Edward Weston
[Photographer, b. 1886, Highland Park, Illinois, d. 1958, Wildcat Hill, California.]

 Art is an interpreter of the inexpressible, and therefore it seems a folly to try to convey its meaning afresh by means of words. 
 She leaned against a whitewashed wall—lips quivering—nostrils dilating—eyes heavy with the gloom of unspent rain clouds—I drew close to her—whispered something and kissed her—a tear rolled down her cheek—and then I captured forever the moment—let me see f.8—1/10 sec. K1 filter—panchromatic film—how brutally mechanical and calculated it sounds—yet how really spontaneous and genuine—for I have so overcome the mechanics of my camera that it functions responsive to my desires—my shutter coordinating with my brain is released in a way—as natural as I might move my arm—I am beginning to approach actual attainment in photography—that in my ego of two or three years ago I thought to have already reached—it will be necessary for me to destroy, to unlearn, and then rebuild upon the mistaken presumptuousness of my past—the moment of our mutual emotion was recorded on the silver—the release of those emotions followed—we passed from the glare of the sun on white walls into Tina’s darkened room—her olive skin and somber nipples were revealed beneath a black mantilla—I drew the lace aside— 
 Ultimately success or failure in photographing people depends on the photographer’s ability to understand his fellow man. 
 What have I, that brings these many women to offer themselves to me? I do not go out of my way seeking them,—I am not a stalwart virile male, exuding sex, nor am I the romantic mooning poet type some love, nor the dashing Don Juan bent on conquest. 
 Anything that excites me for any reason I will photograph; not searching for unusual subject matter, but making the commonplace unusual. 
 The world is full of sloppy bohemians and their work betrays them. 
 I am having another reaction, from my statement that I could go through life with one woman! Ridiculous thought! Imagine never again having the thrill of courting,—the conquest,—new lips to find,—new bodies to caress. It would be analogous to making my last print, nailing it to the wall forever, seeing it there, until I would despise it or no longer notice it was there. 
 It cannot be too strongly emphasized that reflected light is the photograph’s subject matter. 
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