Martin Parr
[Photographer, b. 1952, Epson, Surrey, England, lives in Bristol and London, England.]

 When a mother takes pictures of her children on the beach, she doesn’t take herself for an artist; she does it for love, which is an excellent reason, from my point of view. 

David Douglas Duncan
[Photojournalist, b. 1916, Kansas City, Missouri, lives in Mougins, France.]

 It’s very simple... this banging around with a camera and typewriter as a “business” is just one helluva lot of fun. 

Anders Petersen
[Photographer, b. 1944, Solna, Sweden, lives in Stockholm.]

 That 15th of a second. Once you’ve been there, you keep on wanting to get back. 

Henri Cartier-Bresson
[Photographer and painter, b. 1908, Chanteloup, France, d. 2004, Paris.]

 The only thing about photography which interests me is the aim, the taking aim. 

Richard Prince
[Artist, b. 1949, Panama Canal Zone, lives in New York.]

 We do not make art. We have unnamable motors and dangerous impulses that occupy our thoughts. 

Brian Duffy
[Photographer, b. 1933, London, d. 2010, London.]

 I thought, Gawd this looks dead easy compared to the drawing lark. I’ll give this a whiz. Take up photography as an easy way to make money. Just my sort of thing—women, gadgets, clothes—I must have a go at it. 

Arthur Tress
[Photographer, b. 1940, Brooklyn, New York, lives in Cambria, California.]

 Photography is my method for defining the confusing world that rushes constantly toward me. It is my defensive attempt to reduce our daily chaos to a set of understandable images. 

Joel-Peter Witkin
[Photographer, b. 1939, Brooklyn, New York, lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.]

 My first conscious recollection was when I was 6 years old. It happened on a Sunday when my mother was escorting my twin brother and me down the steps of the tenement where we lived. We were going to church. While walking through the hallway to the entrance of the building, we heard an incredible crash mixed with screaming and cries for help. The accident had involved three cars, all with families in them. Somehow, in the confusion, I was no longer holding my mother’s hand. At the place where I stood at the curb, I could see something rolling from one of the overturned cars. It stopped at the curb where I stood. It was the head of a little girl. I bent down to touch the face, to ask it—but before I could touch it—someone carried me away. 
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