What's the best way to get the editor's attention?
Make sure it bleeds and leads.
Make sure it bleeds and leads.
The Man Who Loved Weegee by Tim Gerstmar
Dear editor:
A work of art
should stand on its own, but you need a little background here. My grandfather
gave me a book of Weegee’s photographs my first year in art school. He wrote a
note on the title page: Remember, beauty
and terror always go hand in hand. I fell in love with Weegee’s work. It isn’t
just the brutality of his crime scenes that makes them so damned gorgeous, it’s
the expressions on peoples’ faces captured at the exact right moment. They’re
like little windows on a bygone era. Funny how you just can’t recreate the look
of a certain historical period, no matter how hard you try. I am not Weegee, but
I always wanted to do work that had the same emotional, timeless feeling. I
applied for photojournalism jobs with your paper when you guys were on top, but
I always got those same expressionless looks and diplomatic responses that made
me fucking want to vomit. “Thank you, but these just aren’t for us.”
I kept at it,
despite the rejections. I tried to emulate some of Weegee’s portraits. The one that
springs to mind is that gorgeous photo of the circus clown taking a nap in his
folding chair in front of a steamer chest, an oily smear soaked into the canvas
behind his head, a can of turpentine by his feet. There are no brains spread
across the floor, no expressions of disbelief or bullet holes. It made me
wonder what it was that still gave it that special, Weegee quality. It was the
fragility of life in the cradle of death, of sleep, a mortal being caught off
guard in a vulnerable moment. Poetic, right? I tried my own shit; candid photos
of homeless people sleeping and that sort of thing, but they never looked right.
Not only that, but the subjects usually demanded money. I got a few nice shots,
but they lacked that vulnerable humanness caught at just the right moment.
I kept thumbing
through the musty smelling pages of that beaten hardcover enraptured at the
moments in time of a girl with her arm torn off lying on a bridge, a frozen
grimace of pain on her face, a sailor holding her still attached arm up, as if declaring
some sort of macabre victory, giving her dignity. Death and nostalgia, the body
frozen forever after passing through death’s door, still the person but
becoming something else.
I still use a film
camera. Fuck that digital shit. Real film is where it’s at. It’s the
therapeutic click and spring of the shutter that I enjoy, that somehow really
makes a great photograph. It’s a crime it took me so long to use my camera as
skillfully as Weegee, but I finally have.
I hope you like
the pics. I hate the word pics. It sounds cheap and takes the art out of it, but
I know you condescending fuckers at the paper don’t speak the same language, so
I’ll dumb it down for you. I never thought of doing this shit before and didn’t
even think I was capable of it, but I surprised myself.
I met her at a
costume party. I was dressed in a tweed suit and a bow tie, a fedora on my head.
She was done up like a flapper chick with one of those long cigarette holders
in her lips. It was perfect. I didn’t even know what I was gonna do, but she
was shit-faced and I managed to get her in the car. How do you like
the first photo from my suite? I fucking love the look of disbelief on her face
– helped that we got stoned on some serious skunk first, because it made the
fear extra real. The next two are great as well. The slightly out of focus,
imbalanced compositions really capture her final frenzied moments perfectly.
Call it artistic license! It was harder than it looks. I was careful not to
damage her face and I didn’t want to have to reposition the body. I wonder if
Weegee ever had to move a limb here and there to improve the composition? If he
did, he was cheating! Think about that before criticizing my work. Look at the next
one in the suite. Have you ever seen anything so perfect? Check out the
questioning look in the eyes, like she wanted to know one last thing but
couldn’t get an answer. Sure, it’s not exactly a Weegee, but crime scenes are
like fingerprints, none are identical. The dead eyes never ask the same questions.
The next few are
of the disposal, and one of me at 3 a.m., tweaking and freaking out. I look
calm, right? Perfect Weegee material, because there’s that mystery behind the
look! I was almost finished, but something was missing. Great art is never
perfected; you gotta keep pushing right to the end! The suite needed one last
installment. I’m relying on you guys to help me here. I’ve set up the tripod
and the remote shutter release for this final self-portrait. I pray the rope
catches me in the frame just right. I’m sure you’ll take photos, but for the
suite to be perfect, you need mine. No cheating! I’m making everything easier
for the cops and the judge and sparing a few assholes jury duty, so you can do
me one fucking favor: take the roll down to Ricky’s - they still do film there
- and develop it. Then print the article with my photos, in the right order. In
case this goes against some sort of morals you’d like to pretend you have, I
think your paper will sell more copies and regain some status with my work
included. Great work takes a lifetime of dedication. Grandpa was right about
beauty and terror going hand in hand. Get here before the cops do, and don’t
mind the smell.
