DOI article:
Horace Traubel, Horace Traubel on Photography
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.31335#0079
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HORACE TRAUBEL ON PHOTOGRAPHY*
A FRIEND of mine who was skeptical on the subject of free verse came
into my office one day and said: “I say, old man, read me one of your
so-called poems: Pd like to hear how it sounds in your voice.” He
picked up Optimos and selected a poem whose title line appealed to him. I
said: “I’m a rotten reader, but I’ll do as you say.” I read the poem. When
I was through his eyes were full of tears. I said: “Well?” He brought his
fist down on my desk with a bang. “I admit that you got there!” he ex-
claimed, “but by God it’s not a poem!” I only said: “I’m satisfied to have
got there: I don’t care what you call it.” Another man, under similar circum-
stances, said to me: “You arrive in your own way, but I object to having the
word poem prostituted to such uses.” I only said again: “Well—you can
have your word: I’m only interested in arriving.” I hear people say: “Pho-
tography’s photography: remember, it’s not art.” I call it art. But I don’t
fight for the word. If you say it’s not art you are welcome to your word. But
does photography get there? Art to me is communication. It’s not the thing
communicated but the process of communication. It applies everywhere as
well as anywhere. To inventions as well as to pictures. To sailing a vessel
as well as to playing the violin. As I looked over these Stieglitz pictures I
didn’t need to ask myself: Do they get there? They got there. My recog-
nition was ahead of my question. After that they were art to me. But if you
come along and quarrel over my use of the word, I get out of your way and let
you have your sacrosanct word all to yourself. Something in Stieglitz reaches
to something in me through these pictures. I’m not nearly so much interested
in the pictures as in that thing in Stieglitz and that thing in me. You edge
up and ask me whether I’m aware that the camera’s a machine. Certainly.
And I’m also aware that Stieglitz is another machine. And I’m a machine.
And the man who kicks is a machine. But Stieglitz is also a man. And when
I look at these pictures I think somehow that the machine is also somehow a
man. And in the beauty of what I’m admiring and loving, I can’t tell where
the machine in either case stops and where the man begins. There are such
delicate and subtle interactions I stand baffled before the result. I don’t need
your precious word. I can get along without it. I do adopt it in my own
way. But it’s not a fighting word to me. I’d rather have some photographs
than some paintings. Some photographs say more to my heart than some
paintings. Some say more to my brain and body. Many photographs are
alive. And most paintings are dead. You call a book art. But what could
be deader than most books ? And you hand your word out to the interpreters.
But when I go through CameraWork, and see how much the photograph can do.
I am almost afraid to go into the galleries and see how little painting and sculp-
ture can do. And then I ask, how it is the mere machine can outdo the mere
man? Mind you, I’m not against paint and canvas. I recognize their valid
*From the July Number of The Conservator (Horace Traubel, Camden, N. J.).
49
A FRIEND of mine who was skeptical on the subject of free verse came
into my office one day and said: “I say, old man, read me one of your
so-called poems: Pd like to hear how it sounds in your voice.” He
picked up Optimos and selected a poem whose title line appealed to him. I
said: “I’m a rotten reader, but I’ll do as you say.” I read the poem. When
I was through his eyes were full of tears. I said: “Well?” He brought his
fist down on my desk with a bang. “I admit that you got there!” he ex-
claimed, “but by God it’s not a poem!” I only said: “I’m satisfied to have
got there: I don’t care what you call it.” Another man, under similar circum-
stances, said to me: “You arrive in your own way, but I object to having the
word poem prostituted to such uses.” I only said again: “Well—you can
have your word: I’m only interested in arriving.” I hear people say: “Pho-
tography’s photography: remember, it’s not art.” I call it art. But I don’t
fight for the word. If you say it’s not art you are welcome to your word. But
does photography get there? Art to me is communication. It’s not the thing
communicated but the process of communication. It applies everywhere as
well as anywhere. To inventions as well as to pictures. To sailing a vessel
as well as to playing the violin. As I looked over these Stieglitz pictures I
didn’t need to ask myself: Do they get there? They got there. My recog-
nition was ahead of my question. After that they were art to me. But if you
come along and quarrel over my use of the word, I get out of your way and let
you have your sacrosanct word all to yourself. Something in Stieglitz reaches
to something in me through these pictures. I’m not nearly so much interested
in the pictures as in that thing in Stieglitz and that thing in me. You edge
up and ask me whether I’m aware that the camera’s a machine. Certainly.
And I’m also aware that Stieglitz is another machine. And I’m a machine.
And the man who kicks is a machine. But Stieglitz is also a man. And when
I look at these pictures I think somehow that the machine is also somehow a
man. And in the beauty of what I’m admiring and loving, I can’t tell where
the machine in either case stops and where the man begins. There are such
delicate and subtle interactions I stand baffled before the result. I don’t need
your precious word. I can get along without it. I do adopt it in my own
way. But it’s not a fighting word to me. I’d rather have some photographs
than some paintings. Some photographs say more to my heart than some
paintings. Some say more to my brain and body. Many photographs are
alive. And most paintings are dead. You call a book art. But what could
be deader than most books ? And you hand your word out to the interpreters.
But when I go through CameraWork, and see how much the photograph can do.
I am almost afraid to go into the galleries and see how little painting and sculp-
ture can do. And then I ask, how it is the mere machine can outdo the mere
man? Mind you, I’m not against paint and canvas. I recognize their valid
*From the July Number of The Conservator (Horace Traubel, Camden, N. J.).
49
