Kate Moss
[Model, b. 1974, Croydon, England, lives in St Johns Wood, England.]

 Once I was walking from The Mercer Hotel in New York down the street, and this woman paparazzo who was following me fell over a fire hydrant and her whole tooth went through her lip. I leant over her, saying, “Are you all right?” and she was still taking pictures. I was, “You know what? You are sick in the head.” 

E.B. White
[Writer, b. 1899, Mount Vernon, New York, d. 1985, North Brooklin, Maine.]

 Of course, it may be that the arts of writing and photography are antithetical. The hope and aim of a word-handler is that he may communicate a thought or an impression to his reader without the reader’s realizing that he has been dragged through a series of hazardous or grotesque syntactical situations. In photography the goal seems to be to prove beyond a doubt that the cameraman, in his great moment of creation, was either hanging by his heels from the rafters or was wedged under the floor with his lens in a knothole. 

Hilla Becher
[Photographer, b. 1934, Potsdam, d. 2015, Düsseldorf.]

 Someone who concerns himself with scorpions must love them to a certain extent. And photography is there precisely to portray what is, not to sort and reproduce only the good and the beautiful. 

Philip Jones Griffiths
[Photojournalist, b. 1936, Rhuddian, Wales, d. 2008, London.]

 Real photography is a wonderfully inclusive, democratic medium, whereas “art photography” is more often a private pursuit by conmen. 

Alfred Stieglitz
[Photographer and curator, b. 1864, Hoboken, New Jersey, d. 1946, New York.]

 Every Tom, Dick and Harry could, without trouble, learn how to get something or other on a sensitive plate, and this is what the public wanted—no work and lots of fun. Thanks to the efforts of these persons hand camera and bad work became synonymous. (1897) 

Franz Kafka
[Writer, b. 1883, Prague, d. 1924, Prague.]

 A picture of my existence... would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow... stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night. 

Douglas McCulloh
[Photographer, b. 1959, Los Angeles, lives in Los Angeles.]

 If you scratch through the deceitful artifice of contemporary photography, you’ll find the real artifice underneath. 

John Szarkowski
[Curator, critic, historian, and photographer, b. 1925, Ashland, Wisconsin, d. 2007, Pittsfield, Massachusetts.]

 I am not especially interested in anonymous photography, or avant-garde photography, or in straight, crooked, or any other subspecific category; I am interested in the entire, indivisible hairy beast—because in the real world, where photographs are made, these subspecies, or races, interbreed shamelessly and continually. (2006) 
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