On January 7, 1839, Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre’s process for making permanent, unique images on silver-coated copper plates, known as the daguerreotype, was given freely to the world by the French government. With Daguerre’s formula, anyone could become a photographer, although making a daguerreotype was far from easy or safe. Daguerreotypes must be developed over the lethal fumes of mercury—thus eliminating, by their early death, a number of its practitioners. Daguerre had partnered with Joseph Nicéphore Niépce, whose 1826 image of the view from his studio’s second-floor window, the oldest existing photograph, can be seen at the Ransom Center, University of Texas, Austin.4 Niépce died in 1833, and it was left to Daguerre to bring the daguerreotype to a practical reality.
At the same time, a gentleman scientist in England, William Henry Fox Talbot, was inventing a photographic process based on a paper negative, which would become known as the calotype. His breakthrough came thanks to Sir John Herschel’s advice that he try sodium thiosulfate to fix the image. Although the calotype was not as clear or as sharp as the daguerreotype, multiple prints could be made from its paper negative. After two decades of supremacy, the daguerreotype bowed to its less difficult and less hazardous British cousin, for which a method had been devised to make the silver emulsion stick to glass to create a transparent negative base.5
Beaumont Newhall knew that photography’s roots were in Europe and that a trip there would be essential for the preparation of the planned MoMA exhibition. Elated, he informed his fiancée, Nancy Wynne Parker, that since he now had a stable job, they could be married and their honeymoon underwritten. A graduate of Smith College who was just as passionate about art as Beaumont, Nancy served as art editor of the periodical The New Frontier, worked as a painter and sculptor, and attended classes at New York’s Art Students League.6
Barr and Newhall agreed that an impressive oversight committee should be assembled to assure the photographic community that Photography 1839–1937 would be a serious undertaking. Beaumont first approached Stieglitz, who said no to everything: no, he would not serve on the committee; no, neither the exhibition nor its catalog could be dedicated to him; and no, he would not lend any of his photographs.7
Stieglitz’s initial anger at MoMA had not cooled. And here came another of the museum’s immature young staff, educated in traditional art history, with no real knowledge of photography, arrogantly chosen to describe the medium’s first ninety-eight years. In addition, Stieglitz had predicted MoMA’s usual European bias, and Beaumont’s first priority was, indeed, a trip to the Continent. Not until after Thanksgiving, seven months into the project, did Beaumont turn his focus to American photographers. In the end, seventy-seven photographers were included in the show’s contemporary photography portion; only twenty-seven were from the United States.8
Beaumont attributed a great deal of his enthusiasm about photography to Ansel’s 1935 book Making a Photograph.9 In his 1993 autobiography, Newhall called it a “staggering” book and said that after reading it, he had become an adherent of straight photography.10 Ansel replied quickly and affirmatively to Beaumont’s invitation to participate in the show, contributing not only his own work but an album of albumen prints by the great nineteenth-century photographer Timothy O’Sullivan that he had been recently given by Francis Farquhar.
From its opening on Saint Patrick’s Day 1937, Photography 1839–1937 was huge both in size (841 pieces) and in success. Entry was gained through a camera obscura, a darkened room fitted with a lens that projected the scene outside on one wall (in this case, the receptionist at the museum’s information desk). The reviewer for the New York Times advised, “After that you emerged . . . prepared for whatever the exhibition might unfold.”11 While most praised the show, the New York Sun’s critic mourned, “They say that if you are lost at sea, you should swim with the tide. I suppose I shall have to swim with the modern museum and give up paintings—at least temporarily—until this second edition of the dark ages has passed and we shall have been blessed with another Renaissance.”12
Photography 1839–1937 served notice that photography had arrived as a field of serious endeavor for both artist and historian. Beaumont’s catalog for the exhibit, published in an edition of three thousand copies, soon sold out. Such an all-inclusive history was clearly needed, and he set to work on a better book.
Just as Making a Photograph had spurred on Beaumont, Ansel himself, after viewing the traveling version of Photography 1839–1937 in San Francisco, was inspired to write “The Expanding Photographic Universe: A New Conception of Photography as a Form of Expression,” his chapter in the book Miniature Camera Work.13 Stieglitz congratulated him on this essay; it is not surprising that he liked it, since in it Ansel drew a comparison between Stieglitz’s photographs and the frescoes of Michelangelo.
More glad tidings came Ansel’s way. He was offered total sponsorship of a book of his Sierra landscapes by Walter Starr, a longtime leader of the Sierra Club. The book was to be a memorial to Starr’s son, Walter, Jr., nicknamed Pete, who had loved the Sierra more than anything and had fallen to his death while solo climbing in the Minarets.14 At the time of his death, Pete had nearly finished his definitive Starr’s Guide to the John Muir Trail and the High Sierra Region, which his father completed and had published.15
Sierra Nevada: The John Muir Trail finally gave Ansel the chance to demonstrate in book form what he could do in photography. The subject matter was all his, and Starr was committed to the best production quality money could buy. Although it was the winter of 1937 and he was still struggling with the demons of depression, Ansel impatiently waited for the winter snows to lift so that the Sierra could become accessible to his lens. In early July, he took off for Tuolumne Meadows and then into the Minarets. He returned home with 350 large-format exposures.16
Word came that Edward Weston had been awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship, the first for a photographer. Supported by its two-thousand-dollar stipend, Edward, accompanied by his companion Charis Wilson (they would marry two years later), would have the opportunity to photograph the American West from April 1, 1937, until April 1, 1938.17 Completely proud and happy for his colleague, Ansel offered assistance of all kinds and begged the couple to come to Yosemite so he could take them off to the High Sierra, where Edward had never been.
Edward and Charis’s first concern was how to ration their funds so that they could live for one whole year. Knowing they would have to camp, Ansel advised them on the absolute essentials: a two-man tent, sleeping bags, a tarp, and a simple set of pans and dishes. When they inquired as to where they could obtain dehydrated vegetables, Ansel scoffed, dismissing those as inedible. After years of personal experience, he had determined that the staples of a camping pantry were salt, sugar, bacon, flour, jelly beans, and whiskey.18
That May, Ansel and Virginia busily made ready Best’s Studio for the first summer season under their management, following Harry Cassie Best’s death the previous October.19 The permit to operate the concession had expired with Best, but the Park Service granted Ansel and Virginia a one-year extension on a closely supervised trial basis.
Ansel vowed that the gallery would serve as a showpiece of what a responsible concession should be in a national park. First they rid the studio of all cheap gewgaws, a sizable portion of Harry’s inventory. Then they divided the studio into two rooms, the first selling books, cameras, film, and postcards and providing a photo-finishing service, and the second designated an art gallery. Ansel encouraged painters and photographers to interpret Yosemite so that Best’s Studio could then exhibit their work.
But what almost immediately brought in nearly ten thousand dollars a year was the sale of about a hundred different Yosemite images of Ansel’s, printed by an assistant in massive numbers.20 Prices depended on size and ranged from $1 (or three for $2.50), to $1.50 (three for $4), to a high of $4 apiece. These “special-edition prints” were anathema to the sales practices of Stieglitz. What Ansel termed his “exhibit prints,” made
and signed by him and suitable for museum exhibition, were priced from $10 to $25.21
Committed to achieving the highest quality possible in all aspects of the business, Ansel secured the Meriden Gravure Company of Connecticut to print the black-and-white postcards that sold for three for ten cents. He meanwhile discontinued the lucrative practice of photographing people at Mirror Lake, believing that it distracted from the quality of the experience for those visiting that lovely spot.
Arriving in Yosemite on July 20 for their promised High Sierra sojourn, Edward and Charis found Ansel’s new, automated darkroom boasting printers and dryers as well as a full-time photographic assistant, Imogen Cunningham’s son Rondal (Ron) Partridge, who bragged about the equipment, “You just sit down and watch [it] work.”22 Ansel’s setup stood in sharp contrast to Edward’s own photographic simplicity: Weston did not even possess an enlarger, but used just a bare lightbulb to expose the negative in its printing frame.
Despite their planned early departure the next morning, they were a party-hearty crew of six, with the inclusion of Ron and two young mountain climbers named David Brower and Morgan Harris. Virginia, as usual, stayed at home to look after the studio and the children. Everyone fell into bed after midnight and was out the door before six in order to make the one-way-at-a-time control of traffic over the Tioga Pass to Mono Basin.
Marveling at the granite-domed landscape about Tenaya Lake, with its junipers improbably rooted in the slightest of cracks, Edward itched to set up his camera, but Ansel had not scheduled time for photographing along the way. They pressed on to Mono Lake and then down Highway 395 to the turnoff for Mammoth Lakes and beyond, parking at Agnew Meadows. They loaded the three mules that were waiting for them, then headed off under foot power to their campsite overlooking Lake Ediza, six miles away and at an elevation of ten thousand feet.
Charis was but twenty-four years old, twenty-eight years younger than Edward, but the altitude affected her more than it did anyone else. A great sleepiness came over her, and she had to be prodded up the trail. She was conscious enough to notice the swarms of mosquitoes, although Ansel reassured her that there would be none at Lake Ediza because it was too high for them. Her account of their first evening is delightful:
Ansel had explained the mosquitoes on our arrival: these were just the few that had followed us up; when they were annihilated all would be well. We had killed ten thousand apiece now, so Ansel offered a new theory: they didn’t like smoke; as soon as we got the fire started we would have peace. A big campfire was built before the tent, a smaller cooking fire near by. Oh, how those varmints hated smoke! Just had to call all their uncles and cousins to come play in it, too. Ansel made a last effort: they would go away at night when it got too cold.23
The mosquitoes never relented for the entire week of their trip. Charis wrapped a sweater about her head and tied the sleeves under her chin. She coated her face with applications of lemon juice and refused to wash after she determined that the combination of built-up grime and citrus proved an effective deterrent. Edward photographed a grim Charis, squatting exhausted on the rough ground, knees akimbo, face deadpan for the camera.24
Ansel and Edward worked independently, going off each morning with cameras and tripods. Edward found it tough to load his eight-by-ten-inch film holders in the required safety of a film-changing bag; in an act of great friendship (as any view-camera photographer would tell you), Ansel volunteered to load both his and Edward’s holders each night while Charis and Edward protected him as best they could from those dastardly mosquitoes. Evenings ended with convivial hot toddies.
Ansel made at least three photographs on this trip that he deemed worthy of the upcoming book, including one taken the very last day at the Devil’s Postpile, an unusual basalt cliff composed of geometric columnar shafts.25 All three of these images are descriptive, not transforming. Edward made a couple of pictures of note, but as he had predicted, a return trip to Tenaya Lake later that year would yield even more.
On July 26, they hiked out, camping their last night at Red’s Meadow. Edward cooked dinner. Although he lived a self-described simple life, Edward took certain creature comforts very seriously, notably sex, coffee, and food. That night, Edward created a stew loyally described as “succulent” by Charis.26
EDWARD WESTON’S
RED’S MEADOW STEW
Place in iron skillet:
one can beef stew
one can corned beef hash
one can tomatoes
one can sugar peas
Simmer until reduced and thickened.
After a last full day of photographing, they headed back over the Tioga Pass, arriving in Yosemite at ten o’clock at night. Not knowing when to expect them, Virginia had roasted two chickens hours earlier, which they attacked with relish. Suddenly, they heard shouts of “Fire!” Everyone sprang from the table and rushed outside to see flames crackling through the roof of Ansel’s new darkroom. Ansel and Edward locked eyes. Ansel just said one word: “Negatives!” One brave soul climbed up to the roof and forced a fire hose down into the burning interior, then someone else wielded a fire extinguisher.27
Ansel, Edward, Charis, and Ron grabbed boxes and boxes of negatives. All had been stored in paper envelopes that offered scant protection. Some smoldered; others were charred at the edges. A bathtubful of water was drawn and armload after armload gently laid in, steam rising while Ansel carefully sorted through the damage, saving what he could.28
Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Ansel suggested that they call it a night.29 They trooped back and raided Virginia’s refrigerator, then settled down with drinks to unwind. Ansel took his glass to the piano and played and played and played all the Bach he could remember. Charis recalled that “of the group, Ansel looked least like a ruined man.”30 A few months later, Edward would write to Ansel, “You, and your work, mean a lot to me. Realize that I have almost no one who speaks my language.”31 Ansel felt exactly the same way about Edward.
A small can of Eastman Kodak ribbon magnesium, Ansel’s old nemesis, had been set on the shelf directly behind the dry-mount press. The Zeiss Camera Company in Germany had sent a darkroom assistant to Yosemite in appreciation of the articles Ansel had written for them. A rigid Teutonic soul who had not endeared himself to anyone, this assistant was the guilty party.32 It does not take much heat to ignite magnesium, which goes off in a small explosion.
At least five thousand negatives were destroyed that night, primarily work for YP&CC and his early soft-focus plates.33 The fire charred the top edge of Monolith’s glass plate; from then on, Ansel had to crop, or cut off, that portion of the image whenever he made a print. In the early 1930s, he had used nitrate-based film, negatives made on which, such as Frozen Lake and Cliffs, are highly flammable. By chance, these were stored at some distance from the blaze; if they had been set on fire, Ansel probably would have lost everything.
The negative of Clearing Winter Storm, which would become one of his most famous photographs, nearly burned up. During the fire, its eight-by-ten-inch film negative got quite warm, and when it was plunged into the bathtub, water spots took up permanent residency. Clearing Winter Storm’s sky is generally blurry, the film grain reticulated to a greater extent than normal, possibly due to the negative’s exposure to heat just below its combustion point. Ansel always disliked printing this negative and made few prints from it for many years. But when people saw Clearing Winter Storm, they clamored for it. Ansel was pushed to make many prints over the years, the numbers beginning their climb with its appearance as an eight-by-ten-inch contact print in Portfolio III: Yosemite Valley published in 1960 in an edition of 208.
Beginning in 1916, Ansel had repeatedly photographed from the elevated vantage of Inspiration Point, with the length of Yosemite Valley spread in front of his lens, before finally making this, his most satisfying visualization of that scene. Weather proved to be everything to Clearing Winter Storm. From the lip of a great swoop of cliff, glazed with snow,
the brilliantly white Bridalveil Fall plunges in a long, thin line. These forms on the right of the photograph balance El Capitan on the left, its face partially veiled in gray, vaporous mists. Clouds modulate the scene, extending far down the valley and obscuring Half Dome but adding a soft texture to the normal hardness of a place formed of granite.
Ansel was notoriously bad at dating his own negatives, believing that dates were of no importance to his creative work, although he kept immaculate records of each negative’s f.stop, lens, and exposure. Over time, Ansel forgot that Clearing Winter Storm’s negative had been through the fire, and erroneously dated the photograph 1944 in show after show and book after book.34 But in 1945, he wrote a letter to the director of the art museum in St. Louis to explain that the print of Clearing Winter Storm he was sending needed to be framed under glass immediately upon arrival because its negative had been “water-marked” in his darkroom fire a few years earlier. Because of that damage, each print he made from it needed a large amount of spotting, which would not be detectable under glass.35
Dr. Donald W. Olson is an astronomer and professor of physics at Texas State University who teaches a course that requires students to date significant works of art, literature, and historical events using physics and astronomy. They have worked with a few of Ansel’s photographs, traveling to Yosemite to make the essential measurements and observations. At first a moon in the picture was required, but then Don began using meteorological records, adding in the effects of sunlight and the angles of shadows in the prints. I assisted him on discovering when Clearing Winter Storm was made. Our facts: Ansel said it was made in December and that it first rained and then turned into a snowfall that he knew would quickly melt; the negative for Clearing Winter Storm had to have been created in the winter; it had to be before the July 1937 darkroom fire; and he could not have made it in the winter of 1936–1937 because he spent almost all of that time in San Francisco, much of it in the hospital. He was in Yosemite for the Christmas holidays in 1935. He probably arrived, as was his tradition, in early December to begin work on that year’s Bracebridge Dinner performance. By January 3, he was exhausted and stayed two nights in the Yosemite hospital for its peace and quiet, away from his noisy children. He soon left for San Francisco and then on to the East Coast.
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