Edward Weston
[Photographer, b. 1886, Highland Park, Illinois, d. 1958, Wildcat Hill, California.]

 For photography is a way to capture the moment—not just any moment, but the important one, this one moment out of all time when your subject is revealed to the fullest—that moment of perfection which comes once and is not repeated. 
 Now to consult the rules of composition before making a picture is a little like consulting the law of gravitation before going for a walk. 
 By all means tell your Board that pubic hair has definitely been part of my development as an artist, tell them it has been the most important part, that I like it black, brown, red or golden, curly or straight, all sizes and shapes. (To Museum of Modern Art curator Beaumont Newhall, after being told the museum was reluctant to show nudes revealing pubic hair.) 
 As great a picture can be made as one’s mental capacity—no greater. Art cannot be taught; it must be self-inspiration, though the imagination may be fired and the ambition and work directed by the advice and example of others. 
 She leaned against a whitewashed wall—lips quivering—nostrils dilating—eyes heavy with the gloom of unspent rain clouds—I drew close to her—whispered something and kissed her—a tear rolled down her cheek—and then I captured forever the moment—let me see f.8—1/10 sec. K1 filter—panchromatic film—how brutally mechanical and calculated it sounds—yet how really spontaneous and genuine—for I have so overcome the mechanics of my camera that it functions responsive to my desires—my shutter coordinating with my brain is released in a way—as natural as I might move my arm—I am beginning to approach actual attainment in photography—that in my ego of two or three years ago I thought to have already reached—it will be necessary for me to destroy, to unlearn, and then rebuild upon the mistaken presumptuousness of my past—the moment of our mutual emotion was recorded on the silver—the release of those emotions followed—we passed from the glare of the sun on white walls into Tina’s darkened room—her olive skin and somber nipples were revealed beneath a black mantilla—I drew the lace aside— 
 The lens reveals more than the eye sees. Then why not use this potentiality to advantage? (1928) 
 The world is full of sloppy bohemians and their work betrays them. 
 What have I, that brings these many women to offer themselves to me? I do not go out of my way seeking them,—I am not a stalwart virile male, exuding sex, nor am I the romantic mooning poet type some love, nor the dashing Don Juan bent on conquest. 
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