Peter Adams: Photographers

After the fundamentalist Mullahs, hijacked the Iranian Revolution in 1979, Abbas became a persona non grata and had to flee his homeland.  He now lives in Paris.  This photograph was taken at the rear of the Magnum Building - Abbas’ new home – in 1989.

This Eddie Adams photograph, taken in 1968 during the Tet Offensive, at the moment General Loan executed the bound Viet Cong prisoner, came to haunt  Eddie Adams and, like many photographers, the stress of his profession eventually destroyed his first marriage. “I spent so much of my life away from my family playing soldiers, I missed out on seeing my children grow up - my eldest boy is twenty nine now and I hardly know him.” When I first met Eddie, at his peaceful farm in up-state New York, he was playing with his child on the sitting room floor. “This” he said, pointing to his son and the jumble of toys that surrounded him, “is much more important to me now, than any photograph I ever made.” It seemed important to me to make a picture that allowed Eddie to be a child again.

We climbed the three steep flights of stairs up to Ruth’s apartment in San Francisco. She bounded up ahead of me like a twenty year old, (despite her plastic knees). I puffed along behind with my heavy bags of camera gear.  At 82, Ruth was as bright as a button and chatted non-stop all the way up. “You see” said Ruth, “most men only see the part of women that interests them”. By the time I got to the top, I had to sit down to recover. “They don’t understand that the female body is the bearer of new life... Would you like a coffee?” she asked, “I don’t drink it myself.” I gasped something that I thought sounded like "oxygen please!" and, a short while later, something brown in a mug was pressed into my hand... 

Ian Berry hadn’t lived in the UK for fifteen years. When he returned, he found a country he didn’t know, so he set out to record the eccentricities of English life, before it vanished forever. In his back garden were two identical greenhouses complete with a few weeds and the remains of dead tomato plants. I guess a war photographer doesn’t have too much time for gardening

As he spoke in halting english, his huge expressive hands fluttering about him like albatross wings. He explained how he loved his wife, loved his cat and loved his studio.“Perhaps all you have to do to make a great portrait”, he said, “is to love the person you are photographing.”

As he spoke in halting english, his huge expressive hands fluttering about him like albatross wings. He explained how he loved his wife, loved his cat and loved his studio.“Perhaps all you have to do to make a great portrait”, he said, “is to love the person you are photographing.”

In a large, sparsely furnished room above his studio, Alvarez Bravo kept a collection of hundreds of classical records.  He likes to escape there to listen to Mozart. He hates to be photographed - he has a withered hand which he keeps in his pocket - but he loves to talk about photography, art, music ... and then reluctantly, about himself.

Olive Cotton greeted me at the front door and told me up front that "I am not going to be photographed by the Austin 1800's - They are my husband's!" - I counted twelve 1800 skeletons as I was walking to the front door.  The delapilated screen door banged shut behind us, and we were inside the remains of a Snowy River Scheme bunkhouse. One room, just inside the front door, still contained half a dozen urinals in a row. 

I photographed Olive Cotton in her very basic sitting room in her house in the Snowy Mountains - originally a ‘bunk house’ for the men working on the Snowy River Scheme. I was offered a cheese sandwich, but settled on a cup of tea.  The building was very arthritic and it seemed to creak and groan - even when screen door wasn't banking to and fro ... I guess when you are living on a farm there's not too much time for creature comforts... 

We arranged to meet in Doisneau’s favourite Paris bistro. It was dark and gloomy inside, so I sat him near a window with a glass of beaujolais. He'd brought his local paper with him and he started to read out loud the ads from the personal columns, in the paper from his home town.  He spoke in French and my assistant Denis AuClair translated as he  read. He began to laugh and the whole cafe seemed to wobble with his shared in his laughter. I don’t speak French, so I hadn’t a clue what everyone was laughing about - although I was laughing just as hard as everyone else! Later on, I discovered he was reading personal ads concerning fat gentlemen wishing to share quiet evenings with other fat gentlemen.

This portrait of Max Dupain was made in his studio in St Leonards in 1983. It was the first portrait I made for ‘Who Shot That?’.