From My Bookshelf: Lee Friedlander "Photographs"
Memory lane isn't always linear - at my age, sometimes I feel like I'm walking uphill when it comes to remembering precise moments, names and dates from my past. Photography has taken on an even more central role, as I delve into my archives, photo albums and book shelves on the lookout for stories to share.
This blog post arises from the pages of a book I cherish deeply: the first edition of Lee Friedlander's "Photographs" published by Haywire Press, New York, in 1978 .
In 1979 I was lucky enough to be a part of Venezia '79 - La Fotografia, a monumental, city-wide photography festival held from June to September in Venice, featuring 26 exhibitions, 46 workshops, and numerous seminars with 3,500 photos from 500 artists. It was organized by the International Center of Photography (ICP) with financing from UNESCO.
I had been called to act as an interpreter for their weekly workshops, namely the ones led by legendary photographers Duane Michals, Marie Cosindas and Lee Friedlander. I had just moved back to Italy after living in New York, but the guys from ICP knew me and confided in my linguistic abilities, since I speak both Italian and English fluently. Not many people had this skill in Italy at the time. Needless to say, I was completely out of my league, but I accepted anyway, eager to meet the greats.
I lucked out with Friedlander because he was a man of few words. When questioned, he would reply in short statements or mutter “I don't have much to say about this". He was a restless soul. The true reason behind his visit to Venice was quite clear: taking pictures. I ended up spending more time in the company of his wife, Maria De Paoli, who was very friendly and warm; she wanted to practice her Italian with me.
There was one instance in which I was not as fortunate. One evening, they held a conference in front of Palazzo Fortuny with photographer George Tice, who was a very loquacious type, and asked me to translate live.
In front of all those people, overwhelmed by George's verbal audacity, I completely froze and was not able to retrieve my train of thought. It was terrible, and the audience was growing increasingly nervous. Mercifully, there was a young Edward Rozzo in the crowd—another New Yorker photographer who had moved to Milan—who felt compelled to take my place on stage. I was so grateful, and we became good friends after that.
Venezia '79 - La Fotografia was an incredible event, truly one of a kind... as a matter of fact, it was the first and the last of its kind. I met so many people during those days—Guido Guidi, for example, and his then student Paolo Costantini…
It was an unprecedented gathering of photographers and a pivotal occasion for networking and dialogue. At the time, I was not then aware of how impactful this event would have been in furthering my academic career and how the workshop format would become central to the inception of Studio Marangoni ten years later.
Friedlander had brought a few copies of his book and he gave me a signed one, despite my poor performance as a translator. These images still have a great hold on me; the observation of humans in the public space resonates with my practice deeply.
Alongside Gary Winogrand and Robert Frank, I still see him as one of the pillars of photography, and he influenced me greatly.
Behind the scenes photos by Michelle Davis
A tribute to Martin Parr
In the mid-90s, I received a call from Gabriele Basilico. He asked if he could give my number to Martin Parr, who was coming to Florence for a project and didn’t know anyone. At that stage of his career, Martin was primarily known in the UK and had not yet joined Magnum Photos. Though he had already published several books, his global fame was still on the horizon.
I invited him to stay at my home, and we became immediate friends. Coincidentally, my partner Claire is British, so I was traveling to England frequently. Martin was like quicksilver; you were lucky to catch an hour of his time. While we were not "intimate" friends in the traditional sense, he was incredibly generous and thoughtful. We would have lunch whenever I was in London; he was always eager to organize workshops or collaborations, and he possessed a remarkable memory for the details of my life and family.
In the following years, he introduced me to the British photography scene. I became close friends with Ken Grant, Val Williams, John Davies, and Mark Power. Martin was an extraordinary connector. Through him, I also met Brett Rogers who was then Deputy Director and Head of Exhibitions at the Visual Arts Department at the British Council. This opened new doors for the Fondazione Studio Marangoni. Not only did we host several workshops with Martin, but in 1999, we also hosted the Italian leg of his global exhibition "Common Sense”. This was a landmark project documenting the "lurid" and "kitsch" aspects of consumer culture through vivid color photography. The installation consisted of over 200 color photocopies shown simultaneously in 41 venues across 17 countries. We were part of a truly global event.
I have many fond memories of our time together. One of my favorite anecdotes took place in 1998, the "Italian Year" at the Rencontres d’Arles. Giovanna Calvenzi was the artistic director, and I was featured in an exhibition curated by Toni Thorimbert. A few months before the festival, my brother, Peter, announced he was getting married in London on the 6th of July—the exact dates of Arles. I couldn't be there, nor could I act as his wedding photographer.
In a bind, I called Martin to ask if he could recommend one of his students for the job. "When is the wedding?" he asked. When I told him it coincided with Arles, he explained that he couldn't go to France anyway because he was working in London. To my astonishment, he offered to shoot the wedding himself, enthusiastically accepting a modest student budget. The images he delivered were classic Parr: grotesque depictions of high society—no sugar-coated glamour, just heavily flashed close-ups, saturated colors, and extreme textures. The newlyweds were actually thrilled with the result!
I also remember the first workshop we hosted at Fondazione Studio Marangoni in 1998. Martin challenged the students to gain access to people’s private lives. He wanted them to step outside their comfort zones to capture a glimpse of contemporary society. Among the participants was a young Paolo Woods, whose ability to overcome the psychological fear of that "first step" already set him apart. I reached out to him to collect his version of the events:
“At the time of the workshop I was a teacher at Fondazione Studio Marangoni, assisting students in the darkroom. This position gave me access to the school’s activities and even though Martin had not yet reached stardom Martino insisted that this was an opportunity not to be missed. I still remember that day, the students lined up with their portfolios, confident and unwavering in their know-it-all attitude… and Martin crushed them. He was not mean but he could be trenchant in his comments: ‘This is really bad’, ‘This is extremely lazy’. His comments broke the group’s back and made us want to prove ourselves. He then asked us to go out and photograph ‘what we are not supposed to photograph’. We had to embrace danger, dance with it… and there was a prize for the best project: an actual photo from Martin Parr’s series ‘Common Sense’. The most absurd things ensued - one student was arrested for taking photos of a police station, another asked the women in the posh area of Via Tornabuoni if she could photograph the inside of their purses, a mysterious dimension unknown to most scientists and men. Someone walked into a gym and took portraits of the bodybuilders while another documented invicta backpacks, on which at the time it was common to find slogans, dedications, drawings scribbled out in colorful ink. I had the idea of leafing through the Rigattiere, a local publication for bargain hunters where you could find the weirdest things for sale. I chose the strangest ad I could find: an elderly woman was selling her vintage wedding dress. Martin approved the idea but added a layer of complexity, saying that I had to manage to convince the woman to let me photograph her wearing the dress. I invented all kinds of excuses but in the end she squeezed into the garment, I took the photo and it earned the prize. His attitude would probably not be accepted in schools today, he was uncompromising and did not do you any favors… He was able to walk into a exhibition space, shorts, socks and sandals, the epitome of non-aesthetics, look around and say ‘this looks really bad’ with a smile on his face. But on the other hand, he saw beauty where others did not.”
Martin remained unpretentious and down-to-earth despite his success. He was always available to chat or sign a book. He also had the foresight to ensure his legacy would endure; his Foundation exists today largely because of his obsession with photobooks. He was a legendary collector and a tireless promoter of the medium, as seen in his seminal series The Photobook: A History, co-authored with Gerry Badger.
We kept in touch until the very end. He had a deep appreciation for Italian landscape photography and recently told me that his favorite Italian photographer was Guido Guidi. I feel privileged to have had this informal connection with him away from the spotlight. He has often been described as cruel or cynical because of his photographic style, but in person, he was anything but.
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A tribute to Philip Perkins
My education in photography began at Pratt in 1972. After a first semester with Charles Harbutt, I began studying with Philip Perkis. Phil was the antithesis of the typical "frontal" teacher; he wasn't interested in lecturing from a podium. Instead, our relationship was a constant dialogue.
He was entirely non-academic. His writing reflected this—it was the opposite of academic jargon, often sparse and direct. In fact, his biography famously consisted of only four lines:
"I started photography in the Air Force in 1957 and haven't stopped. Teaching became a serious part of my life in the 60s. I remain an unrepentant modernist."
Phil’s teaching style was "unprepared." There were no formal lectures; he would simply look at the work. He would bring slides, invite guests like Duane Michals or Joel Meyerowitz, and just talk. He would sit outside the darkroom while we printed, look at a test strip, and offer advice.
Both he and Paul Caponigro, another of my spiritual leaders, studied with Ansel Adams at the San Francisco institute and both of them said to let go of the Zone System and instead focus on the atmosphere, the light. Phil would tell us to shoot our Kodak Tri-X 400 at 200 and if I see my prints and film from those days they were fantastic.
He never imposed a choice on a contact sheet. While some students found this lack of control frustrating, for me, it was exactly what I needed: a mentor who backed me up while allowing me the freedom to make my own choices. His own methodology was best summed up by his love for trout fishing. He taught us that photography, like fishing, requires a specific state of mind. You have to be prepared, but you can’t plan everything. You have to be in the right place at the right time and possess the intuition to 'rein it in.' You set out with a mission, but what you pull out of the water is part of a process you must be in tune with.
It was a very Zen approach: go to the areas you love, keep going back, and eventually, you will see beyond the obvious. It taught me the frame of mind of "finding the trouts."
I often contrasted Phil with other professors like Arthur Freed, who was totally judgmental—to the point of making female students cry. Phil, by contrast, was a gentle observer. He was non-judgmental, and I inherited this approach in my own teaching.
We also shared a certain melancholic loneliness, yet Phil managed to keep things light and funny. You can see this irony in his pictures. In his book The Sadness of Men, he responded to Max Kozloff on the difference between sadness and depression:
"I see sadness as a positive emotion, I see sadness as beautiful... a possibility of transcendence. Sadness and happiness are two sides of the same coin."
Our friendship lasted decades. Every time I returned to New York, we would meet for lunch. I recently found photos of him portrayed alongside Lois Conner; though I didn't hang out with her in the 70s, we became close in the 80s when I was teaching at Cooper Union and she was at Yale.
Phil was incredibly supportive when I told him I wanted to open a school in Florence. He traveled there many times to give workshops. He was particularly enamored with Beato Angelico’s frescoes at San Marco, visiting the monks' cells so often that the guards began to recognize him.
In his later years, Phil began to lose his sight. He approached it with his characteristic humor and a philosophical spirit.
I still own the book I bought from him in 1978, the Warwick Mountain Series. Looking at his books today, I realize he taught me much more than I was willing to admit. Many of my early pictures were undoubtedly inspired by his personality and his way of looking at the world.
I wish I had more specific memories of his lectures, but I realize now that his teachings aren't lost—they live on in my own photography and in the way I guide my students today. I would love to eventually start a network of Phil’s former students to keep that spirit alive.
