Peter Adams: Photographers

“Bresson’s way to take photographs is to steal the moment - it’s a bit like stealing something from the person. I don’t work that way. The people I am photographing have already lost everything - their homes, their families. I want to try and give something back. It is too simple to criticise with your camera. Bresson believes in the decisive moment - well, it may have worked in his time, but never in mine.”

Saudek’s camera was a Russian copy of a twin lens Rollie. His lighting equipment consisted of a one hundred watt light bulb in an old biscuit tin and the rent on his studio, which features in so many of his photographs, cost him a dollar a week. It seemed the obvious place to photograph him.

A likeable larrikin of a man. Serious and critical when it comes to the state of photo-journalism but mischievously irreverent about the women he photographs

New Zealand photographer, George Silk, had an endless battle with Australian censors and the media, who judged this picture of a New Guinea tribesman’s compassion for a blinded Digger to be bad for morale and blocked its publication. It later ran in Life Magazine, who immediately hired the photographer. George made the USA his permanent home – yet another example of a talented person having to move away in order to make their mark on the world.

New Zealand photographer, George Silk, had an endless battle with Australian censors and the media, who judged this picture of a New Guinea tribesman’s compassion for a blinded Digger to be bad for morale and blocked its publication. It later ran in Life Magazine, who immediately hired the photographer. George made the USA his permanent home – yet another example of a talented person having to move away in order to make their mark on the world.

“Come in Paul” said Lord Snowdon, as he met me at the front door. I was told I had one hour. I was also told that the interview would take place in the studio, the photograph could be made in his garden and that, under no circumstance, would I be allowed into the house. Five hours later found us reducing the contents of a bottle of scotch in his sitting-room, surrounded by his art collection. “I like your collection.” I said “Oh! Thank you. They all fell off the back of a truck.” replied Lord Snowdon. “You must know a better class of truck than I!” Mind you, he was still calling me ‘Paul’

“Come in Paul” said Lord Snowdon, as he met me at the front door. I was told I had one hour. I was also told that the interview would take place in the studio, the photograph could be made in his garden and that, under no circumstance, would I be allowed into the house. Five hours later found us reducing the contents of a bottle of scotch in his sitting-room, surrounded by his art collection. “I like your collection.” I said “Oh! Thank you. They all fell off the back of a truck.” replied Lord Snowdon. “You must know a better class of truck than I!” Mind you, he was still calling me ‘Paul’

Educator Bill Jay once wrote: “Frederick Sommer is an enigma. I honestly could not decide if he is the guru his devotees proclaim him to be, or a deluded crackpot.” Neither could I. However, I did spend eight hours interviewing this extraordinary man as he shared his thoughts on photography and read his poetry.

Educator Bill Jay once wrote: “Frederick Sommer is an enigma. I honestly could not decide if he is the guru his devotees proclaim him to be, or a deluded crackpot.” Neither could I. However, I did spend eight hours interviewing this extraordinary man as he shared his thoughts on photography and read his poetry.

Bill Stettner died a pauper in a padded hospital room in 1994, but this is not how I remember him. When I was living in New York in the 1970’s, he was a successful advertising photographer, full of life and ideas and a close friend.  Photographers around the world owe much to Bill – even though they have probably never heard of him. His endless lobbying of the US Government and his refusal to relinquish the copyright of his pictures eventually changed the copyright laws in the USA. A fight like this is never simple and invariably ruthless. Indirectly it also cost him his life. Bill was black-banned by New York's advertising agencies and he eventually ended up running a junk shop on Columbus Circle in New York – which is where I photographed him in 1992. 

It was always going to be a mad day. It started off with a dash through the mountains to meet up with Christer Stromholm in the tiny hilltop village of Fox Amphoux in the Provence. Next Lucien Clergue in the afternoon in Arles and that night a plane to Prague to meet up with Jan Saudek. Christer had invited us for lunch and we were already running late. We left the car outside the village and walked in over the cobble stones with the chooks and goats. Christer took one look at me and perceived that panic had set in! Putting a finger to his lips, he led me up to his rooftop patio.  “Listen!” he said waving his arm at the Arles Valley spread out before him. I could hear nothing except the sounds of a bleating sheep.  “I’m sorry” I said, “I don’t hear anything”, a little mystified about what he meant.  “Exactly!” he said. “Slow down, you’ll see more.”

It was always going to be a mad day. It started off with a dash through the mountains to meet up with Christer Stromholm in the tiny hilltop village of Fox Amphoux in the Provence. Next Lucien Clergue in the afternoon in Arles and that night a plane to Prague to meet up with Jan Saudek. We were already running late. We left the car outside the village and walked in over the cobble stones with the chooks and goats. Christer took one look at me and perceived that panic had set in! Putting a finger to his lips, he led me up to his rooftop patio.  “Listen!” he said waving his arm at the Arles Valley spread out before him. I could hear nothing except a bleating sheep.  “I’m sorry” I said, “I don’t hear anything”, a little mystified about what he meant.  “Exactly!” he said. “Slow down, you’ll see more.”

It was always going to be a mad day. It started off with a dash through the mountains to meet up with Christer Stromholm in the tiny hilltop village of Fox Amphoux in the Provence. Next Lucien Clergue in the afternoon in Arles and that night a plane to Prague to meet up with Jan Saudek. We were already running late. We left the car outside the village and walked in over the cobble stones with the chooks and goats. Christer took one look at me and perceived that panic had set in! Putting a finger to his lips, he led me up to his rooftop patio.  “Listen!” he said waving his arm at the Arles Valley spread out before him. I could hear nothing except a bleating sheep.  “I’m sorry” I said, “I don’t hear anything”, a little mystified about what he meant.  “Exactly!” he said. “Slow down, you’ll see more.”

A sheet of glass stood between us - a barrier lowered to protect Joyce from my prying eyes. I can’t work that way. I always find that my portraits are more emotional if the sheet of glass is behind me, rather than in front of me. She followed me out of the house. I turned to watch as she came through the screen door. The tiny cobwebs on the fly-screen seemed to empahise the fragility of the barrier between us.

Teske was pesky! This sweet looking man, smelling of rose scented bath water, pursued me around his studio wearing a lecherous grin and a resonant voice as he tried to get into my pants. All he ended up with was an 8” x 10” print! The things one does for one’s art.

Arthur’s photographs are designed to confront you - to force you to become a part of the picture. As we talked, Arthur sat in his dad’s favourite chair and brewed copious quantities of herbal tea in a tea-stained teapot.