My post about the limbo status of the Polaroid Collections — comprised of somewhere between 16,000 and 22,000 photographs made with Polaroid materials — has evoked from several people memories (mostly fond) of the support Polaroid provided over the years to artists, photographers, and photo instructors. Whatever new shape the company takes when it emerges from its current legal crisis, it seems likely that, even if renewed, this form of patronage will get trimmed back severely.
The Polaroid Land Camera model J66
Some followers of this blog, including subscriber and regular commenter John Reuter, have started to send me informative reminiscences of the company’s Artist Support Programs and their own participation in one or another of these. So I’ve decided to open up a separate discussion thread on this subject, which in this blog will run parallel to the above-mentioned one concerning the future of the Collections and another on the discontinuance/revival of various Polaroid processes.
Others who know much more about the evolution of these programs have told the story before me, better and more knowedgeably. So I’ll just synopsize here. In 1948, the year the original Polaroid Land camera went on the market, Dr. Edwin Land, inventor of the Polaroid, hired Ansel Adams as a consultant, charged with testing the original Polaroid black & white system and commenting thereon. Adams responded voluminously, forging a lifelong bond with Land and Polaroid, with the result that the collection now includes some 600 works by him.
The programs grew exponentially from there. As an observer of the national and international photo scenes since 1967, I can safely say that no major manufacturer of photographic tools and materials demonstrated more open-handedness — or even-handedness — in supplying its products to artists, photographers, and photo teachers (not just post-secondary but K-12 also), in large and sometimes endless quantities. Initially this meant mostly giving away film and donating or lending cameras, but it came to include gifting studio time with the 20×24 and 40×80 cameras, tech support for production in those spaces, and often some amount of free materials as well.
SX-70 Model 2 with film cartridge protruding from the front
The Polaroid Collections grew out of these support programs, with artists often donating examples of their successful results to the collections as quid pro quo. (This was never a requirement with the smaller materials and cameras, though from what I understand it became an expectation with the work done in the 20×24 and 40×80 studios under Polaroid subsidy.) But Polaroid often bought Polaroid work for the collections; I’ve heard of at least one case in which the corporation bought out an entire exhibition.
As a result, Land and the people appointed by Polaroid to run the support programs (Jon Holmes and Eelco Wolf among them) — along with those who managed the studio spaces for the large-format cameras, plus those who curated the related collections — encouraged and enabled several generations of picture-makers to devote serious time to exploration of the possibilities inherent in the various Polaroid systems. Robert Delford Brown produced an exhibition and book of “First-Class Portraits” by deliberately committing every possible mistake with the black & white film. Lucas Samaras built a large body of “Autopolaroids” around the original black & white and color films, went on to experiment with the malleable emulsion of the SX-70 films, and investigated the other formats as well. Les Krims generated a controversial series of “Fictcryptkrimsographs” exploiting the same manipulability of the SX-70 emulsion. Joyce Neimanas began quilting clusters of SX-70s into large multi-images pieces (which is where David Hockney got the idea for his SX-70 “cubist” works). William Wegman produced the entire corpus of what Robert Frank calls his “dumb dog photographs” with the 20×24. David Levinthal works with the 20×24 almost exclusively for his color still lifes of vernacular figurines and other items of material culture. Ellen Carey evolved her abstract “Pulls” series from the physicality of the materials themselves. Just a few random examples of the impact of Polaroid’s support policies on the medium as a whole.
One of a Kind: Recent Polaroid Color Photography. by Belinda Rathbone (1979)
Not all the results of this corporate sponsorship proved successful; not everyone who got involved had a positive experience. I’ve heard substantial gripes from a few people I consider credible if not impartial witnesses. I raised some questions of my own in a 1980 essay titled “Polaroid: Toward A Dangerous Future,” which I’m posting here. It began its life as a review of the book One of a Kind: Recent Polaroid Color Photography, edited by Belinda Rathbone and published by David R. Godine in 1979. The editor of Polaroid’s in-house magazine Close-Up, which the corporation also distributed free to educators and others, commissioned that review and didn’t ask me to soften my critique. I doubt that any other photo manufacturer would have granted me that much editorial freedom. (In 1998 I reconsidered this essay; I’ve posted the outcome here.)
Polaroid 20x24 studio
Despite my own cavils, and those of some others, I have to say that, not just on the whole but overwhelmingly, the artists and photographers and teachers who could take advantage of the program’s assorted offerings reported favorably on the experience, and rarely if ever received equivalent support from any other sector of the photo industry. That constitutes quite an achievement, for which Polaroid deserves compliments. I think the time has come to start developing the oral history of that policy’s consequences.
I’m opening this as a discussion space for those who were involved in those programs, either as recipients of this beneficence or as facilitators of Polaroid’s generosity, as well as for anyone else with something useful to contribute.
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For an index of links to all posts related to this story, click here.
Since we seem to be reminiscing, here’s my 20×24 story: http://www.timedia.com/portfolios/polaroids/polatext.html
I was one of 20 American artists selected to jump-start the Polaroid Art Studio. Janet Borden of the Robert Freidus Gallery in NYC had shown some of my first still lives done with the small, peel-apart Polaroid materials to the folks starting the Polaroid program.
They offered to fly me to Cambridge and let me have 20 exposures on the 20×24 camera. I accepted. The corporation thought that the camera would be used to make “point-of-sale” posters for department stores, and of course all the work with the camera had been done by “professional photographers.” The technical folks running the studio where not yet aware of artists and how they worked.
I had flow to Boston with a suitcase full of props, stopping in New York City to visit print shops and buy backgrounds — nineteenth-century political cartoons and so on — to work with. There were two rectangular rooms fitted out with high-end lighting and a single camera in each room. The camera itself is a very large wooden view camera on wheels. Very 19th century. It extruded the pictures out of the bottom. You would whack off the bundle of extruded materials, pin that on the wall, and then peel off the receiving sheet which was the positive image. It struck me as the reinvention of the daguerreotype, only this time in color.
Used to working with film to make prints as I was, I found the fact that there was no grain structure to the image a striking experience with the 20×24 image. Looking back, this format — 20×24 — set off the rush to larger and larger photographic images in the art scene. I set to work creating my still lives on a grander scale.
Mid-morning on the second day my technical assistant, who was running the camera and helping with filter selections, etc. said he was going out to put money in the meter where his car was parked. He never returned. It made him to nervous to watch me slap together my images. After waiting a hour I just started shooting my work. He never returned.
Some of this work was later selected for the Whitney Museum’s first showing of photography in their biennial exhibition. That year photography was given a special room with a low ceiling as it was felt that even a print as large as a 20×24 (big for photographs then) could not hold the wall against the scale of painting. You may recall that several years ago a New York Times writer declared that “… now that photographs were being presented in a scale equal to 19th century history painting, photography was now an art form…”
Andy Warhol was one of the invited artists. He took over the other studio on one of my days there. I stopped what I was doing mid-morning and wandered over to see what he was doing. It was a perfect Warhol moment. Andy was sitting is front of the camera having his portrait made. The photographer of celebrities has become one. If only I had had the sense to grab my Pentax 35mm camera and get a frame or two of the scene.
Robert Heinecken also visited at that point. His first day he wanted to photograph some of his own work again. The Polaroid people balked at this idea and he left. A few days later they relented.
I stopped using the 20×24 when the folks let Chuck Close use the really large Polaroid camera [40×80] and refused to let me do the same. They had been using it in Italy to reproduce, full scale, important Renaissance paintings. I said to myself, “Hey, I can just shoot my images on 4×5 transparency film and have them printed any size I can afford.”
Footnote: My first day at the studio, the chap in the other studio was a commercial photographer photographing a lobster pot. The floor was littered with 20 x 24 prints, subtle color variations of the exact same framing of the pot. I been flown to Boston, put up in a very nice hotel, and given 20 shots period. Another “ah hah” moment.
It is interesting to hear of Robert [Fichter]’s experiences in the early days of the studio. It boggles my mind to think of the budgets involved in those early days, a staff of 10 or so people, including many who had no artistic training at all and in some cases little technical training. Polaroid had a policy in those days that any employee could post for a job opening in a very commendable democratic system, but it could lead to someone coming off of a line-manufacturing job and suddenly working with well-known artists who took Polaroid at their word when asked to “experiment.”
The project at that time (I was first offered the job in 1978, but instead chose another position at Polaroid) was trying to find its way. It was born in a research group that reported to Dr. Land through John McCann, and was trying to find commercial applications to help defray the tremendous costs of start-up. I estimate that it cost anywhere between $500k and $750k in 1978 dollars.
Credit people like Belinda Rathbone and JoAnn Verberg for their work in choosing artists like Robert. The early Achilles’ heel was the inability of the technical staff to understand the conceptual and artistic directions in which these artists wanted to push this new medium. By the time I came back to 20×24 in 1980, budgets were greatly reduced (but still lavish compared to today); my charge was to repair the damage done by the previous staff’s indifference.
I can say with certainty that during my tenure no artist was ever told what to do or not to do. And I certainly never went out to my parking meter, never to return. I regret that Robert ceased his work on the camera over the Close situation (of which I was unaware). I would have enjoyed working with you, Robert.
Allan, this discussion and your intent to produce an oral history of Polaroid’s policies toward artists will be beneficial in (hopefully) producing a reaction among Japanese manufacturers who could/should be doing far more to court their target market than pouring money into ad campaigns and photo contests.
From your lips to God’s (or Fuji Corp.’s) ear, as they say, Sonia, insofar as stimulating enlightened corporate support from the Japanese photo industry goes. It would thrill me if this discussion had impact on that scale.
I’m not in a position to commit to developing a full oral history of Polaroid’s support programs. I don’t even know if this blog can serve as the appropriate digital archive for such an account, in any comprehensive sense. But perhaps seeing samples here of the kinds of stories people have to tell about their experiences with these technologies and the Polaroid Corporation’s policies will prompt some smart doctoral student or researcher to pursue the creation of that history as a formal project.
Most if not all of the participants on all sides are still alive and well and talkative. So the time is ripe.
I worked with the LARGE Polaroid on four different occasions . . . It was the only camera that I had ever seen that would sleep four!
Another fact that should be mentioned is that the camera was really “jerry-built.” (It may have been put together by some old used-car dealer.)
I was pleased with some of the images that we made . . . But I always felt that if I exhibited them, JOHN REUTER’S name should appear first, signed in ink, followed by my name written as small as possible in pencil. It was impossible to operate this wobbly monster of a camera without the expertise and patience and anal-retentiveness of John. All of us who have ever worked with this King Kong of a camera owe John our profound gratitude.
The Polaroid thread is great.
Corporate support fors the arts, regardless of which discipline or medium, is a blessing, and in this environment cab fare or a token from the MTA can often mean quite a lot. After being awarded a grant in 2003 for a essay on immigration I realized that I would need more money to fully finish my essay “Seeing America.” At first I wrote to Kodak; they turned me down. Then I wrote to Fuji; they also turned me down.
Later that same week I read an editorial in the New York Times stating that Kodak had let go of many of their staff. I thought this might be the right time. So I wrote again to the new person (who is no longer there) and asked for aid in finishing my essay on immigration.
They called and we met in a midtown Manhattan hotel for breakfast. They asked: “What can we do for you, John?” I was smart enough to know that at this point in the game not to ask for money, so I said “Film.” They said, “What kind of film are you using and how much do you need?”
Two weeks later, my doorbell rang. It was the UPS guy with a large box. At first I thought it was for my wife, then I saw that golden logo. I had enough film for two essays. The moral of the story: Don’t give up on Polaroid or any company that is in distress; and, second — READ the newspaper. Arnold Newman once said to me that the problem with young photographers is that they don’t read, they are only visual. Now, that’s a new thread.
Best to you, A.D. — JPN
John Patrick Naughton’s right. I’m wrong to assume that, however the Polaroid Corporation’s legal situation winds up, the new management won’t prove eager to engage in some forms of sponsorship or at least open to suasion on that score.
Certainly the knowledge that the Polaroid Collections and the company’s Artist Support Programs (and education-support program) matter to a great many people and had wide impact and positive PR value will help them weigh the option of recommitting in some ways to those forms of sponsorship. So the more vocal and public the photo/art community becomes with its concerns about the collections and its admiration for all those programs, the more effectively we’ll be able to lobby for continuation of such policies after the resolution of the court case.
In addition to the deservedly publicized artist programs noted below, I wonder how many photographers were helped in a less public way by Polaroid. In 1985 they gave me a case of SX-70 film to use for give-aways when I photographed Ethiopian Jewish refugees. It not only made life easier for me, the people to whom I gave the pictures loved them.
Re: John Reuter’s notes on my notes. On my second visit to the studio I had a an excellent tech person, but we were stumped on a filter choice when you, John, stepped in and said “Why don’t you add a little cyan?” — which worked. Later in the day someone said to me “That was Land’s personal photographer who helped you out.” I dined out on that event for a number of years. Since I was too dumb to say it then let me say it now: Thanks, John.
Also, I knew that Polaroid could not waste film on a uncertain chance like me shooting the really big camera, but the 20×24 work did convince Bob Freidus to edition my later, much larger-scale work.
Jerry Uelsmann was one of my photographic heroes and influences (to this day). I was incredibly excited to work with him and am humbled by his statement that I should sign the work. I have never felt that should be the case; I was doing my job and perhaps was more motivated working with Jerry than some other artists.
I regard my talent in channeling the camera both as a gift and a curse. At times it was pure pleasure to enable my heroes to produce on this challenging camera, and at other times I must admit that I felt a little part of me went away on some shoots. It was always a challenge to keep doing my own work; I have never given up on the notion that I was an artist first and camera operator/technician and now business director second. I imagine the public/professional opinion may differ, regarding me in the opposite manner. While I no longer run the camera on a regular basis, I guess I can still step in and say “how about little Cyan?”
Sometimes it is just a reflex action — or it is just the teacher in me who never got the teaching job he wanted and instead made this my teaching job? My students, however, were some of the most amazing artists in the world.
John to Robert Fichter: You are very welcome. I wish I had been Land’s personal photographer. My decision not to take the 20×24 job in 1978 precluded me from working directly with Land, which obviously I now regret. The truth is, I wasn’t ready to do 20×24 right out of graduate school; my time in the research studios actually helped me tremendously in later years. It allowed me to walk into a room and say, “How about some cyan?” (Did that really happen?)
I actually did enjoy passing the information I gleaned from engineers and scientists to artists. Not many people get that opportunity.
I had three sessions on the Polaroid 20×24 — one in Boston and two in New York. At the first session I was skeptical that I could get the same effect with strobes as I got with the hot lights in my studio. The first day I asked John Reuter if he could make it look like car headlights … and he said “high beams or low beams?” I was sold, and bought strobes after my time in Boston.
I learned something from John at every session. He helped me change the look of my work, and I was truly indebted to him. I was so grateful to Polaroid for the opportunity to work with the camera and to learn from the amazing John Reuter.
I also had a positive experience with Polaroid. I wanted to produce a large-scale exhibition from my 1988 photo-collage project, the TB-AIDS Diary, so the show could travel. And I thought the Polaroid film border would add a new level to the work, giving it even more of a scrapbook feel.
They gave me the chance to shoot three 20×24 sets of my 19-image project. These have traveled the world, from being part of the group show “Testimonies: Photography and Social Issues” curated by A. D. Coleman for Houston Fotofest International in 1990 to the most recent showing at Ryerson University, Toronto.
Having the opportunity to exhibit this work in this form led to many meaningful situations, including helping to stop the stamping of “HIV” in passports of infected people in Finland.
The demise of the Artist Support Program is a total bummer and yet another sad harbinger of decreased support for photography-based artists. Linda Benedict-Jones began my relationship with the Program when she began shipping boxes of Type 55 P/N film to me. The support came at a fortuitous moment when I had stopped making pictures in the street with the 35mm camera and was trying to figure out “what next?” My budget certainly didn’t match my ambition, and so receiving this film — which was quite expensive at $40+ a box for twenty sheets — was nothing less than a godsend.
After several years of this generous support — and finding myself again at a conceptual and creative crossroad — I asked if I could use the 20X24 camera in the NY studio in 1991. Linda (and maybe by that time Barbara Hitchcock) told me that support for the studio could be granted once a year. So I scheduled a day in December and came back in January (the following “year”) for a second day.
This began a wonderful relationship with the man I called “my dancing partner,” John Reuter. It takes a good partner to dance around that large 265-lb. camera without stepping on each other’s toes! John was the consummate partner/collaborator, skillfully helping me achieve what I was after while being simultaneously essential and yet unobtrusive.
I used the camera exclusively from 1991 to 1998, flying it around the country and working with John, Tracey Storer, and Jan Hnizdo, the 20X24 technician in Prague, who drove the camera to London on the back of a pickup truck so that I could make pictures with it at the National Portrait Gallery in London for two weeks.
Working with that camera for eight uninterrupted years really pushed my work in new directions and taught me a whole other way of thinking about photographs. A rough experience with a new 20X24 camera that was made by an independent dealer and camera maker soured me on the camera after that. After having convinced the college I teach at to acquire one of these new cameras, it turned out to be a complete lemon; we couldn’t even get the thing serviced, and so had to fly John in from NY a couple of times to try to repair it. Ultimately we got rid of it.
But for the eight years I worked with the real 20X24 cameras I was able to radically rethink my approach to picture-making and grow as an artist. It was a kind of support I’ll always be grateful for. And John Reuter can be my “dancing partner” any day!
I will have to look back at the dates, but in the late ’80s-early ’90s I received an NEA grant to photograph historic churches in New Mexico. It was a very worthy large-scale documentation project of about 600 historic, largely Hispanic, Catholic churches in Northern New Mexico. The NEA grant was not going to nearly cover all my expenses.
One of my sponsors was Calumet, which was lending me a substantial amount of equipment and giving me photographic paper for the project. Realizing my additional need, they also recommended me to the Polaroid Artist Support Program, which supplied me with instant films for proofing and what we affectionately called Fujiroid (4×5 Fuji transparency films in Polaroid sleeves — the original ready-load) for the duration of the project. Their help was crucial to the success of the project, and I will be forever thankful to them for their help.