of my original Basic Photo Series were Willard and Barbara Morgan of the publishing house Morgan and Lester, which became Morgan and Morgan. Willard, affectionately called “Here” because of his physical size—six feet, seven inches tall and of appropriate structure and strength—was a very active figure in photography in the 1930s and 1940s. He was one of the early supporters of the Photography Department at the Museum of Modern Art. Working with Willard Morgan was a strong confrontation with the journalistic emphasis on photography. Realism and impact were the dominant threads of his approach. Willard was tolerant of poetic aspirations, but he did not fully understand them.

  Barbara Morgan is a highly imaginative and capable photographer. Many of her photographs—portraits, dance documentations, and combined-image prints—are a most estimable contribution to creative photography.

  Willard’s office was in a small building on Park Avenue South: a rather cluttered entrance, then a semi-tunnel to the elevator lobby. A few floors up, a crowded, colorless space looked out on the dreary concrete landscape, even more colorless; if you stretched your head around you might see some looming skyscrapers rising into pale blue or gray. The noise of the city filtered through the windows, and the occasional tragic grace-notes of sirens could be heard. I would arrive at their office to find Willard sitting at a cluttered desk, acting cheerful. I could not understand how anything creative could arise from that environment, and yet they were the leading publisher of photographic books for many years.

  In the 1950s, Morgan and Morgan found itself in a difficult financial position. With the cooperation of most of his authors, who agreed to accept delayed royalties, they were able to survive. Upon Here’s retirement, his sons, Douglas and Lloyd, took over the business. Unexpectedly, Douglas personally benefited from our publishing relationship. In 1963 I found myself in real need of a good print spotter. I was completing my fourth portfolio, What Majestic Word, an edition of two hundred and sixty portfolios, each containing fifteen photographs for a grand total of thirty-nine hundred prints to spot! I called Brett Weston to inquire if he knew of an experienced spotter. He replied that he sure did and that she was visiting from Los Angeles.

  I said, “Bring her right over!” and he replied, “I know she is busy today but she will be there tomorrow.” She was staying with Brett while seeking employment. The truth, I later learned, was that she had never done any spotting, but Brett gave her a twenty-four-hour crash course after I phoned.

  The next day Liliane De Cock appeared and, although nervous, demonstrated expertness at spotting. I immediately hired her to complete the portfolios. She proved so capable and such a sensitive co-worker that she became my full-time assistant for the ensuing nine years. Liliane developed a passionate interest in photography and became a photographer of rare promise.

  Liliane planned and edited my first general monograph, Ansel Adams, and designed Singular Images. She worked with our publisher Doug Morgan on these projects, romance bloomed, and they were married in our living room. She moved to the New York area where she is a proud mother, helps in the publishing business, and continues her photography.

  Following an apogee of financial disappointments with Morgan and Morgan, my business manager Bill Turnage and I agreed it best to change publishers. In 1974 I happily became associated with New York Graphic Society, a division of Little, Brown and Company. With this change of publishers I felt it time to completely update and revise the Basic Photo Series. With the collaboration of Robert Baker, The New Ansel Adams Photography Series was created with Polaroid Land Photography
(1978), then The Camera (1980), The Negative (1981), and The Print (1983).

  My earlier books were not only written but edited by myself. I created unneeded embarrassment by not using professional editors and copy readers: every author needs a second opinion to inform him when he is not clear. When it came time to begin the complete revision of the technical series, I knew better what I wanted the series to be, and thus made a serious effort to get a good editor to assist me. Fortunately, Robert Baker turned out to be ideal. He is brilliant, precise, and thoughtful and did an excellent job with my various texts, bringing them together with coherence and taste and without altering my writing style.

  High praise is also in order for my two photographic assistants during this period of time. Alan Ross performed the many tasks and tests for Polaroid Land Photography and The Camera, and John Sexton did the same on The Negative and The Print. Without their dedication, imagination, exactitude, and exceedingly hard work such a technically complete revision of the series would have proved impossible.

  My personal teaching must be limited, because of age and energy, to workshops for The Friends of Photography, but I am able to teach thousands through this series of books. I am often approached by readers brimming with questions that one of the texts has stimulated. In 1983, while on one of my frequent visits to Point Lobos, I was sitting at one of the picnic benches changing film in my Leica R-4. A middle-aged man, obviously a photographer, since he was festooned with several cameras, came and sat opposite me. He expressed astonishment that I was using a 35mm camera. I explained that I was not dedicated to any particular size and that I had used the 35mm extensively. I am often typed as a rigid large-format man in spite of the fact that I have done much work with smaller formats. With the new 35mm roll securely installed, I made a gesture of leaving when he said, “May I ask you a question?” I agreed to talk and relaxed for the inevitable.

  His question was, “Mr. Adams, I’ve just read your book The Negative. You developed the Zone System over forty years ago. Do you think it is still effective?”

  I replied that the function of the Zone System is to establish a working technique that enables the photographer better to manage creative visualizations. I do not think the Zone System is fully valid in creative photography without visualization of the expressive image before the exposure is made.

  He asked, “But do you think the Zone System is necessary? Alfred Stieglitz and Edward Weston did not use it. Historically, the greater part of photographic work was accomplished without it. Why do you think it so important?”

  My answer to this seemed simple. “I think it essential for the beginner and extremely helpful to the advanced worker. I have no doubt that Edward and all the others arrived by empirical experiments and practice to a near-perfect intuitive method of work. In a sense they were obliged to use some applications of the Zone System, whether they knew it or not, as you cannot practice photography without utilizing the principles of sensitometry.”

  He said, “I am not making myself clear. I look all around me and see hundreds of photographers relying on camera electronics or simply exposing with random repetition, bracketing exposures to cover mistakes. If this seems to be the modern approach, do you feel your system continues to be relevant?”

  I carefully considered my reply. I said, “Being trained in music, I was obliged to know my notes, to practice continuously so that the notes, phrase shapes, and dynamics would be securely established in my mind. My playing, therefore, was expressively intuitive, based on a thorough experience with the facts and structure of the scores.

  “What you do not seem to understand is that after the Zone System is learned in detail, then it becomes an intuitive process in practice—a way of thinking and applying technical principles while visualization is taking place. If I had to work out the Zone System details from scratch with every photograph, I would fail as a photographer and artist. Visualization is in two principal steps:

  “First, image management, which relates to the construction of the image as the lens delivers it to the film, and,

  “Second, value management, which relates to exposure and development of the negative, thereby securing the information for the expressive print.

  “With practice this becomes a rapid process, almost entirely intuitive and immediate. I note, with regret, that many of the photographers of the day are not concerned with basic technique. Their work clearly shows this sad fact. There have been many excellent ideas rendered in ineffective craft; the message simply does not come through.”

  He appeared thoughtful and I quickly added, “I note you have three different cameras around your neck. Do you really know what you are getting with any of them? Can you see the image in your mind’s eye, so to speak, before you release the shutter? Do you function on a hit-or-miss basis, hoping that with luck something will turn up in the negative or through darkroom labor? If so, I feel sorry for you as this is not necessary if you acquired the knowledge of sensitometry as taught in the Zone System. Yes, I continue to believe the Zone System represents a very important introduction to a fluid craft approach.”

  He rose from the picnic table and said, “It’s too late for me. I do not have the time to work it out.” I found I had nothing to say in reply and I saw him walk off to the cliffs, stand for a few moments looking at the crashing surf, then walk on until he was out of view. I moved out on the trail with my spot meter in one hand, my camera set at manual in the other.

  I wondered if I had started something in his mind that became a burden adding to the spirit of uncertainty so many of us have. I was telling him it would take a lot of hard work, from which there is no escape if one wishes to be an artist in any medium. Musicians practice constantly; most photographers do not practice enough. The siren-call of the hobby obscures the necessary exactions of art. It is easy to take a photograph, but it is harder to make a masterpiece in photography than in any other art medium.

  21.

  Carmel

  SINCE 1928, VIRGINIA AND I HAD LIVED IN SAN FRANCISCO and Yosemite; by 1961, we felt the need for a change. We thought seriously of moving to Santa Fe. Wisely, Virginia pointed out that as much as we loved the Southwest, it was a long way from our roots and professional resources—I continued to earn a substantial portion of my living from commercial assignments and she still managed Best’s Studio. We were also reluctant to leave both Yosemite and the Pacific Ocean permanently.

  The other possibility was Carmel. We had visited that small village many times over the years and had a number of friends living there, including Dick McGraw. One of my students when I taught at the Art Center School in Los Angeles, Dick was serious about his study of photography and produced some solid color work. Dick was very well off, the son of the industrialist Max McGraw, president of the McGraw Edison Company in Chicago.

  Talking with Dick one day, I told him of our indecision about where to move; he suggested we come to the Carmel Highlands, five miles south of Carmel-by-the-Sea. Dick was living in a small A-frame house he had built at the end of a road, just a mile south of Edward Weston’s home on Wildcat Hill. Dick awaited the day he could acquire the central hill of the property. That day finally came; Dick had Ted Spencer design a remarkably contemporary structure, as severe and spacious as Dick wanted. It commands one of the best views of the California coast, from Santa Cruz to Point Sur, with sun, vast sky, and ocean panoramas that give the impression that the end of the continent is at one’s feet.

  Dick hoped to foster the development of a small creative community within the seven gorgeous acres he owned and offered us one of the lots. We accepted and found ourselves with a lovely property offering an expansive view of the Pacific Ocean. With some regret we sold my old family house on the dunes of San Francisco, where I had lived since it was built in 1903. We asked Ted to be our architect and drove him to Carmel to see the site. In the car on the way back to San Francisco, Ted asked me what was needed in the general plan. I told him I required a good darkroom space, an ampl
e workroom, lots of pass-through storage, a section of the living space that could be used as a gallery, and fine view windows to the Pacific. On the backs of several envelopes he sketched out his ideas. “You will want a high ceiling, of course.” Agreed. “As you are building on a slope, why not put the bedrooms downstairs?” Agreed. His concept was exciting, even in its rough form. The next day he drew out a more precise sketch, and many details were filled in.

  Ted conceived a marvelous impression of space for the interior areas, yet the exterior is retiring, giving little suggestion of its content. He was very sensitive to the building site and suggested we move the location of the house about twenty-five feet down the slope for a more impressive view of the beautiful hill to the northwest. This decision also hides us from view and protects us from the traffic noise of California’s famed coastal Highway One, about five hundred feet to the east. Only from the air does the extent of the roof reveal the size of the structure.

  Ted employed old bridge timbers for the principal exterior supports and for the large fireplace mantel, over which we planned to have a handsome arrangement of bleached branches of Pinus albicaulis from the High Sierra timberline. But when I saw the mantel in place, I recovered the large fifteenth-century Chinese drum we had bought from William Colby years before. I had recently donated it to the California Academy of Sciences; because it was six feet in diameter, I had thought it would be far too large for our new home. The director had overlooked the formal acceptance and was pleased to listen to my frantic description of the situation. I hereby express my appreciation for their institutional generosity in the return of the drum; it adds its bit of splendor to the room, relating to the scale of the ocean view and the beautiful texture of the curving hill. Its sound is a pleasing low rumble, almost thunderlike, changing its timbre from day to day with the humidity.