We who are, or were, possibly all who have cameras can be photojournalist. In the sense we are engaged in recording truth as it occurs; or can be. Recording witnesses to our time; history in the making: the what occurred or is happening.
I once thought myself ‘blind’ being without camera on or off ‘duty.’
And too well remember being assigned to illustrate an article for The New York Times. In Chicago, the murder rate was down from average and I was instructed to photograph two Homicide Detectives.
The general theory being that an illustrated article received greater attention/readership than one that was not.
I went to the appointed time and place laboring to make an revelatory image of two middle aged men in cheap suits. First in their office, then outside in the parking lot with an ocean of Black & Whites though they drove unmarked police vehicles.
They were conscious of my frustration and suggested that I go to the City Morgue. The place was astonishing: bodies draped partially in dark green plastic garbage bags, clothed in what they were wearing at the time of death, replete with toe tags. Stacked from floor to ceiling upon green steel metal shelves . . . imagine a warehouse with a ceiling some thirty to forty feet in height. Crowded with nearly one hundred corpses.
This was at a time before we had digital photography, so I shipped the film directly to New York. At 03:00 or thereabouts I received a telephone call from the picture editor distraught with having seen my “take.” . . . . “why oh why!?@!?”
At length she seemed to have said what she needed to say. I asked if she was satisfied with the diatribe, not in those terms per se. “Yes.” I replied defining to her that my job was to collect and hers was to edit. Deciding upon that image most appropriate to her intention. Mine was not to edit out all possible choices offensive to me.
This collective monologue was based upon a conversation with an Associated Press photographer who confessed authorship of an image I found objectionable to me personally.
Consciousness is the string upon which we form our necklace of experience; whether pearls or smooth worn river stones. I am many things but not a voyeur; having witnessed the before, during and afterward of birth, life and death. This history began at an early age and is the engine of my curiosity: knowing the what and wondering about the why.
I envy no one and fear nothing, remaining sincerely grateful for it all.
Be well and be aware. Censor nothing; especially yourself.
in reply to: http://www.npr.org/blogs/pictureshow/2013/01/28/169536213/what-it-feels-like-to-be-photographed-in-a-moment-of-grief add an afterthought: Many years later incorporating the deaths of both my children: I sense nothing is lost in or to God. Thinking now that we all are actors in life; the play of which is our collective prayer for love and truth to be real. . . .Some kneel and others record.
Photo Caption and Credit:
Aline Marie prays outside St. Rose of Lima church in Newtown, Conn., on the day of the school shooting. She says being photographed made her feel "like a zoo animal." The photographer says he tried hard to respect her privacy and grief.
Emmanuel Dunand/AFP/Getty Images (without permission)
130130 03:57 photojournalism as witness
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
