Saul Leiter: The Centennial Retrospective

Late last month, I invested in a copy of Saul Leiter: The Centennial Retrospective, compiled by Margit Erb and Michael Parillo with contributions by Michael Greenberg, Adam Harrison Levy, Lou Stoppard, and Asa Hiramatsu. It was probably one of the best investments I’ve made for my practice of photography in quite some time.

Why? Let me approach that question with some context.

When I read about doing street photography, the tone that I most often encounter is one of fearlessness and boldness. And usually that applies to photographing people on the street.

Ben Long dedicates a few pages of his Complete Digital Photography to street photography. It’s “the scariest type of shooting for most people. Approaching strangers and taking their picture can be terrifying.” Street candids “can be very intimidating” and fear-inducing to shoot. “It will be scary, and it will continue to be scary for quite a while.” There’s no way around it “other than to face it and dive in” (seventh edition, p. 302).

After encouraging his reader to “discover your identity as an artist” and to “be inspired” by steeping oneself in the literature of photography—all good advice—Joel Meyerowitz dedicates the third chapter of How I Make Photographs to instilling confidence in the prospective street photographer. “Own the Street” is the chapter’s title. “You have a right to be in public spaces, so shoot with confidence.” To those who may feel shy with camera in hand, he writes that “you must have an appetite for life on the street. The street is chaos. If you are comfortable in chaos, you’ll find your way.” And in anticipation of one’s fear of conflict if they take a photograph of someone on the street, Meyerowitz adds that “a simple smile and being good-humoured goes a long way” (p. 17).

In his Street Photographer’s Manual, David Gibson writes, “I am often asked if people have ever objected to being photographed by me on the street. This is a loaded question and immediately tells me that the question comes from someone who is anxious about photographing people.” One needs to undo this mindset completely because otherwise one is not doing street photography properly. “You cannot do street photography if you are anxious about people’s reactions” (p. 20).

Later, Gibson writes about Bruce Gilden, who gets close—very close—but who does so with empathy and without the intention to cause conflict. He distinguishes Gilden from other photographers who might revel in “the ‘combat’ rush of adrenalin.” “So get close,” Gibson encourages his reader, but do so without the intention to cause agitation. “If you get stopped taking photographs, you’re doing something wrong.” Likewise, “if you’re in a workshop that deals with knowing your legal rights and handling resentment, it’s the wrong workshop” (p. 49).

To be sure, Gibson dedicates a significant amount of his Street Photographer’s Manual to discussing possibilities that don’t involve photographing people on the street. His is an open-ended discussion that allows the individual photographer to establish one’s own artistic voice. But consider the nature of doing street photography in comparison to, say, landscape photography. Doing so underscores the nature of using a camera in crowded and busy urban spaces and the confidence that’s often necessary to do it.

Along with Bruce Gilden, other photographers like Garry Winogrand and, at times, Robert Frank showed their fearless, in-your-face approach through their work. They had no hesitation about getting directly in front of people as they snapped a photograph. Winogrand’s work captivates me as much as it makes me doubt whether I could ever replicate his approach myself.

Scary. Intimidating. Chaos. Anxious. Agitation. Confrontation. Resentment. These words describe things that I do not particularly enjoy dealing with. I certainly don’t want to be feeling such things when I pursue a hobby.

When I wander around town with a camera, I realize that I am drawing attention to myself. In the three years that I’ve been seriously pursuing street photography, I’ve never really gotten over that. It’s always sitting in the back of my head. I’m all the more conspicuous when I walk around with my Nikon F, whose large size and chrome finish often draw attention to myself especially when I have it hanging around my neck. When I pass people on the sidewalk, I’ll often exercise that little piece of advice Meyerowitz offered in his book. I’ll attempt to make eye contact with folks and give them a bit of a friendly smile or a nod of acknowledgement. Instead of reciprocating with likewise gestures, what I often see people do instead is glance not at me but instead at my camera.

I’ve written about how I enjoy people photography in spite of the fact that I am not a people person. I’m often moved by first-rate images of people that convey a powerful sense of candidness and spontaneity, yet I rarely care about how a photographer may have engaged those people to begin with.

For my own work, the trick is practicing photography in a way that is true to my personality, which I can’t change and won’t attempt changing. I’ve always been a quiet, behind-the-scenes kind of guy. I like moving through life observing things around me rather than being the center of attention.

All of this is my long-winded approach into talking about one photographer and one book that I found to be a breath of fresh air. More than anything else, Saul Leiter taught me that my contemplative and deliberate personality traits do not hold me back from being a legitimate street photographer. He demonstrated that it’s possible to include people in one’s photography in a way that doesn’t require an in-your-face approach. And he showed me the wonderfully abstract and impressionistic qualities that one could achieve through photography.

Saul Leiter: The Centennial Retrospective is a great overview of Leiter’s career as an artist, one I draw a lot of inspiration from.

When he chose to include people in his photographs, it appears to me that Leiter often did so more as a detached yet keen observer from afar, and he turned that to his advantage. With his camera often fitted with a telephoto lens—the direct opposite to the wide-angle lenses that many street photographers favor—he didn’t lurk. Rather, he used the compression of near and far in interesting and creative ways. He used window reflections, color (which was usual for his time), and blur to add an abstract characteristic to his images in a way that might not be surprising considering that he was an artistic painter as much as he was a photographer. His framing often showed just enough of his subject to lead one’s eye to what little he chose to include without giving too much away. And the fact that he did the overwhelming majority of his work within a handful of blocks from his home reminded me that travel to far-flung destinations isn’t required to do meaningful photography.

Even in his professional work as a fashion photographer, Saul Leiter used these techniques to produce strikingly unconventional images. I suspect many of the best ones never got published in the magazines he shot for.

Seeing Saul Leiter’s work reinforced photographic techniques I had already been exploring on my own: reflections, blur, etc. The sheer volume of examples that Margit Erb and Michael Parillo included in Saul Leiter: The Centennial Retrospective showed me how much more I could do with those techniques. I can’t say enough positive things about this book, and I highly recommend it to anyone looking for inspiration to practice street photography in a unique and refreshing way.