Taxis to Hell – and Back – Into the Jaws of Death, by Robert F. Sar­gent, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

In the mid-20th cen­tu­ry, the­o­rists like Roland Barthes and Pierre Bour­dieu explod­ed naive notions of pho­tog­ra­phy as “a per­fect­ly real­is­tic and objec­tive record­ing of the vis­i­ble world… a ‘nat­ur­al lan­guage,’” as Bour­dieu wrote in Pho­tog­ra­phy: A Mid­dle­brow Art. Bour­dieu him­self wield­ed a cam­era dur­ing his ethno­graph­ic work in Alge­ria, tak­ing dozens of con­ven­tion­al and uncon­ven­tion­al pho­tographs of the nation’s strug­gle for inde­pen­dence from France in the 50s. Yet he urged us to see pho­tog­ra­phy as for­mal­ly medi­at­ing social real­i­ty rather than trans­par­ent­ly rep­re­sent­ing the truth.

We have been trained to inter­pret the per­spec­tives most pho­tographs adopt as objec­tive views, when in fact they are “per­fect­ly in keep­ing with the rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the world which has dom­i­nat­ed Europe since the Quat­tro­cen­to.” Pho­tog­ra­phy, in oth­er words, tends to give us art imi­tat­ing Renais­sance art. It can be dif­fi­cult to bear this in mind when we look at indi­vid­ual photographs—what Barthes calls “the This.”

Whether they doc­u­ment our own fam­i­ly his­to­ries or such momen­tous events as the Nor­mandy Inva­sion that began on D‑Day, June 6th, 1944, pho­tographs elic­it pow­er­ful emo­tion­al reac­tions that defy aes­thet­ic cat­e­gories.

At the Flickr account Pho­to­sNor­mandie, you can browse and search over 4,300 high res­o­lu­tion pho­tographs from the piv­otal Nor­mandy cam­paign, “From icon­ic images like Into the Jaws of Death by Robert F. Sar­gent,” My Mod­ern Met writes, “to troops inter­act­ing with locals as they lib­er­ate areas of Nor­mandy.” The pho­tos are deeply affect­ing, often awe-inspir­ing. When we look with a crit­i­cal eye, we’ll find our­selves ask­ing cer­tain ques­tions about them.

The skewed per­spec­tive and omi­nous sky in Sargent’s “Into the Jaws of Death,” for exam­ple, at the top of the post, might make us think of the Sturm und Drang of many a dra­mat­ic ship­wreck paint­ing from the Roman­tic peri­od. Was Sar­gent aware of the sim­i­lar­i­ty when he looked through the lens? Did he posi­tion him­self to height­en the effect? In pho­tos like that fur­ther up, of a French home dis­play­ing a pro‑U.S. sign on July 11th, 1944, we might won­der whether the res­i­dents made the sign or whether it was giv­en to them, per­haps for this very pho­to op. As always, we’re jus­ti­fied in ask­ing about the role of the pho­tog­ra­ph­er in stag­ing or fram­ing a par­tic­u­lar scene.

For exam­ple, the pho­to of a Ger­man sol­dier sur­ren­der­ing to Amer­i­can G.I.s, above, looks staged. But what exact­ly these sol­diers are doing remains a mys­tery. How much do these exter­nal details mat­ter? Pho­tog­ra­phy is unique among oth­er visu­al arts in that “the Pho­to­graph,” Barthes writes, “repro­duces to infin­i­ty” what has “occurred only once.” It is the meet­ing of infin­i­ty with “only once” that engages us in more exis­ten­tial explo­rations.  All of these sol­diers and civil­ians, shar­ing their joy and anguish, most of them now passed into his­to­ry. Who were these peo­ple? What did these moments mean to them? What do they mean to us 70 years lat­er?

The bombed-out cathe­drals and defeat­ed tanks make us pon­der the fragili­ty of our own built envi­ron­ment, though the destruc­tive forces threat­en­ing to undo the mod­ern world now seem as like­ly to be nat­ur­al as man-made—or rather some new, fright­en­ing com­bi­na­tion of the two. In the faces of the wound­ed and the dis­placed, we see spe­cif­ic man­i­fes­ta­tions of the same trag­ic inva­sions and migra­tions that reach back to Thucy­dides and for­ward to the present moment in world his­to­ry, in which some 60 mil­lion peo­ple dis­placed by war and hard­ship seek sanc­tu­ary.

The images draw us away into gen­er­al obser­va­tions as they draw us back to the unre­peat­able moment. This project began on the 60th anniver­sary of D‑Day “as a way,” My Mod­ern Met explains, “to crowd­source descrip­tions of images on the now defunct Archives Nor­mandie, 1939–1945. Thus, users are encour­aged to com­ment on pho­tos if they are able to improve descrip­tions, loca­tions, and iden­ti­fi­ca­tions.” His­to­ry may rhyme with the present—as one famous quote attrib­uted to Mark Twain has it—but it nev­er exact­ly repeats. The pho­to­graph, Barthes wrote, “mechan­i­cal­ly repeats what could nev­er be repeat­ed exis­ten­tial­ly.” Moments for­ev­er lost to time, trans­mut­ed into time­less­ness by the cam­er­a’s eye. Enter the Pho­to­sNor­mandie gallery here.

via My Mod­ern Met

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ansel Adams, Dorothea Lange, Clem Albers & Fran­cis Stewart’s Cen­sored Pho­tographs of a WWII Japan­ese Intern­ment Camp

The Fin­land Wartime Pho­to Archive: 160,000 Images From World War II Now Online

31 Rolls of Film Tak­en by a World War II Sol­dier Get Dis­cov­ered & Devel­oped Before Your Eyes

200,000 Pho­tos from the George East­man Muse­um, the World’s Old­est Pho­tog­ra­phy Col­lec­tion, Now Avail­able Online

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Adobe Pho­to­shop, the world’s best-known piece of image-edit­ing soft­ware, has long since tran­si­tioned from noun to verb: “to Pho­to­shop” has come to mean some­thing like “to alter a pho­to­graph, often with intent to mis­lead or deceive.” But in that usage, Pho­to­shop­ping did­n’t begin with Pho­to­shop, and indeed the ear­ly mas­ters of Pho­to­shop­ping did it well before any­one had even dreamed of the per­son­al com­put­er, let alone a means to manip­u­late images on one. In Amer­i­ca, the best of them worked for the movies; in Sovi­et Rus­sia they worked for a dif­fer­ent kind of pro­pa­gan­da machine known as the State, not just pro­duc­ing offi­cial pho­tos but going back to pre­vi­ous offi­cial pho­tos and chang­ing them to reflect the regime’s ever-shift­ing set of pre­ferred alter­na­tive facts.

“Like their coun­ter­parts in Hol­ly­wood, pho­to­graph­ic retouch­ers in Sovi­et Rus­sia spent long hours smooth­ing out the blem­ish­es of imper­fect com­plex­ions, help­ing the cam­era to fal­si­fy real­i­ty,” writes David King in the intro­duc­tion to his book The Com­mis­sar Van­ish­es: The Fal­si­fi­ca­tion of Pho­tographs and Art in Stal­in’s Rus­sia. “Stal­in’s pock­marked face, in par­tic­u­lar, demand­ed excep­tion­al skills with the air­brush. But it was dur­ing the Great Purges, which raged in the late 1930s, that a new form of fal­si­fi­ca­tion emerged. The phys­i­cal erad­i­ca­tion of Stal­in’s polit­i­cal oppo­nents at the hands of the secret police was swift­ly fol­lowed by their oblit­er­a­tion from all forms of pic­to­r­i­al exis­tence.”

Using tools that now seem impos­si­bly prim­i­tive, Sovi­et pro­to-Pho­to­shop­pers made “once-famous per­son­al­i­ties van­ish” and craft­ed pho­tographs rep­re­sent­ing Stal­in “as the only true friend, com­rade, and suc­ces­sor to Lenin, the leader of the Bol­she­vik Rev­o­lu­tion and founder of the USSR.”

This qua­si-arti­sanal work, “one of the more enjoy­able tasks for the art depart­ment of pub­lish­ing hous­es dur­ing those times,” demand­ed seri­ous dex­ter­i­ty with the scalpel, glue, paint, and air­brush. (Some exam­ples, as you can see in this five-page gallery of images from The Com­mis­sar Van­ish­es, evi­denced more dex­ter­i­ty than oth­ers.) In this man­ner, Stal­in could order writ­ten out of his­to­ry such com­rades he ulti­mate­ly deemed dis­loy­al (and who usu­al­ly wound up exe­cut­ed as) as Naval Com­mis­sar Niko­lai Yezhov, infa­mous­ly made to dis­ap­pear from Stal­in’s side on a pho­to tak­en along­side the Moscow Canal, or Peo­ple’s Com­mis­sar for Posts and Telegraphs Niko­lai Antipov, com­man­der of the Leningrad par­ty Sergei Kirov, and Chair­man of the Pre­sid­i­um of the Supreme Sovi­et Niko­lai Shvernik — pic­tured, and removed one by one, just above.

This prac­tice even extend­ed to the mate­ri­als of the Sovi­et space pro­gram, writes Wired’s James Oberg. Cos­mo­nauts tem­porar­i­ly erased from his­to­ry include Valentin Bon­darenko, who died in a fire dur­ing a train­ing exer­cise, and the espe­cial­ly promis­ing Grig­oriy Nelyubov (pic­tured, and then not pic­tured, at the top of the post), who “had been expelled from the pro­gram for mis­be­hav­ior and lat­er killed him­self.” Yuri Gagarin, the cos­mo­naut who made his­to­ry as the first human in out­er space, did not, of course, get erased by the proud author­i­ties, but even his pho­tos, like the one just above where he shakes hands with the Sovi­et space pro­gram’s top-secret leader Sergey Koroly­ov, went under the knife for cos­met­ic rea­sons, here the removal of the evi­dent­ly dis­tract­ing work­man in the back­ground — hard­ly a major his­tor­i­cal fig­ure, let alone a con­tro­ver­sial one, but still a real and maybe even liv­ing reminder that while the cam­era may lie, it can’t hold its tongue for­ev­er.

h/t @JackFeerick

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Joseph Stal­in, a Life­long Edi­tor, Wield­ed a Big, Blue, Dan­ger­ous Pen­cil

Leon Trot­sky: Love, Death and Exile in Mex­i­co

Watch the Sur­re­al­ist Glass Har­mon­i­ca, the Only Ani­mat­ed Film Ever Banned by Sovi­et Cen­sors (1968)

Sovi­et Union Cre­ates a List of 38 Dan­ger­ous Rock Bands: Kiss, Pink Floyd, Talk­ing Heads, Vil­lage Peo­ple & More (1985)

Russ­ian His­to­ry & Lit­er­a­ture Come to Life in Won­der­ful­ly Col­orized Por­traits: See Pho­tos of Tol­stoy, Chekhov, the Romanovs & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Image by Ansel Adams

In places where atroc­i­ties or wide­spread human rights vio­la­tions occur, we some­times hear ordi­nary cit­i­zens lat­er claim they didn’t know what was going on. In the case of the intern­ment of Japan­ese Amer­i­cans dur­ing World War II, this would be almost impos­si­ble to believe. “120,000 peo­ple,” notes Newsweek, “lost their prop­er­ty and their free­dom,” round­ed up in full view of their neigh­bors. Every major pub­li­ca­tion of the time report­ed on Franklin Roosevelt’s 1941 Exec­u­tive Order. Newsweek wrote “that peo­ple in coastal areas ‘were more anx­ious than ever to get rid of their aliens after rumors that sig­nal lights were seen before sub­ma­rine attacks’ ” off the coast of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia. There were many such rumors, the kind that spread xeno­pho­bic fear and para­noia, and which peo­ple used to vocal­ly sup­port, or tac­it­ly approve of, send­ing their neigh­bors to intern­ment camps because of their ances­try.

Image by Fran­cis Stew­art

Oth­er reac­tions were less than sub­tle. The West Seat­tle Her­ald con­front­ed read­ers with the blunt head­line “GET ‘EM OUT!” Nonethe­less, Newsweek’s Rob Verg­er writes, “the pol­i­cy was by no means greet­ed with unan­i­mous sup­port,” and a vig­or­ous pub­lic debate played out, with oppo­nents point­ing to the bla­tant racism and vio­la­tions of civ­il rights. Two-thirds of the internees were Amer­i­can cit­i­zens. Yet all Japan­ese Amer­i­cans were repeat­ed­ly called “aliens,” lan­guage con­sis­tent with the vir­u­lent­ly anti-Japan­ese pro­pa­gan­da cam­paigns emerg­ing at the same time.

Once the camps were built and the internees impris­oned, how­ev­er, a mas­sive pro­pa­gan­da effort began, not only the sell the camps as a nec­es­sary nation­al secu­ri­ty mea­sure, but to por­tray them as idyl­lic vil­lages where the patri­ot­ic internees patient­ly wait­ed out the war by farm­ing, play­ing base­ball, mak­ing arts and crafts, run­ning gen­er­al stores, attend­ing school, wav­ing flags, and run­ning news­pa­pers.

Image by Clem Albers

Much of that infor­ma­tion was con­veyed to the pub­lic visu­al­ly by pho­tog­ra­phers hired by the War Relo­ca­tion Author­i­ty to doc­u­ment the camps. Among them were Clem Albers, Fran­cis Stew­art, and Dorothea Lange—well known for her pho­tographs of the Great Depres­sion. All three vis­it­ed the camp called Man­za­nar in the foothills of the Sier­ra moun­tains. Anoth­er famous pho­tog­ra­ph­er, Ansel Adams, gained access to Man­za­nar by virtue of his friend­ship with its direc­tor, Ralph Mer­ritt.

Image by Dorothea Lange

Their pho­tographs, for the most part, show busi­ly work­ing men and women, smil­ing school­child­ren, and lots of patri­ot­ic leisure activ­i­ties, like Stewart’s pho­to of sixth grade boys play­ing soft­ball, fur­ther up. The pho­tog­ra­phers were strict­ly pro­hib­it­ed from pho­tograph­ing guards, watch­tow­ers, search­lights, or barbed wire, and the heavy mil­i­tary pres­ence at the camp is near­ly always out of frame, with some very rare excep­tions, like Albers’ pho­to­graph above of mil­i­tary police.

Image by Ansel Adams

Adams worked under these pro­hi­bi­tions as well, but his pho­tos cap­tured camp life as hon­est­ly as he could. The stun­ning land­scapes some­times com­pete, even in the back­ground, with the real sub­ject of some of his images (as in the pho­to at the top). But he also con­veyed the harsh bar­ren­ness of the region. He tried to inti­mate the oppres­sive police appa­ra­tus by cap­tur­ing its shad­ow. “The pur­pose of my work,” he wrote to the Library of Con­gress in 1965 upon donat­ing his col­lec­tion, “was to show how these peo­ple, suf­fer­ing under a great injus­tice, and loss of prop­er­ty, busi­ness and pro­fes­sions, had over­come a sense of defeat and despair [sic].” His images often show internees “in hero­ic pos­es,” writes Dini­tia Smith, as above, in order to enno­ble their con­di­tions. Lange’s pho­tographs, on the oth­er hand, like that of a young girl below, “seem­ing­ly unstaged and unlight­ed… bear the hall­marks” of her “dis­tinc­tive­ly doc­u­men­tary style.” Her pic­tures “com­press intense human emo­tion into care­ful­ly com­posed frames.” Some of her pho­tos show smil­ing, relaxed sub­jects. Many oth­ers, like the pho­to­graph of a bar­racks inte­ri­or fur­ther down, show the faces of weary, uncer­tain, and despon­dent civil­ian pris­on­ers of war.

Image by Dorothea Lange

Per­haps because of her refusal to sen­ti­men­tal­ize the camps, or because of her left-wing pol­i­tics and oppo­si­tion to intern­ment (both known before she was hired), Lange’s work was cen­sored, not only through restrict­ed access, but through the impound­ment of over 800 pho­tographs she took at 21 loca­tions. Those pho­tos were recent­ly pub­lished in a book called Impound­ed: Dorothea Lange and the Cen­sored Images of Japan­ese Amer­i­can Intern­ment and hun­dreds of them are free to view online at the Den­sho Dig­i­tal Repository’s Dorothea Lange Col­lec­tion. The Nation­al Park Service’s col­lec­tion fea­tures 16 pic­tures from Lange’s vis­it to Man­za­nar. At the NPS site, you’ll also find col­lec­tions of pho­tographs from that camp by Adams, Albers, and Stew­art. Each, to one degree or anoth­er, faced a form of cen­sor­ship in what they could pho­to­graph or whether their work would be shown at all. What most ordi­nary peo­ple saw at the time did not tell the whole sto­ry. For all prac­ti­cal pur­pos­es, writes Ober­lin Library, “life at a Japan­ese intern­ment camp was com­pa­ra­ble to the life of a pris­on­er behind bars.”

Image by Dorothea Lange

h/t @Histouroborus

Relat­ed Con­tent:

478 Dorothea Lange Pho­tographs Poignant­ly Doc­u­ment the Intern­ment of the Japan­ese Dur­ing WWII

200 Ansel Adams Pho­tographs Expose the Rig­ors of Life in Japan­ese Intern­ment Camps Dur­ing WW II

Dr. Seuss Draws Anti-Japan­ese Car­toons Dur­ing WWII, Then Atones with Hor­ton Hears a Who!

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness