Frankly Speaking...

Finally! I finally finished American Witness, The Art And Life Of Robert Frank by RJ Smith. Took almost a year, and not that it was all that bad, it just wasn't all that... exciting either. Really didn't know a lick about the guy, except ya know, The Americans. And I think I did see him one day, he lived a block from me for a coupla years back in NYC- but it coulda been just another scruffy old guy on The Lower East Side. But I've always been fascinated by guys who meteorically rise to the top from jump- and then intentionally throw it all away for something else, which... they're usually never quite as good at. Very different from your average superstar genre that burn out on drugs, excess, whatever- shitload of them. Paul Graham, Stephen Shore... throw in Michael Jordan to mix things up. All packed it in at their peak to pursue the road less familiar. Graham and Shore, both pioneers of color in their respective fields, gave it all up to embrace smaller, experimental projects that most photographers pursue on their way to finding themselves and honing their vision. Jordan tried another sport he was not exactly best suited for, and Frank went full out into independent film making. His most infamous film being Cock Sucker Blues, the life and times documentary of The Rolling Stones on the road; which I excitedly got to see one day at MOMA, only to struggle (unsuccessfully) to stay awake throughout its overbearingly prolonged ennui. I suppose one could argue that it does take a special something to take the drugs, sex and debauchery of "The World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band" and turn it into a major snooze fest. But Frederick Wiseman he was not.

To be honest, I only thought I was gonna read that part of the book that dealt with his photography days. How is it that this Jewish/Swiss immigrant created the seminal photography book of the Twentieth Century? The book that turned a craft into an art form, and a series of blacks, whites and greys into a searing indictment of the most prosperous country on the planet? The book that inspired countless photographers and photography wannabes decades hence. Well, American Witness offers very little in the way of that. We don't learn about what he did on the road, the stories behind the individual photos, the personal insights into his shooting process. And not through any fault of the author- but because Frank was dead set in not divulging, imparting, or discussing any of the above. Joel Meyerowitz articulate he was most certainly not, and he didn't give an outright shit about teaching- which is not to say he was without ego, or impervious to the demands of bill collectors. But if you, like I, were hoping to catch a purloined glimpse into that special secret sauce gestalt that ignited the visionary magic that resulted from that most legendary of road trips- hitch a ride elsewhere...

Fortunately, one does get to hear about various assorted sundries of interest along the way: Uncle Ansel exhibiting photos in a Chinese laundry at $25 a pop, Gloria Steinem's double life as a one time CIA operative, and one long and diverse cast and crew of creative characters both genius, and delusional. It's only after The Americans that the book actually does pick up, exactly because of that colorful swirl of characters that surrounded his life after he threw himself into the more collaborative world of film making, the new medium he then so fully embraced and devoted himself to for the remainder of his career- perhaps, in good part because it was an endeavor he could neither fully control, nor master. It wasn't just him and the Leica he so effortlessly controlled. Every film was a separate life force, a different personality with a different set of challenges. 

He was a player no doubt, but sincere enough in his beliefs- he despised repetition, and was able to use his eventual fame and recognition to eke out the independent lifestyle he so desperately sought.