Slim Aarons
[Photographer, b. 1916, New York, d. 2006, Montrose, New York.]
The only beach I was interested in landing on was one decorated with beautiful seminude girls tanning in a tranquil sun. (On declining a photojournalism offer to cover the Korean War)
Paul Almasy
[Photojournalist, b. 1906, Budapest, Hungary, d. 2003, Paris, France.]
When I took photographs I never crouched down like a cat about to pounce on its prey. I never attacked with my camera.
Shimon Attie
[Photographer, b. 1957, Los Angeles, lives in New York.]
I use contemporary media to reanimate sites and places with images of their own lost histories.
Dieter Appelt
[Photographer and artist, b. 1935, Niemegk, Germany, lives in Berlin.]
White is the color of decomposition. White is also no color. White is nothing. In photography, the paper is white, next comes the light, which is also white, then the shadow is created, the apparition.
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.
See as honestly as they know how, but they lie.
Edward Abbey
[Writer and Environmental Activist, b. 1927, Indiana, Pennsylvania, United States, d. 1989, Tucson, Arizona, United States.]
Our job is to record, each in his own way, this world of light and shadow and time that will never come again exactly as it is today.
Keith Arnatt
[Photographer, b. 1930, Oxford, d. 2008, Wales.]
Making a distinction between, or opposing artists and photographers is, it strikes me, like making a distinction between, or opposing, food and sausages—surely odd.
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.
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.