Eleanor Antin
[Artist, b. 1935, New York, lives in San Diego, California.]

 I adore [photography’s] uneasy mix of fact and fiction—its dubious claim to truth—its status as history. 

Margaret Atwood
[Writer, b. 1939, Ottawa, Canada, lives in Toronto.]

 Old lovers go the way of old photographs, bleaching out gradually as in a slow bath of acid: first the moles and pimples, then the shadings. Then the faces themselves, until nothing remains but the general outlines. 

Theodor Adorno
[Writer, b. 1903, Frankfurt, Germany, d. 1969, Visp, Switzerland.]

 There is something embarrassing in... the way in which, ... turning suffering into images, harsh and uncompromising though they are, ... wounds the shame we feel in the presence of the victims. For these victims are used to create something, works of art, that are thrown to the consumption of a world which destroyed them. 

Ansel Adams
[Photographer, b. 1902, San Francisco, d. 1984, Carmel, California.]

 We must remember that a photograph can hold just as much as we put into it, and no one has ever approached the full possibilities of the medium. 

Guillaume Apollinaire
[Poet and writer, b. 1880, Rome, d. 1918, Paris.]

 Your smile appeals as
might a flower.
Photograph you are the brown mushroom
in the forest
of her beauty.
The white spaces are
moonlight
in a peaceful garden
full of fountains and frenzied gardeners.
Photograph you are the smoke of the flame
of her beauty.
There are in you,
photograph, strains
of langorous music.
In you I hear
long melodies.
Photograph you are the shadow
cast by the sun
of her beauty. 

Eve Arnold
[Photographer, b. 1913, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, d. 2011, London.]

 What you need to be a good photographer is an overwhelming curiosity and a good digestion. 

Muhammad Ali (Cassius Clay)
[Boxer, b. 1942, Louisville, Kentucky, d. Scottsdale, Arizona.]

 Emmett Till and I were about the same age. A week after he was murdered... I stood on a corner with a gang of boys, looking at pictures of him in the black newspapers and magazines. In one, he was laughing and happy. In the other, his head was swollen and bashed in, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, and his mouth twisted and broken... I couldn’t get Emmett Till out of my mind, until one evening I thought of a way to get back at white people for his death. 

W.H. Auden
[Poet and writer, b. 1907, York, North Yorkshire, England, d. 1973, Vienna, Austria.]

 The steady eyes of the crow and the camera’s candid eye
See as honestly as they know how, but they lie.