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78 of 82 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Review of Smith book from an old friend, January 7, 1999
By A Customer
SMITH BOOK REVIEW Having risked hernia to browse the impressive new book of an old friend and neighbor, ( W. Eugene Smith; Photographs 1934-1975 John T. Hill/Gilles Mora) what first grabs is the space, air and light enveloping these intense images with almost a loving caress, a sense of freshness and sunlight never possible in our dim, dingy-dusty claustrophobic Sixth Avenue loft building, where, just outside my studio door, were piled stacks upon stacks of his work mounted on black 16x20 dogeared mats, just waiting to be stolen, but which were, in fact, attributed by many visitors to some magical drugstore, and could I, please, arrange to have their wedding pictures made there, too? Gene couldn't sell one print for even twenty-five bucks in those days. Every night when I came home to sleep there was the despairing Clement Attlee staring upward at the bare light bulb over my doorway. That was forty years ago, and twenty since Gene went to that great blast of ferrocyanide in the sky, and much ado about him has taken place in the interim. New York fifties mindset was Freudian psychoanalysis; everyone went to a shrink. Any prominent individualistic tendencies were often condemned to one definition of neurosis or another, and in the rather small and specious world of photography , Gene's maverick determination stood out in high relief. Businessmen photographers-- like the young Lee Friedlander, himself awash in Freudophilia, considered Gene a `spoiler', pretentious-precious, and went instead to sit at the feet of the polymorphous Walker Evans; yes, "pomposity" was pretty much the legend that Gene's exit from LIFE brought down around his head. Not a team player at all; tsk tsk. And in his brave repudiation of corporate moloch, Gene valiantly pratfalled himself right into the lap of utter poverty. To large extent, Gene's persona seemed to require a struggle against impossible odds; it focused and sharpened him to the high standards he demanded from himself , and he was no slouch when it came to grandstanding, often with tears, his anti-Goliath position. He built his own Myth of Smith, his self-invented public (relations?) image, fine when LIFE was footing the bill, but now, inside our firetrap former whorehouse , there was real rent to pay, real electric bills, bona fide empty refrigerators. That is about when we began to get acquainted--- I never really bought the Myth; for me he was just the strangely interesting guy downstairs who became a great pal. Outside the loft, Gene was quick to acquire the packagable cliche of the garret-starved self-destructive artist. Compared to Van Gogh, he earned some residue of American Puritan contempt; this man whose great humanity was most evident in his work was treated most inhumanely by his peers. Inside the loft, for many years the two of us were in daily contact, working and trying to exist under extremely difficult economic circumstances, and we often had one helluva good time!! I found him to be a genial, generous, courageous---often outrageous-- warm wildly witty man, always humble, sensitive, shy and hard-working, sharing a great interest in art, with a remarkable philosophical perspective. We jabbered of Welles and Chaplin , wide angle lenses, witches, Goya, Haiti, Satchmo, Stravinsky, O'Casey, Joyce, Kazan, war, suicide, politics, cock-fought over girls, guzzled cheap scotch, and swung with the jazz that regularly took place in my studio , as if great mind trips could avert the cold fact of the necessity to eat. I remember one hot summer day, making cream cheese and molasses sandwiches for us on cinamon bread. Gene argued that we didn't have to buy the molasses because we could get the iron from our rusty tap water. As a rule, his antic humor and punning sense managed always to keep things slightly off-balance; this man who had such a profoundly dramatic instinct and attraction for the tragic had also a capricious spirit of the absurd in the way he conducted his daily life; Van Gogh with a manic dash of Robin Williams. And astonishingly productive. Yet always the gloomy impassioned chairoscuro came out of the darkroom-- prints blacker than black, then mounted on black, dense, intense, often in layout strangulation, making sure; I , W. Eugene Smith , won't let you go gently into that unferrocyanided good night. Sans assignments, now more artist than journalist, for years on end Gene shuffled his prints, made and remade PITTSBURG, photographed our jazz and our personal La Boheme, tried a failed book, a failed magazine, and finally luck brought him The Jewish Museum show and then his crescendo, Minimata. One night in Bradley's in 1975, Gene said, "Well, Dave, I finally got there at last. I've got ten thousand dollars in the bank for the first time. Of course, it's only going to be there about a week." Jump cut posthumous; an icon, passed away amongst us, is now suddenly acknowledged. Many who jeered him, refused him recognition, now come out to sycophant, to pedestal, to celebrate his life-- including LIFE itself. Gee, we're SO sorry; but let's exploit! Those twenty-five dollar prints buckled the registers at auctions, and giant profits were made; yes, the same old art-woe story--- just at the time Vinnie the Gogh himself was pulling down millions in Sotheby sales. The dark side of Gene, finally, surely, took care of his children and at least one of his wives. We get a brilliant and sensitive biography by Jim Hughes, a soso documentary, worldwide traveling shows. And then it seemed over. "There's no money left around for Gene Smith anymore" comments executor John Morris in the late eighties, handing his stewardship over to Gene's bastard son. Now, surprise! comes this current coffee table dominatrix which gives Gene's babies, his pictures, the opportunity to have a life of their own in renewal. SNAP!! Of course one can argue anew the merits of the individual essays and which choices are the best, etc., but for myself-- having gone to bed amidst these images for many years, there's something new about them now; suddenly welcome. There is a spank-spank/no-no here; not all of what we see are Gene's own prints, very much against the artist's wishes, but the damage is by no means on the level of, say, Clement Greenberg's sanding off the paint on David Smith's sculptures after his death. And most of these choices help illuminate Gene's way of seeing and working. There are also textual inaccuracies; Hall Overton did not own the loft bldg. I had rented three floors, and Hall rented originally from me, and my friend Sid Grossman sent over Harold Feinstein to share Hall's floor. When Harold left, he brought in Gene. I liked John Hill's technical essay at the closure. I was with Gene the night MAD EYES burnt out all the surrounding background, with ritual Clan MacGregor celebration, for neither of us-- one painter, one photographer-- gave a whit about `objectivity'. This spacious book-bomb adds honor and light to these master photographs, allowing them their own life and breathing room not usually available. Gene's insistence on control force-gilded his lilies, giving barely any space in his layouts to let the eye feel free to wander on its own volition. Now one can look afresh with impunity, and they look a bit different--even better. In any event, Gene, now busily groping angels, can no longer argue in his own defense, no longer joke, weep, holler, cajole, rage, pun. And he doesn't need to. You know? This fellow really had one goddamned great eye and sense of when. David X Young Oct 22 1998
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by Robert Frank
by W. Eugene Smith
by Sally Mann
by Peter Galassi
by Steve McCurry
