Never boring
When it comes to photography of exotic women, when America gave us the crass, crude and vulgar German, Helmut Newton, England blessed the photography world with Bob Carlos Clarke, who died by his own hand and was buried a year ago yesterday in one of my favorite haunts, Brompton Cemetery.
Clarke never saw a woman, it seems, he did not like, though towards the end disillusionment with his profession had set in:
business has got harder, more callous, less open and much
more competitive. In the 1960s, photographers ranked just
behind rock stars in terms of image. Now they’re way down
the list, behind brawling footballers and provincial DJs.
As the UK’s Photography magazine printed my snap which went on to become the Photographer of the Year prizewinner in 1974, I always remember that the issue where I was published also had an article on Clarke’s photography, my first intoduction to his work.
Here’s a snap from Brompton Cemetery I took in the early ’70s which, it seems, is appropriately dedicated to his memory.
RIP BCC. Brompton Cemetery. Leica M3, 90mm Elmar, TriX