Wright Morris
[Writer and photographer, b. 1910, Central City, Nebraska, d. 1998, Mill Valley, California.]
I prefer a taken to a made photograph.
However much [photographs] may lie, they do so with the raw materials of truth.
In the blur of the photograph, time leaves its gleaming, snail-like track.
Images proliferate. Am I wrong in being reminded of printing money in a period of wild inflation? Do we know what we are doing? Are we able to evaluate what we have done?
[We] make images to see clearly: then we see clearly what we have made.
The photograph, after all, is just a photograph. Words will determine its meaning and status.
The vast number of photographers, feeding on anything visible, overgraze the landscape the way cattle overgraze their pasture.
The camera eye is the one in the middle of our forehead, combining how we see with what there is to be seen.
