O. Winston Link’s masterpiece.

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Of all the books of railroad pictures you need know of only one. This one. Indeed, whenever photographs of breathtaking beauty are sought out, many in this book will be on the list of finalists regardless of subject.

Every picture in this book, all taken in the dying years of steam on the Norfolk and Western Railway of Virginia, is taken at night using flashbulbs, sometimes dozens at a time, using Link’s specially made apparatus.

Link shows that, to do something well, you have to be totally involved in, and in love with, your subject matter.

The composition, the insights into the last years of Norman Rockwell’s America, and the sheer love lavished on the work makes this book one of the very best picture books ever published, right up there with Cartier-Bresson’s ‘Decisive Moment’, though the subject matter could hardly be more different.

You don’t care about steam trains? No matter. If you care about drop dead, fabulous photography, you should have this book on your shelf.

The Color of Wildness – book review

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Porter’s work changed how we look at the outdoors, moving away from the mundane, overrated monochromes of that adept darkroom manipulator Ansel Adams, and seeing the details in all their beauty. And yes, the emphasis in all of Porter’s work is beauty, greatly aided in this case by the well reproduced, large format pictures.

The book includes a fascinating essay by John Rohrbach explaining how Porter moved from black and white to color, despite snide asides from Adams and his set of toadies. It has long been my contention that Adams rejected color owing to his lack of ability in the medium, hiding behind the mistaken belief that if it’s monochrome, it’s Art. And it doesn’t hurt to print on fancy paper using ridiculous assortments of chemicals to emphasize the fact.

The modern version of this idiom is the growing reference by photo sellers to ‘giclee’ prints, as if association with something French must be a good thing. What they mean is that they printed on an Epson ink jet. Making a virtue out of necessity. Sounds sexy and mysterious, it has to be said.

In Porter’s own words ‘I believe that when photographers reject the significance of color, they are denying one of our most precious attributes – color vision.’

Highly recommended.

Not just your average queer.

I cannot remember a time when I was not aware of the multi-talented Englishman, Cecil Beaton (1904-1980). Photographer, writer, designer, he did all of these at the highest level.

Whether it was 1964 when My Fair Lady hit the big screen (Beaton designed all the gowns) or 1971 when his landmark show An Anthology of Fashion premiered at the Victoria and Albert museum in Kensington, or 1962 when at the tender age of ten, I first read his book, Photobiography, Beaton has always held a special place in my growth as a photographer.

Central to his development was a surpassing interest in fashion, and it has to be said that the classic Vionnet, Schiaparelli and Gres costumes on display at the V&A show were breathtakingly well exhibited. The Gres and a couple of magnificent Balenciagas stick in my mind even today. How did women fit in these? Beaton, of course, had all the right connections to secure loans of these high flights of couture from their rich and famous owners. Sharing an alma mater with Churchill (Harrow School) and a Cambridge graduate, Beaton occupied the rarefied, dandified world of fashion and aesthetes from day one. Even as a boy, he experimented, using his sisters and relatives as models, with exotic lighting and backgrounds, the latter of his own creation as often as not.

And before you dismiss him as just another pansy in a cultural subset seemingly dominated by them, take a look at his pictures of war torn London and you will see the work of a great, tough photographer, unafraid to risk life and limb. How can one look at his pictures of the ruins of St. Paul’s even today, and not feel hatred towards the German Master Race?

None of this is to deny that Beaton came in for his fair share of ridicule during a long life. His epicene manner did not help. In 1971 David Bailey made a vicious television documentary named Beaton by Bailey, where Beaton comes over as nothing so much as a tired old fag, none of this helped by Bailey’s reference to him as Cecily in a newspaper interview of the time. Not for nothing was this hatchet job dubbed ‘Beaton by Bailey’ soon after its showing.

Then there was the ridiculous ‘love affair’ with Greta Garbo. A homosexual and a lesbian. Straight out of the Tchaikovsky playbook and just about as successful. Add accusations of being a relentless self publicist and publicity hound – how else does one get known for heaven’s sake? – and you might view the man with faint ridicule. Yet just one look at the Ascot scene in My Fair Lady or any one of hundreds of his great photographs of royalty and fashion (no confusing those two!) and you see the work of a great and original artist.

Hunt down some of his work. It’s worth it.

There’s a lot to learn from this great photographer.

Whenever I get tired of reading yet another homage to Ansel Adams, that most glorified of darkroom technicians, I turn to the work of a real photographer who also happened to be a competent technician. The difference is that visualization never takes second place to darkroom technique with Erwin Blumenfeld.

Another in a long list of German outcasts, Blumenfeld (1897-1969) chanced upon a darkroom in his retail store in Berlin and a lifetime’s addiction started. Changing careers, he made his at Vogue and Harper’s during and after the war and was given remarkeable creative freedom.

His influence spread wide, his work a mix of the abstracted and the expressionist.

The other day I was rewatching the greatest Western film ever made, Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West and there, right in the middle, is a jaw dropping shot of Claudia Cardinale, whom the camera observes from above and through a screen atop her four poster. Now every image of Claudia Cardinale is an occasion for rejoicing, it’s just that this one immediately says that Leone was a Blumenfeld fan, and the movie is nothing more than a succession of glorious still images. Blumenfeld’s net of influence was cast wide.

The book’s cover picture is but one example of where less is more. Appearing on the cover of Vogue in October 1952, it personifies glamour, class, sensuality and eroticism yet nowhere are the model’s eyes to be seen. Seldom has a Jacques Fath dress or a gorgeous neck been done greater justice.

And as you leaf through this slim book, just the right length to prevent overload, you realize that Blumenfeld’s compositions are what makes the pictures so striking, never mind the peerless technique.

It’s a whole lot more fun than those wretched Adams prints.