Frederick Sommer
[Photographer, b. 1905, Angri, Italy, d. 1999, Prescott, Arizona.]

 My [photographs] are not pure: they are a seething wealth of imperfection. 
 Art and accident are one. Art accepts what it finds. 
 Art is the splendor of reality before everything has become meaning. 
 Life itself is not the reality. We are the ones who put life into stones and pebbles. 
 There is nothing to see, nothing featured; what’s the matter with you? (Sommer’s summary of how others view his landscape photographs) 
 Words represent images: nothing can be said for which there is no image. 
 Poetic and speculative photographs can result if one works carefully and accurately, yet letting chance relationships have full play. 
 The first two or three years of my photographic work were very intense in terms of chicken anatomy. 
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