Directorial Technique in Documentary I (8/30/08)

“ . . . the true nature of things may be said to lie not in things themselves, but in the relationships which we construct, and then perceive, between them.”

* Terence Hawkes, Structuralism and Semiotics

 

The use of the directorial mode in photography extends beyond Pictorialism. As Sontag contends, the concept of “realism” needn’t be limited to pure, totally objective reportage. Documentarians are expected to function as sociologists with cameras, which tends to obscure the artistic ambitions of influential figures such as Lange and Evans. 

Journalists regularly pose portrait subjects, or choose certain angles to create an emphasis consistent with their personal vision. Alexander Gardner moved the body of a Confederate soldier for compositional effect to make his famous Home of a Rebel Sharpshooter.  Paul Strand virtually cast his book on an Italian village, having the town mayor line up the residents so he could pick out the most photogenic. Freelancing for the Los Angeles Times, I was instructed to carry light stands, umbrellas, and other equipment normally associated with studio work. In fact, it’s safe to say that in newspapers and newsmagazines, other than the occasional feature essay, the only non-directorial photographs are “spot news,” live performance, or sports action.

Documenting relief and development programs in Africa, my priority was to locate and make images of natural, candid events and moments. However, I would occasionally need to arrange a few things, in order to illustrate the points I needed to make about water development, education, medical, street children or refugee issues. In doing so, I experienced no guilt: I felt that the ends justified the means. Purism was fine, but there was a greater message that I wanted to communicate. The photograph of the Ugandan woman standing in front of an abandoned Russian tank was “staged” only in the sense that I brought the woman to the tank. The woman lived in close proximity to this monument of civil destruction and violence, where I found her selling fruit along the road north of Kampala. She came forward on her own when I asked if someone would stand by the tank for my camera. Using a gentle approach, I was able to convey the sincerity of my intentions, and she reacted in a cooperative and natural manner. The defiant posture caught on film was entirely her own, and it was not until later that I recognized the additional poignancy lent to the image by her pregnancy.

Photograph by Fremenitos Stefanos

An extreme example of the directorial mode is shown in a dramatic image staged and photographed by Stefano Fremenitos, a former soldier I met while running a photography workshop for the government of Eritrea in 1992. The placement of the skull of a fallen African, on top of the American food relief drum set directly beside a Soviet shell, provides a classic metaphor of the effect of the Cold War on the countries caught in the middle. It is also an indication of the universality of the directorial imperative in documentary photography, particularly when there are persuasive motivations involved. The negative for this photo is one among more than ten thousand taken by rebel photographers, developed and printed in makeshift darkrooms without the simple luxury of piped water. Stored in virtual anonymity in government offices in Asmara, only a handful of people outside of Eritrea have seen these images.

Walker Evans, with a well-deserved reputation as the “exemplar of documentary styling,” also employed directorial methods in his depiction of social realism. HIs 1972 statement, “You don’t touch a thing. You manipulate if you like when you frame a picture, one foot one way or one foot another. But you are not sticking anything in,” does not stand up to scrutiny, particularly when applied to Evans’ images of Alabama sharecroppers in 1936, which resulted in his most influential work, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. In pursuit of an artful rendering of reality, the photographer often arranged subject matter and posed his subjects. In some of his best compositions, depicting the interiors of the sharecroppers’ homes, household items and furniture were rearranged at his insistence.  “I can’t stand a bad design or a bad object in a room,” he once admitted. In fairness, Curtis argues that Evans’ intention was not to mislead the public or betray the tenants. By focusing on their strengths and not their frailties, he sought to reveal the order and beauty he believed lay beneath the surface of their poverty. His efforts to ennoble and dignify the sharecroppers necessitated a departure from his credo, as Evans imposed his own love of neatness and symmetry on their lives.