[Photographer, b. 1904, Hamburg, Germany, d. 1983, London.]
Photographers should follow their own judgment, and not the fads and dictates of others. Photography is still a very new medium and everything is allowed and everything should be tried and dared... Photography has no rules. It is not a sport. It is the result which counts, no matter how it was achieved.
[Photographer, b. 1945, Newport Beach, California, d. 2014, Paris.]
I assumed from the outset that photography was already art, and that I and other people working in photography were artists. I understand now that this was a minority point of view.
[Artist, b. 1967, San Francisco, lives in New York.]
I don’t think my work is so strange. It’s just a matter of having the discipline to go the whole way with an idea, to stretch it as far as it can go.
[Writer and critic, b. 1926, London, d. 2017, Paris.]
What makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time.
[Artist, b. 1909, Dublin, Ireland, d. 1992, Madrid, Spain.]
Jesus would have been one of the best photographers that ever existed. He was always looking at the beauty of people’s souls.
[Writer, feminist, and activist, b. 1958, Arlington, Virginia, lives in Santa Cruz, California.]
Seeing lesbian photography is just the tip of my radicalized clitoris. I have modeled for, commissioned, published, and fought for these pictures, and answered threats against them. I’ve seen the feminist movement bring these pictures to life, and I’ve seen that same movement try to suppress the liberating results.
[Police officer, biometrics researcher, “inventor” of the criminal mug shot, b. 1853, Paris, d. 1914, Münsterlingen, Switzerland.]
We can only see what we are looking for and we look for what is already in our minds.
[Artist, b. 1884, Leipzig, Germany, d. 1950, New York.]
We will enjoy ourselves with the forms that are given us: a human face, a hand, the breast of a woman or the body of a man, a glad or sorrowful expression, the infinite seas, the wild rocks, the melancholy language of the black trees in the snow, the wild strength of spring flowers and the heavy lethargy of a hot summer day when Pan, our old friend, sleeps and the ghosts of midday whisper. This alone is enough to make us forget the grief of the world, or to give it form.