The Little Black Box

How are we to account for the sudden popular vogue of photography? When did it start?

The photographic industry is the only one I know that has successfully defied depression. It has even prospered during our bad time. One of the large photographic dealers in the New York financial district told me that his business took a sudden jump the very week following the crash. People came in with old cameras and antique equipment and traded them in for modern expensive machines.

‘How do you explain it?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘ I guess they have time on their hands. No business, so they go out and take pictures. Gives them something to do. Keeps the mind off troubles.’

But this explanation is hardly satisfactory, and it accounts for but a few. I have asked a number of people who have recently gone into photography what it was that attracted them to the hobby. Some said it afforded a simple escape from the pressure of modern existence. Others said they had long been seeking a hobby and photography gave them a chance for artistic expression. (I suspect that artists might challenge this.) Men confessed to me that they were bored to death with the cheap brand of Hollywood movies, and photography gave them something to do in the evenings. The wives of these gentlemen have become ‘dark-room widows.’

One young fellow, a liberal and pacifist, told me he went in for photography because it does not harm anyone, and almost everything else in the world seems to inflict injury on someone or something. I do not believe I can agree with this view, for I see stamp collecting and a hundred other hobbies just as harmless. And I have seen some photographs, many of them, that inflicted much injury. Yes, I have been injured myself by the cruel candid school of photography.

I found that old-timers who had been taking pictures years ago with large cumbersome boxes and the black cloth had picked up fresh interest because of the small handy precision cameras that have been designed since the end of the war. The convenience and flexibility of these new miniature cameras, and the remarkable results obtainable with them, have no doubt attracted many. The lenses are faster and the film more sensitive; thus the boundaries of photography have been greatly extended. No longer is sunlight necessary. Snapshots at night, with a reasonable amount of illumination, are easily possible.

Many girls, on hearing that Margaret Bourke-White is paid a fabulous salary with freedom to go anywhere and snap anything, think, quite rightly, that this would indeed be a pleasant career. They also learn that assistants carry the bags and laboratory workers in the dark room back home help with the developing and printing. This all sounds very attractive. In the past few years I have met a number of sad young women who have discovered that they were not Margaret Bourke-White. The truth is that only a very few, aside from manufacturers and dealers, are able to make a steady income from this hobby.

I have also run into some odd individuals who like to hang something over their shoulder when they walk out. This seems to me a very German trait, for the Germans love to get into a harness of field glasses, cameras, thermos bottles, and other hang-on-the-belt contraptions. Such people are to be seen in America, too. They want to ‘belong.’ Two such camera-strapped individuals meeting anywhere will talk to each other without hesitation or introduction. And because of this social factor shy and lonely souls have bought the little black box.

We all know that artistic values have changed since the war. The day of the old woolly studio photograph is over forever. The public to-day has a curious interest in a hard, cold, exact, detached, and sometimes cruel school of photography. This needs no studio, no special lighting, no retouching or dark-room doctoring. All it requires is a small efficient camera concealed on the hip, waiting for the proper moment to arrive. Some weak souls — and a good many photographers are timid — gain a sense of power by carrying their little black box concealed but loaded.

This change of values and the ease with which a photograph tells its story — a thousand or more words would not describe fully the average picture — account for the rise of our tabloid newspapers and the popularity of our picture journals. There are many people who find it difficult and trying to read words. They would rather ‘look pictures’ or ‘listen radio.’

And there are those who, unable to express themselves in other ways, find that with a photograph they are able to tell a full story. Some picture stories are very frank and unusual. This has given rise to that pussyfooting, sneak-aroundthe-corner ‘candid’ school of photography. The candid picture is not to be confused with the modern documentary photography, nor with photo-journalism or informal and action photography.

The camera as a detective is indeed very old, but only in recent times, thanks to small compact instruments, fast lenses, and highly sensitive film, has the detective spirit been given free chance to operate. Cameras are forbidden in the electrocution chamber, but at the last act in the drama of Ruth Snyder, murderess, a reporter had a small candid camera strapped to his leg, and just as the current came on he lifted his trouser and snapped the picture. The tabloid newspaper printed this stolen moment over the whole of the front page. It was a photo scoop. At about the same time a photographer in Europe, Erich Salomon, took a number of very informal pictures of famous diplomats haggling at one of the peace conferences. The pictures had wide circulation.

These were two outstanding events that helped launch a whole movement in photography. The candid school has gone the limit, and at present nobody is really safe. Reporters have become more daring, and their motto is ‘Live dangerously and bring home the picture.’ Cruelty to men and women in the public eye can go no further.

All this has helped the camera business. The year before the depression we imported from Europe a third of a million dollars’ worth of cameras and accessories. In 1929 this figure reached $645,263. In 1936, the last year for which we have figures published by our Customs Department, the total reached over $1,800,000. This amount is for cameras and lenses alone and does not include $300,000 worth of photographic paper from Germany or more than a million dollars’ worth of imported raw film from England. The total bill of photographic importations for 1936, I find, is over $3,800,000. These pay a heavy duty ranging from 20 per cent on cameras to 40 per cent for lenses imported separately.

But the imports are really a very small part of the business. Since the days of depression our own exports have risen enormously. The figures I have been able to gather for 1927 total only $4,705,000. But in 1932 they jumped to $13,538,000, and in 1935 the volume was over $17,400,000. Of this last amount $2,500,000 consisted of unexposed motion-picture film.

Does America want to build a camera that would really compete with the best German product? There are rumors that a number of fine miniature cameras made in the United States are soon to be launched on the market. So far I have seen nothing in this field that compares favorably with the small German-built cameras. Some say that several old men in the technical division of our large camera works prevent the younger and brilliant men from designing a camera that would compete in all ways. Others argue that the foreign competition is not important, for sales of Eastman Kodak alone for 1937 were over $136,000,000 and are mounting each year. And so what does a million and a half dollars’ worth of imported products amount to?

The operating income of the Eastman Company has grown steadily from more than $12,000,000 in 1932 to more than $34,000,000 in 1937. Of course the amateurs, with their little black boxes, are responsible for only a fraction of this business — only 15 or 18 per cent, I believe. Motion-picture film accounts for more than half of these staggering figures. But even then the amateurs are spending a good many millions on their hobby each year. And Eastman is not the only photographic company in America. Du Pont manufactures a good deal of the film used in Hollywood.

Add to these the companies specializing in photographic papers, chemicals, amateur moving-picture equipment, developing and printing laboratories, — to say nothing of photo magazines, books, gadgets, lighting equipment, and all the other things so dear to the amateur’s heart, — and you have an American industry that is doing a full $100,000,000 business a year, at a time when the whole nation is in the doldrums.

Because so many nervous fingers are eager to press the button, manufacturers here and abroad have been unable to meet the actual demands. In the past eight years American dealers handling the Leica camera, which is an expensive instrument selling at from $150 to $400, have increased from 400 to 1200 in number. A 600-page manual describing the use of this camera has already gone through six editions, with a total sold of more than 50,000 copies.

A whole new literature has arisen. New publishers have sprung up overnight. New companies have been incorporated to manufacture cameras imitating popular models and make accessories that are ever in demand. Worthless and stupidly designed merchandise finds a ready market.

A new fast lens designed for one of the popular miniature cameras was two years late in delivery. During this time the advance orders for this accessory, costing $180, accumulated until several thousand were on file. The initial shipment to the United States was only several hundred, and dealers fought with each other to get stock. Don’t forget that while this was going on the whole nation was sunk deep in depression!

Germany has no complaint. The Leitz works have doubled the size of their factory and doubled the number of their workers. Their main business, the microscope division, now takes second place. The Zeiss works have expanded enormously — but under government eyes, so that at any moment the entire plant could be converted into a factory for war materials.

Many improvements for modern cameras are held up because the factories do not have time to fill the orders now on file. So great is the demand that they are unable to keep abreast with it. This condition exists not only in German factories but also in Rochester, New York, where much of our photographic equipment is made. One firm manufacturing a special type of expensive box camera, in which not a button has been changed in twenty years, has found itself weeks behind in production because this type of box is popular with our news photographers. The vogue is on.

In the spring of this year Grand Central Palace, the home of the Auto Show in New York, opened its doors to the first large Photo Show. Almost all manufacturers were represented and showed their latest products. The walls were covered with 3000 selected photographs, and the place was mobbed. Over 100,000 people paid admissions. Space is now being allotted for the exhibition next year. The interest seems mounting.

Photo clubs have sprung up everywhere as though overnight. A special camera-club service has been organized by Eastman Kodak, and fifteen pamphlets are published and sent out gratis dealing with camera-club organization, management, and activities. Five years ago the clubs in the United States numbered about 250, while to-day the total exceeds 1500.

Having officiated at a few of the photographic contests during the past five or six years, I can see a definite improvement in the pictures of amateurs throughout the country. The improvement is mostly of a technical nature. Some amateurs are now doing work equal to that of the good professionals. But these are only a few.

There are a number of things that seem to hold up the average amateur. Often he fails to ‘see the picture’ — that is, he has a bad eye and does not find the picture because he has no idea of balance, composition, design, dramatic feeling, human interest, or the hundred other things that should enter into the art of picture making.

Year after year amateurs continue to produce miserable and meaningless snapshots. And the sad part is that many do not even know that their pictures are bad. They display these ‘masterpieces’ with great pride. Ego carries them buoyantly along, and the same ego prevents them from learning the simple rules of the craft.

With ego also goes great hope. The amateur hopes for the best. Reason might tell him that the light is poor, the subject not worthy, the equipment in his hands not suitable for the job he is attempting, his exposure a wild guess, — all this and more, — but still hope is behind his finger and he presses the button. Then later he is surprised and annoyed when he sees the finished result.

There are some, however, who are eager to learn and master this intricate craft. Many amateurs have done quite well with the process of film development, but they fall down in the printing. The quality of the printing is, to my mind, the thing that makes the great difference between the amateur and the professional. Almost every amateur has negatives that could be made into exhibition pictures if he only knew how to print them.

This last step in the photographic process, the printing, is what at present seems to hold up the more ambitious amateur. But even in this most difficult and tricky process there are signs of definite improvement. A careful comparison of recent amateur photographic exhibitions with exhibitions of several years ago proves beyond a doubt that amateurs are aware of this deficiency and that many have taken steps to improve their ‘print quality.’

And so, while a good section of the amateur battalion is photographically blind, another good section is alive, interested, and progressive. It is hard to estimate the numbers of each, and I am inclined to believe that the stupid section is in the majority. But all are devoted passionately to the little black box, and all spend money to help keep this $100,000,000 business away from depression.