Elliott’s Way

[This post first appeared a couple of days ago on From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace, the blog of my good friend Paul O’Mahony. When he heard I was going to the US to hear one of my heroes speak, he encouraged me to write about the experience. I’m glad he did.]

On Meeting Elliott Erwitt

Inevitably, somebody fell for it.

“What’s with the egg?” a lady in the audience asked.

“What egg?” Elliott Erwitt responded.

“You have a fried egg on your lapel.”

“I have a fried egg on my lapel?!”

It’s a fake, bought in Japan and pinned on to Erwitt’s dark blazer because he “likes to be interesting”.

Elliott Erwitt was born in Paris 82 years ago, lived in Italy, escaped from Europe to the US on one of the last boats out during World War II, became one of the greats of modern photography and has produced some of the world’s most famous and iconic images. He’s already interesting without the egg.

He was speaking at the Blanton Museum of Art in Austin, Texas, at the invitation of the newly established Austin Center for Photography. It was a rare opportunity to hear one of the greats deliver a lecture. In Erwitt’s case, possibly the only one I would ever get. So I flew thousands of miles to be there.

The timing of the lecture was prescient. When the talk was announced, I was going through a transition in my career – or, to be more precise, finalizing the direction of that transition. The consequences of the planned change were significant for my business, my development as a photographer and for my home life. I would be abandoning the safety (and mediocrity) of a bland approach to corporate photography based on the tastes of my local market in favour of a purely documentary approach based on my own preferences. Faced with the enormity of the implications that the change would bring, I was wavering.

The announcement of Erwitt’s lecture appeared to be a soft nudge – a gentle “Go on” from the gods of silver halide and pixels.

It would have been rude not to have bought a ticket.

And so I did, never more ready to hear the secrets of documentary photography, eager for the rich insights Erwitt would provide. Each one would be a beacon, a signpost to how to produce great documentary photography, culminating in a solid blueprint for my glorious future.

In fact, I learned nothing from the lecture that I had hoped for. Not a single thing.

However, while the lecture itself was barren ground, the experience of the lecture produced a valuable lesson.

First, though, I should explain why Erwitt’s presentation was so disappointing. To do so, I have to draw upon the memories of another disappointment.

Walking down Congress Avenue on the way back to the hotel after the lecture, “Layla” started up in one of the bars. The electric version, not the acoustic. You know, the real one, the plugged-in one. One of my all time favourite songs.

I remembered the last time I heard it. It was a while ago and Eric Clapton was playing it himself, in the flesh. Not just for me, you understand. He was playing at Cork’s annual month-long summer music festival and my wife was sent by a newspaper to review the concert. There was an extra ticket with the job, so I went along.

The concert wasn’t great, to be honest, but it was memorable – if only for that single song. Towards the end, Clapton and the band started up with “Layla” and played it to the finishing note, right through the long coda. It made the entire concert worthwhile. More, it added to my life experience. I’d heard an iconic song played by the man himself, including the tail end that radio stations generally erase.

OK, so it wasn’t the kind of event that was going to change my outlook on the universe, but it it’ll get into my top 250 on my deathbed. Somewhere around the 220s.

Which is higher than attending Elliott Erwitt’s lecture is going to get. That may not even scrape into the top 500. Which is odd at first glance, as I’m a big Erwitt fan; much less so of Clapton.

So, how does that work?

For a start there is something magical about hearing a musician live on stage. We all know that. Whether you’re into opera or death metal, for the fan an in-the-flesh performance is a far superior experience than listening to an mp3 on an iPod. U2 and Springsteen don’t sell out football grounds for nothing.

Watching a photographer push a button on a MacBook to bring up the next photograph on an auditorium screen just isn’t the same. There are much better ways to view photographs to enjoy them fully. Exhibitions, books, your own computer screen.

What a photographer can bring to a slideshow of their work are the stories behind the photographs, insights into what drives their work, an explanation of their philosophy, their views on the overwhelming number of challenges faced by individual photographers and the industry as a whole today. Photography is a meaty topic.

Sadly, Erwitt didn’t stray beyond the occasional anecdote. Those he did tell were interesting rather than insightful, delivered with an engaging and charming dry sense of humour that mirrors his photography.

Ultimately, his hour-long lecture was a slideshow of mostly familiar work, many of which were the best-selling photographs he is known for and few of which were new work unfamiliar to his audience.

Paradoxically, that’s the formula that most bands apply when they perform live – if they have any sense. We want to hear musicians play their hits, the songs we all love, the oldies. Mostly, we don’t care for the new stuff, particularly if a band is trying something new. Give us “Layla” – and it had better be the electric version.

Attending a lecture by a photographer is the opposite. If they’re merely presenting a slideshow, it’s got to be of work we haven’t seen yet. We know the old stuff and most likely will have read about the story behind it – certainly in the case of work by a living legend like Elliott Erwitt, which gets lots of press.

Here was a chance to hear a man of stature, a photographer of intellect and intelligence, an artist whose work is both significant and beautiful, deliver a lecture. Sadly, all we got was a brief discussion about some of his most famous work, ultimately adding little to what we already knew.

Certainly, it didn’t help me with any grand scheme of documentary photography; its place, its role and its merits in a corporate environment. There was no blueprint here. This was a great of the profession simply recounting his greatest hits.

Oh well, at least I was able get a signed book in the foyer afterwards.

Standing in line with a copy of “Elliott Erwitt’s Hands”, I watched the people ahead of me fill out their names on blue Post-It notes offered by one of the ACP’s hierarchy.

Write your name clearly and fix it to the page you want Elliott to inscribe, we were told.

The older lady in front of me wrote down a quote she wanted written down and signed. At the signing desk, Erwitt’s minder took the book, glanced at the text on the Post-It, and removed it from the book.

“He doesn’t do that,” she said, frostily.

Older Lady had to make do with her name, just like everyone else.

I had thought it cheeky that she’d even attempted to put words into Erwitt’s mouth. Insulting even.

The thought sparked another, and another. Suddenly, I was richer for the experience of the lecture.

All right, I hadn’t heard what I’d wanted to. I’d heard what Elliott Erwitt was willing to tell. Just like he wasn’t going to validate anyone else’s words by being told what to inscribe, he wasn’t going to have the content of his lecture dictated to him. He did what he did, and if I didn’t like it, tough.

For 82 years, Elliott Erwitt had gone his own way, done his own thing and it had made him a great in photography.

There is no blueprint; there are no answers.

Success is grounded in uniqueness. Uniqueness cannot be taught.

If I’m going to make a success of corporate photojournalism, I’ll have to do it my way; find my own footing and make my own choice of lapel decoration.