A Picture Says 1,000 Words - Page 97

On August 14, 1945, the news of Japan's surrender was announced in the United States, signaling the end of World War II. Riotous celebrations erupted in the streets, but perhaps none were more relieved than those in uniform. Although many of them had recently returned from victory in
Europe, they faced the prospect of having to ship out yet again, this time to the bloody Pacific.

Among the overjoyed masses gathered in Times Square that day was one of the most talented photojournalists of the 20th century, a German immigrant named Alfred Eisenstaedt. While snapping pictures of the celebration, he spotted a sailor "running along the street grabbing any and every girl in sight." He later explained that, "whether she was a grandmother, stout, thin, old, didn't make any difference."

Of course, a photo of the sailor planting a wet one on a senior citizen wouldn't have made the cover of Life, but when he locked lips with an attractive nurse, the image was circulated in newspapers across the country. Needless to say, "V-J Day" didn't capture a highly anticipated embrace by long-lost lovers, but it also wasn't staged, as many critics have claimed. In any case, the image remains an enduring symbol of America's exuberance at the end of a long struggle.

Some claim photography can be divided into two eras: Before Adams and After Adams. In Times B.A., for instance, photography wasn't widely considered an art form. Rather, photographers attempted to make their pictures more "artistic" (i.e., more like paintings) by subjecting their exposures to all sorts of extreme manipulations, from coating their lenses with petroleum jelly to scratching the surfaces of their negatives with needles. Then came Ansel Adams, helping shutterbugs everywhere get over their collective inferiority complex.

Brashly declaring photography to be "a blazing poetry of the real," Adams eschewed manipulations, claiming they were simply derivative of other art forms. Instead, he preached the value of "pure photography." In an era when handheld point-and-shoot cameras were quickly becoming the norm, Adams and other landscape photographers clung to their bulky, old-fashioned large-format cameras. Ultimately, Adams' pictures turned photography into fine art. What's more, they shaped the way Americans thought of their nation's wilderness and, with that, how to preserve it.

Adams' passion for the land wasn't limited to vistas he framed through the lens. In 1936, he accompanied his photos to Washington to lobby for the preservation of the Kings Canyon area in California. Sure enough, he was successful, and it was declared a national park.

While strange sightings around Scotland's murky Loch Ness date back to 565 C.E., it wasn't until photography reached the Loch that Nessie Fever really took off. The now-legendary (and legendarily blurry) "surgeon's photo," reportedly taken in April of 1934, fueled decades of frenzied speculation, several costly underwater searches, and a local tourism industry that rakes in several million dollars each year.

But the party almost ended in 1994, when a report was published saying that model-maker Christian Spurling admitted to faking the photo. According to Spurling's statement, his stepfather, Marmaduke Wetherell, worked as a big game hunter and had been hired by London's Daily Mail to find the beast. But rather than smoke out the creature, he decided to fake it. Wetherell, joined by Spurling and his son, Ian, built their own monster to float on the lake's surface using a toy submarine and some wood putty. Ian actually took the photo, but to lend more credibility to the story, they convinced an upstanding pillar of the community - surgeon Robert Kenneth Wilson - to claim it as his own. Just goes to prove the old adage, "The camera never lies." People, on the other hand, do.

"Gandhi at his Spinning Wheel," the defining portrait of one of the 20th century's most influential figures, almost didn't happen, thanks to the Mahatma's strict demands. Granted a rare opportunity to photograph India's leader; Life staffer Margaret Bourke-White was all set to shoot when Gandhi's secretaries stopped her cold: If she was going to photograph Gandhi at the spinning wheel (a symbol for India's struggle for independence), she first had to learn to use one herself.

But that wasn't all. The ascetic Mahatma wasn't to be spoken to (it being his day of silence.) And because he detested bright light, Bourke-White was only allowed to use three flashbulbs. Having cleared all these hurdles, however, there was still one more - the humid Indian weather, which wreaked havoc on her camera equipment. When time finally came to shoot, Bourke-White's first flashbulb failed. And while the second one worked, she forgot to pull the slide, rendering it blank.

She thought it was all over, but luckily, the third attempt was successful. In the end, she came away with an image that became Gandhi's most enduring representation. it was also among the last portraits of his life; he was assassinated less than two years later.