Portraiture: the Pleasure of Knowing People

By Len Bernstein

When I began to photograph, I thought a good portrait was the result of technical knowledge, intuition and luck, and if the gods of silver gelatin were smiling down on you, they all came together at the moment you released the shutter. But I was puzzled--how did one reveal the sitter's personality, or even recognize it? I acquired technique, but the essence of a person wasn't as clear cut as f16 at 250. And so I waited patiently for that fleeting, meaningful expression, and so often it eluded me.

I was fortunate to learn the reason why, as Aesthetic Realism taught me to ask the kind of questions every photographer should consider: Am I really interested in knowing another person deeply? Do I think their thoughts and feelings can add to me, make me more of an individual? As I hope to elicit an emotion in my subject, do I hope to have a large emotion myself? My answers, at the time, unfortunately ranged from maybe to no. For example, when I had a conversation with someone, I often only half-listened when they spoke, as I was thinking about something more important--what I had to say. This conceit didn't change just because I put on my "photographer's hat." While I was usually more attentive looking at someone through the viewfinder, I was photographing under a handicap, because if you aren't sure the depths of people are worth exploring, they're not likely to show them to you; and if they do, that significant moment can easily pass you by unnoticed!

In my first Aesthetic Realism consultation in 1975 I began to learn that, like every person, I had an attitude to the whole world that showed in the way I saw people. I had been married to Harriet for just 10 months when I was asked by the consultation trio The Kindest Art: "If you have to give your attention to something else, as a photographer, what does it take your attention away from for a while?" I answered, "From myself."

Consultants: Would you say you have that question with your wife--that is, if you give your thought to her for 15 minutes, those 15 minutes you can't give to yourself?

 

Len Bernstein: Yes, that makes sense.

 

Consultants: Now, do you think it's possible to feel that as you are giving your thought to something else, that you are taking care of yourself?

The Kindest Art was teaching me I could express myself through being fair to what is not myself, and this is what I was deeply hoping for as a photographer, but also as a husband, and simply as a human being--and as I studied this, a rift in me began to heal. In the days and weeks that followed, people and things took on new meaning for me. I was more excited than ever about photography, and began to have proud emotions wanting to know and be affected by Harriet. Shortly after this consultation I made this photograph of her.

I remember looking into her eyes and feeling so lucky we were learning how to have a good effect on each other.

The symmetrical composition and the even distribution of light and dark upon her features makes for serenity. But even as a woman sits reposefully, I learned, there is the motion of thought and feeling within her that takes in all of reality. It is in her expression--thoughtful, keen, and friendly. The lively, dark strands emerging from her bound hair are important; just imagine the photograph without them--see how it gets too placid? I think they comment on, give outward form to, the dynamic self within.