Published in Photographs Not Taken: A Collection of Photographers' Essays
Edited by Will Steacy, Daylight Books, 2012
I recently stood at an intersection in New York, and for a long time, I watched people walk by, hoping to make portraits. One man didn’t want his portrait taken. When people say no, it often gets me thinking. This man was about fifty years old and a bit hunched over. He looked a little spooked. His eyes were small and set inside deep eye sockets. His body looked as though it were not really his, as though it were something he was just wearing, as if he were in there, peering out, hiding from the world. It’s a feeling I have had before, but I never knew it until I saw his face. I pictured the portrait I wished I could have made, and I hoped it could show what I was thinking. I thought it might be a cruel picture to take. I wondered if the picture could avoid being simple or mean, whether its bleakness could be redeemed by some sensitivity.
I made eye contact with him, and then he quickly looked away. I forced myself to ask for a portrait, feeling predatory. “Excuse me? Sir? Could I take your picture?” He didn’t look at me, but he flinched, and I know he heard me. He walked by and ignored the question. Of course I couldn’t blame him. Would I let a photographer I didn’t know take my portrait on the street? I know what photographers are capable of, and I never know how aggressive I am comfortable being. You can talk yourself out of taking portraits pretty quickly.
When I’m out taking photographs, I’ve noticed that positive momentum can build if people say yes to my request for a portrait. At the same time, it can happen that two or three people will say no, and then my belief in portraiture in general is altogether destroyed by a flood of doubts. Can you make a portrait that is not a caricature? Can you reveal vulnerability and frailty without taking advantage, without cheapening the picture and insulting your subject? Is it possible to make a portrait without reducing someone to a stereotyped or incomplete version of him or herself? Can a portrait actually illustrate a person’s fullness—his or her complexity, contradictions and idiosyncrasies? And is that ultimately important? My answers to these questions are inconsistent and often change. What interests me in portraits is their complexity, their mystery and volatility. If they lose that, if they ever become all clear to me, I imagine I’ll lose my interest in making them.
The act of going out to take photographs of strangers is something I dread. But I keep going back to it. Despite the anxiety of the process, I am fascinated by the delicacy of the exchange, the tenuousness of the relationship, and the unpredictability of the outcome. I am fascinated by how a portrait of a stranger can take on meaning for another stranger—how an anonymous viewer can look at that person (a person who means nothing to him or her) and feel something. I think there is mystery and hope in that.