John Loengard
[Photographer, editor, and critic, b. 1934, New York, lives in New York.]

 There really is no moment. The picture is the moment. 
 Usually I think if there is something imperfect in a photograph it makes the picture more real. Photographs that are slick, smooth, and perfect seem less honest to me. 
 A Ming vase can be well-designed and well-made and is beautiful for that reason alone. I don’t think this can be true for photography. Unless there is something a little incomplete and a little strange, it will simply look like a copy of something pretty. We won’t take an interest in it. 
 Working alone on stories, I began to feel the anonymity of motels on interstate highways reached by jet planes and rental cars. It was hard to have a good time, and the only way I could make the loneliness excusable was by taking pictures I thought were very good, even valuable. 
 Occasionally we are misled by photography, but generally we have good reason to believe it. 
 There are two kinds of photographs: mine and other people’s. I never think of what I might do myself when I look at someone else’s pictures... there is no subject in the world I have ever wanted to photograph. It’s the picture, not the object, that is important to me. 
 Like doctors, photographers work with what is present. I suspect our chief emotions are anticipation, frustration, and patience, balanced by a marvelous sense of elation when things go right—when we think we’ve captured within a photograph some missing feeling, some sense of beauty, or bit of mystery in the fabric of life. 
 Often the tension that exists between the pictorial content of a photograph and its record of reality is the picture’s true beauty. 
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