I bought a new printer, a Canon PRO-1100, which I quickly discovered was able to produce prints that looked better than those on my old unreliable Epson printer. At about the same time improvements in Adobe Lightroom and Topaz Photo AI, were able, via software, to bring out details and colors that neither the printer nor earlier versions of the software were able to reproduce. In other words, my photos looked better, much more like what I envisioned when I first pressed the shutter button.
With time and the will on my side I began looking at images that I had taken over more than the last fifty years, both favorites and overlooked photographs that I had saved but hadn’t printed. I saw all of them in a new light and began to critically examine, then print these images, none of which had come from work, all from travels around the world and through the US.
What i do is both solitary, and at times, a bit lonely. I see things that demand to be photographed, that I can’t ignore. I reduce three dimensional things to two, arrest motion, then capture the remainder with the camera. It may be an event, a person’s expression, a play of light, a meaningful juxtaposition of some kind, a burst of sunlight on a blossom, a bird in flight, just something that announces its presence to me, that grabs my attention. In the hands of skilled and sensitive photographers what they capture can convey an undiscovered meaning to the lay person. The truth of a thing lies in the interpretation.
Not just a cat, but all cats. Looking out a window, indifferent to the bending slats in the blinds, this cat reveals what is commonly known about cats in general. It’s a truth about cats.
Sometimes truths are revealed only by studying a thing over some time. In this neighborhood flower I studied the shapes of each flower, their relationship to each other, then anthropomorphized it, seeing uplifting joy and happiness, a truth that passersby might miss.
Sometimes truth is revealed without the photographer knowing it. It was only after I saw this image on my screen that I realized how much it said about motorcycles and motorcyclists, the open road, and riding.
The Solitary Part. Although the search, the discovery, and the actual capture belong to the shooters, they want others to share in what they’ve done, eat the fish they caught, appreciate the goal they just scored. Some things are meant to be shared. Yes, even if no one ever saw my images I would still look for them. It’s not something I can turn on or off. Writers need readers. Books are incomplete without readers. I need for someone to look at images that bring me pleasure, images that tell truths, that reveal something about the world as I see and understand it.
So I called MoMA, hoping to get an audience with someone in their photography department. No one called. I gathered forty images together and took BART over last week, hoping to leave them. They wouldn’t take them, not wanting to be responsible. The manager suggested that I email them a second time. I did.
“To Whom, etc…
I emailed the general office a couple of weeks ago, asking if someone(s) in your department might be willing to look at a selection of mages that I’ve created over the past fifty years or so. When I didn’t hear from you I took it upon myself to drive to MoMA and bring prints with me. This morning (the 23rd) I talked to the museum’s manager. She told me that they couldn’t accept any images, as they didn’t want the responsibility of taking care of them. She suggested that I email you directly. I showed her (and one of the gentlemen behind the counter) several of the images, and your manager suggested first that I email you again, and second that she would photograph my personal information and, after seeing the images, encouraged me to continue to see if I can get audience wi6h you.
I’m 79. I’ve been slavishly devoted to photography for my adult life, making a living at it for much of that time. Although nothing is off the table, I love photographing people, especially those whose presence in an image reveals truth. I’m only asking that someone else looks at these. My family and friends have seen them all. I recognize that photographers can easily overvalue their work, and I think I’ve been careful enough to assemble some that reveal more than what’s depicted.
I can be found at...
David Buchholz
510-847-1715
So this next part could be a bit of a whine, but I’ll try to smooth it out a bit. I would love or would have loved it if anyone in my family, those who know I’m trying to show images at MoMa, would have asked, “Can I see those images? Why did you choose those? What’s in them that make you think that they’re worth considering? Why do these mean so much to you?"
And maybe I couldn’t have answered them in words. That’s the reason I pick up my camera in the first place.
I found an email that I had written to my cousin Donald in 2019, a musician who has had as much success with his songwriting and recordings as I’ve had with the kind of images I’ve referenced above:
“What your brother said about “running in the family” is true, but only in part. Some people—you, Bob, Susie, Bill, Jason, Dick and Sarah—think about such things, but many don’t. When John was a little kid we took all of our kids to see the Impressionists. Jason and Jennifer described paintings that they liked. John said, “I hated them all.” Andrew and Jennifer don’t take their kids to art museums—hiking, natural history—but art? Same with John. Jack? Not a chance. He is either indifferent or doesn’t understand what I’m doing or trying to do. Jadyne knows it means a lot to me, and that’s the extent of her interest.
I’m not looking as much for praise as the understanding from others that what I’m trying to do, however successfully or unsuccessfully, is part of who I am, and that ignoring it altogether might come from several different sources—indifference, an inability to relate to that part of what it is to have an artistic temperament, and perhaps a number of other places. And “an artistic temperament” doesn’t mean that I’m any good at it. It just indicates that producing, however good or bad, is part of who we are.
In the past I felt disappointment that I didn’t hear. I continue to send out stuff. I’m no longer disappointed. However, when I do hear, even just a word or two that acknowledges what I’ve done, I simply appreciate it. I think that some might believe (this is speculation) that I’m just fishing for praise. For those who take the care to simply indicate that they’ve looked at it, that’s enough. For those who take the trouble to try to understand, it’s most appreciated. Even negative comments. It means that someone cared enough to see them.