The Magnum website proved to be as beautiful and easily navigable as the photography on the site. From the simple font and design to the way the posts were separated into blocks, the Magnum website and the photographs draw you in. Although very uninformed about the technicalities of photography and what goes into making a shot aesthetically pleasing, I think that there is not one photo on this site that you could not deem beautiful or captivating. Ironically, although I am not sure that is the right word to use, even the photos of war and pain and corruption were captured in the most attractive, most vibrant, most pleasing ways. But especially through these almost inhumane documentations of horror, I personally was able draw a better focus on the very blurry line between photography and photojournalism. Photojournalism is unforgiving. It captures raw truth. And beyond being merely visually pleasing, the work of these photographers tell a tale of relevance and gravity far better than CNN, The New York Times, The Atlantic, NPR. Rather than reading or listening to the news, the photography stays still as you find yourself paused in time, across the globe, in the midst of a crisis, a riot, a singular moment. However, not every photograph captured a pivotal, societal event or crisis; many were documentations of an era–the fashion, the people, the culture–which hold relevant meaning and a story to tell as well. Through these static snapshots, the Magnum Collective does not merely document human history but urges the viewers to never forget, to stay empathetic and to never remain still.
The two photographers that I chose to look at were two female photographers: Eve Arnold and Alessandra Sanguinetti. In the process of choosing photographers I decided I wanted to give my attention to the very small female population in Magnum. I first chose Arnold, who had a quote that caught my attention in her profile: “If a photographer cares about the people before the lens and is compassionate, much is given. It is the photographer, not the camera, that is the instrument.” This bolstered my perception of Magnum photographers as the warriors of our world, those who venture out in search of stories in need of being told. Almost evangelically, their photographs spread the gospel of remaining informed and not remaining still. To me, the particular Arnold photograph that embodies this is a gorgeous image of a young Chinese girl and a tired white horse on a beautiful green field lightly sprinkled with white and yellow flowers. Not only is this photo visually beautiful, it is beautifully intriguing. The caption, “CHINA. Inner Mongolia. Horse training for the militia. 1979” completely contradicts the serenity and beauty the photo holds and pulls the viewer into its story. Is this young girl dressed in bright pink really training a horse for war? Was she doing in voluntarily, against her own will? How old is she really? What are her own perceptions of the war? In this moment of utter peace, could there actually be a different story? There is no way not to get lost in the mystery and intrigue. Initially left with but a short caption, the viewer finds himself immersed in a story that urges him to discover more.
The second photo that really drew me in was a black and white shot of Marlene Dietrich. The photograph is haunting; Dietrich is sitting in a distressed pose, her elbow on her thigh and hand on her cheek–in almost a “The Thinker”-esque pose. On the table in front seems to be a mug and a used tissue. The depth of the distress tugs at your heart, makes you want to comfort the damsel–that is, until you read the caption. The caption describes “Dietrich at the recording studios of COLUMBIA RECORDS, who were releasing most of her songs she had performed for the troops during World War II, including LILI MARLENE, Miss Otis Regrets. She was 51 years old and starting a come-back in show business. It was a wet and cold November night and work could only begin at midnight, at the advise [sic] of Marlene’s astrologer. November 1952.” The caption transform the photo into one of more exhaustion, a worn-out feeling. I could hear her almost sighing, “Why am I here?” The photograph and the caption work to give the viewer a piece of Dietrich’s personality–a mix of haughty stardom but also a worried, superstitious and desperate ex-star.
Whether it be in color or not, have a long caption or not, both of these photographs invite you into their story. In both, Arnold truly captured moments that long to find a viewer who will listen to and search for its story.
Visual storytelling cannot solely be attributed to Arnold. Quite honestly, I believe it is embedded in the essence of photojournalism. Through Book 1 of her photo journal “The Adventures of Guille and Belinda…” Alessandra Sanguinetti, the second photographer I chose, captures snapshots of two girls’ lives. Of the two photos that especially stood out to me, the one of Guille standing next to a large hydrangea bush with her face hidden among the leaves. It wasn’t particularly the odd situation at hand that really drew me in; it was the colors–the faded blues, the subtle pinks, the deep greens. With the stunning color scheme and the peculiar, silly, very animated pose, the photo is just fun–and fun to look at. All of them are actually. All the photos in this particular photo story captivate you with color and scenes of companionship and femininity within the confines of a square. My second favorite photo was also in the same photo journal. It shows Guille and Belina, two girls of opposite body figures, floating with their eyes closed in a beautiful blue body of water. They hold flowers in their hands which really reminded me of the painting Ophelia by Sir John Everett Millais. Once again, this odd scene paired with the beautiful colors make the photo impossible to not look at and just enjoy. The story Sanguinetti tells through her photographs is one that evokes a happy feeling, a story of innocence and the beauty of youth. Her images are purely lovely and portrays her two characters into a lovable pair, much like Wallace and Gromit.
Dear Grace,
I really like the series of rhetoricals you ask in response to the horse photo. The image raises more questions than it answers.
And you point toward the enigmatic qualities photos can embody at another point when you say, “The caption transform the photo into one of more exhaustion, a worn-out feeling.” The image meant one thing to you without text, and then communicated something else with the text. In that sense, I’d push back against your claim that this photo “invite[s] you into [its] story.” Instead, I’d perhaps word it such: The photo invites you to be the author of a story that might be taking place in this scene. Certainly, we’ll have to explore the dynamic between text and image as we go forward this semester!
Finally, I was drawn to your comparison to a painting of Ophelia by Sir John Everett Millais. How often do you think we bring our “visual background” to the interpretation of images in the present? Do you often see echoes of paintings (or other art forms) in photos? And what do you make of this dialog, of sorts, across mediums and centuries?