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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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fiction invented a truly marvelous, internally consistent
mythological fantasy world, disguised as science-fiction. His
world comes across as something very rare--vivid and believable. You actually come to believe in a world where cats pilot spaceships and regret that humans are humans, because if they were cats that cat could fall in love with them. Or a prison world in which the inhabitants are condemned for centuries to grow body parts--all over their bodies. Even his titles are great--"Alpha Ralpha Boulevard" and "The Ballard of Lost C'Mell." This is great stuff that will stay in your mind for years, and I highly recommend it.
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Pemberton wrote the document in the late 1870's before his death in 1881, to respond to Johnston's autobiographical NARRATIVE OF MILITARY OPERATIONS. Even after 120 years, the anger and hurt comes through. Johnston had essentially placed the blame for the loss of Vicksburg on Pemberton, citing his incompetence and disobedience of orders. Pemberton takes each of Johnston's eight charges, and argues his side of the case. Smith has made this more understandable for the reader by inserting (in easily distinguishable font and italics) the specific exerpts from the Johnston book to which Pemberton was referring; many of Pemberton's points would have been lost to me without those insertions.
Another specific contribution which Smith made to the manuscript itself was his description of a visit by Davis and Johnston to Pemberton and Vicksburg in December, 1862 (before the Vicksburg Campaign would escalate in the spring and culminate on July 4th). Given the fact that Davis, Johnston, and Pemberton seemed only a few weeks later to have no agreement or common thinking on their strategy, one wonders what they talked about during their several days together. Certainly, they MUST have talked about whether Vicksburg must be held at all costs....but in the spring, Johnston seemed to think not while Davis and Pemberton certainly thought it must. Perhaps they never considered what to do in a siege....but, if not, what were they really expecting Grant to do? He certainly had given no indication of giving up easily! This lost opportunity for strategic alignment echoes through the Pemberton manuscript, as I read it.
For me, Pemberton presents his case in a compelling, convincing, and interesting manner. To my (amateur) reading, he does not often imply that he knew in 1863 everything that he would know when writing in the late 1870's. However, on one occasion, he did allow himself to refer to Johnston as "the great master of retreat", taking advantage of the reputation Johnston would get during his portion of the Atlanta Campaign in 1864.
Johnston does not come out of this book in very good shape. In fact, the picture of Johnston is very reminiscent of that in Jeffrey Lash's DESTROYER OF THE IRON HORSE. In fact, one of Lash's primary examples of Johnston's misuse of the railroads occurred during the Vicksburg Campaign, when he lost of large quantity of Confederate rolling stock and engines by waiting too long to order their movement to safer locations. Smith summarizes Johnston's failure to take any action to relieve Pemberton in Vicksburg by saying that he "either had no intention of acting or was incapable of mustering the courage and energy to face the situation". Personally, it seems to me to have been the latter. The puzzling, frustrating impact of Johnston's inertia comes through clearly in the Pemberton manuscript.
This is an excellent book, very readable and quite interesting. Smith's background chapter will assist the reader who is not familiar with the Vicksburg Campaign to understand it well enough to follow Pemberton's discussion. That understanding is aided by several simple, clear, excellent maps. One does not need to be a military history scholar to appreciate this book. However, as Ed Bearss' introduction makes clear, even the elite class of military history scholars will likely also find this book worth their while.
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Cynthia Bauman
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The publishers did a good job reproducing the photographs, nice detail and tone. Definitely worth the price.