Historical Significances

I hope you won't read this as some big pronouncement or hard-and-fast claim. It might constitute an assertion, of sorts, but I'm not making the assertion aggressively, at all. It's more in the nature of musing—turning ideas over in my mind—.

My thought is that the Caponigros' print will be the only one of our print sales with lasting photo-historical significance.

It has such a clear story. I see it as a future microcosm of 2013—I'll bet even the printing style will one day be recognizably characteristic of the present era. And its status as a rare collaborative work of two well-known photographers who happen to be father and son will never lose interest.

That can't be more than a guess.

My only puzzlement is how to frame mine...and where to put it. Where to put it so I can get to know it.

But I promised to tell the story of my poster.

Many years ago, when I first got bitten (hard) by the photography bug, I was moonlighting part-time in a frame shop. One of the other employees, whom I've long since lost track of, was a talented but impoverished painter. During one of the dead times at the shop he and I were shooting the breeze about our favorite artwork on the walls. "That's the only thing in here that's worth a damn," he said, pointing to this poster.

Curiously, I'd never even noticed it before. It was so visually "quiet" amidst all the louder, more "attention-seeking" work on the walls. I looked at it long and hard that day, wondering what my co-worker saw in it.

It didn't sell; which meant it stayed on the wall, while the "Hang In There Baby!" cat and a certain Fred Maroon photo of Georgetown in the snow flew out of the store, replenished again and again. (This happened back in D.C., where I lived for many years.) I found myself looking at it day after day, and, as I did, it began to grow on me. I began to find a sort of peace and nourishment in the simple forms, the delicate tones, the way the stones mutely conjured a mysterious bygone world. Eventually it was like it was the only poster on the shop walls, the only one I saw; it was the only one I wanted to look at.

At the end of a month or so, I found myself one day walking the two miles between home and the shop, deep in thought, probably feeling sorry for myself for having to work all evening after already working an eight-hour day. But one good thing I could look forward to, I thought, was that at least I could visit "my" poster yet again. Then the thought flashed across my mind—if no one's bought it!

I put a down payment on it that day; I think it took me another thirty days to finish paying for it. I lived in a run-down group house at the time, and I painted my room there at my own expense, picking the color entirely to show off the poster. That would have been about 32 years ago now. (It even looked good in moonlight.)

The poster taught me a lesson, too. That many photographs (many advertising images, for instance) are deliberately intended to catch the eye and provide immediate gratification—but their appeal is often quickly exhausted; and some of the best photographs grow on you slowly , and yet continue to reward long familiarity. I still like photographs that have staying power, and it's something I look for in photographs.

Some music is the same way. I'm sure you know of catchy ditties that you loved on first hearing but soon got sick of, and other music that you almost didn't hear at first but have grown to love, and can return to again and again.

The other thing is did is that it introduced me to the work of Paul Caponigro, whose work in books I soon became very familiar with. Unfortunately, I've never seen a show of Paul's original prints, but I did see a few originals when I published a portfolio of his work in one of the magazines I worked for. Maybe one day I'll finally catch up with one of his shows.

There's always something to look forward to in photography.

And oddly enough, when I had my bedroom painted a few weeks ago, I once again chose the color specifically to set off this poster, just like I did in that grimy group house 32 years ago.

Mike
(Thanks to MM)

Original contents copyright 2013 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site.

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(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:

Steve D: "Thank you for this. It's timely for me. I'm in my third year of taking photographs (as something other than mere snapshots) and I've noticed that the images I return to again and again are not what I would have 'expected' to gravitate to when I started out. They are not flashy or particularly eye catching but they've 'got me.' I've been trying to verbalize the 'why' of my feelings but it simply escapes me. I like them on an almost primal level and that's that I suppose."

Robert Billings: "I too have a Paul Caponigro poster that has been with me wherever I have lived since the early 1970s. 'Running White Deer, Ireland 1967.'"

Comments

[Jack]

Now that you have the dual print posted at the top of TOP, I like it even more.

I am thinking of changing the color of my computer screen to match your wall too.

[Michael T.]

Bravo! The video is spectacular! thank you!

[Gary Nylander]

Good story, Mike. It makes me wonder if some of today's photographs with what I think are overly photoshopped images, will have the staying power of the Paul Caponigro print that you fell in love with.

[james poyner]

Gary's point is well made and illustrated beautifully by the Photoshopped & Nikfiltered work of Kevin Raber currently showing on luminous-landscape. Compare & contrast, as teacher would say

[paul richardson]

Great video. Talk about less being more...

[Kenneth Tanaka]

Thank you for posting this video of Paul Caponigro, Mike. I'd not seen it, nor have I had the pleasure of meeting Paul or hearing him speak. A transcript of Paul's remarks would be a wonderful read in itself. For examples:

"Minor [White] would photograph not only for what things are but for what else they are."

"In order to be a good photographer you need to work more on your emotions than you do on your technique."

And my favorite, regarding how some photographers seem to over-analyze their work:

"...blah, blah, blah. Too much noise. I like surprises."

Paul Caponigro's visual skills, his craftsmanship, and his overall spirit as a photographic artist represent the motor of the bus that has carried, and continues to carry, so many riders to so many destinations.

[Steven House]

I was a bit worried about the video as it looked as if it was just an ad for a camera. It had no caption and wasn't referenced in the text. I thought the comment by 'Mike' above was sarcastic.

Some people might have missed it because of this. I nearly did.

[Jim Simmons]

It's the same with our own work. I can return to contact sheets from many years ago and see images that make me think, "Why did I never see this one before?" So I'll pop the neg in the scanner, make a print, and voila - an old acquaintance becomes a new friend.

[Pak-Ming Wan]

Listen to that man! What a voice and just so eloquently put. Wow.

I'm also now realising that I'm reading a website written mostly by someone who spent weeks looking over the same photo, before falling in love with it, paying it off over a month, then painting the wall that he wanted to put it on.

I tip my hat because I'm not sure my dedication is that absolute!

Pak

btw: This print sale didn't grab me until I saw it on John Paul's web site, slightly larger. It's like I'm looking out of two windows in the same room, in the same house, and I'm seeing two different worlds. But my mind keeps telling me that I'm in the same house... what a mystery. Pity this month is for paying taxes here in France :(

[Bear.]

Lovely post Mike. I wasn't going to splurge on this TOP sale. I couldn't like the images on my screen - but you got this little voice nagging away inside me that I shouldn't prejudge, and I should look again. Oh well. If I don't like it, I can put it in the cellar (appropriately stored) and hope that it ages gracefully - or maybe I should hope that I do.