The passing of an angry man.

Since first encountering his work as a teenager, I have always thought it must have been awful to be Robert Frank. I mean, how could anyone go through life so angry with so much contempt for the country which opened its arms to him? He was free to leave, after all. All he saw in America was the bad, the way those who chose not to compete and improve themselves were self-imposed failures. That’s not the America that this penniless immigrant (actually, less than penniless, as I borrowed $4,000 from my US employer on arrival) found in 1977. And what I found was a nation with abundant optimism and opportunities galore for those who cared to sign the front of a check, not the back. For those who put their hands to work rather than parading with them outstretched, palm up, America was paradise.

I wrote about Frank’s work a long time ago here and yes, while you should have his book ‘The Americans’ on your shelf, its content should be viewed with considerable skepticism.

Frank just died and the New York Times, predictably, eulogized him.