So many photographers I didn’t know that much about. Harold Feinstein shot street, wars, nudes and flowers. Published and showed. Photo League. Political. Artistic. Prolific. Damn. He even turned down a place in history by declining an invitation to put images in “The Family of Man.” Cannot imagine the conversation he had with Steichen.
Not all that much time left to see them all who still live and shoot, those whose images influenced my work. The photographer dies, the images, along with the stories and spirits within, live on. The viewer need not know anything. All he needs to do is look. By sharing their work, great photographers make the world a better place, in addition to making better photographers.
What do Harold and I, or HCB and I, for that matter, share in common? In addition to a love for the photographic image, we feel the pain when the shutter is pushed. There’s a moment, sometimes long, sometimes short, when the decision to shoot has been made that the world stops, except for the operation of the camera. The thinking ends. The camera goes click, speaking to the photographer, keeping its captured image secret, telling the shooter that its time to do it again.
Feinstein and his fellow masters of the craft, especially the women, learned at a time when the revealing moments occurred later. They kept shooting their film filled cameras, not knowing what had been captured, uncertain, yet confident, that they had what their eyes saw. Now, we have digital cameras to confirm our instincts. Some might say they had superior talent, overcoming the shortcomings of their equipment to hone their skills. But, I am sure he would not have, even though I didn’t know him.
Our subjects remain the same and light will always be light. And, though we see the world differently, when we pick up that camera and point it and shoot it, we are no different from all those who came before. We photographers make the images; the camera merely takes it.