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Charles Harbutt Overcame Many Obstacles In His Career, Most Notably Cynicism.
By Margaret Regan
AFTER 15 YEARS, Charles Harbutt was a seasoned photojournalist.
He had witnessed the early days of Castro's revolution, he'd been
shot at during the Six Day War in the Middle East and he'd sloshed
through the mud at Woodstock.
Yet in the spring of 1970, Harbutt--the latest photographer to
be honored with a permanent archive of his work at the UA Center
for Creative Photography--saw something so horrifying it made
him seriously question the value of his profession. It was the
cynical manipulation of a news event by the U.S. government.
A photographer with the prestigious international agency Magnum,
Harbutt had arrived in New Haven to cover a Black Panther rally
for Bobby Seale for Life magazine. Coincidentally, the
rally was scheduled the weekend of the Kent State murders, and
tensions were high. When Harbutt checked into his hotel, he noticed
four other men registering; their car was a fancy model with Washington,
D.C., plates. The next day, when the crowds gathered on New Haven
Commons, the atmosphere was jittery, with the local police and
the National Guard lined up on one side with a tank, the Black
Panthers, local protesters and Yale students on the other. Then
Harbutt noticed the men from the hotel, now outfitted in elaborately
disreputable hippie finery, yelling provocative slogans at the
protesters. They were trying, as Harbutt put it, "to foment
something that would provoke an armed response."
The agents' strategy didn't work that time, but the incident
fed Harbutt's growing discontent with his role as the person who
was supposed to be telling the truth to the world. (His version
of the events tends to be confirmed by government files, since
opened, that indicate federal intelligence agents did indeed infiltrate
assorted "progressive" political groups.)
"If reality was going to be staged, that disillusioned me
with journalism," Harbutt said in an interview last month.
"I didn't want to be a delivery boy for Nixon or for any
politician."
Harbutt, 62, nowadays teaches photography at Parsons School of
Design in New York City. In town in November to kick off Foto/Auto/Bio:
The Charles Harbutt Archive, an exhibition that showcases
his photographs as well as his personal papers, he was still dressed
like the intrepid photojournalist, arrayed in the profession's
trademark leather jacket and jeans. And in truth, the episode
with the federal agents didn't turn him away from journalism altogether.
He still works the occasional magazine job, such as a recent New
York Times magazine spread about North Dakota. He does spend
the bulk of his time on the other pictures--a Yucatecan Indian
glimpsed watching television in his tiny house, barbed wire strung
above a decrepit Harlem apartment house--that have won him numerous
exhibitions in Europe, the publication of several photography
books and assorted prizes.
"People call them (the more recent work) fine art, but they
are still dealing with the formal issue of time," Harbutt
said, an issue that has preoccupied him in all his work, photojournalism
included.
Harbutt grew up in the little town of Teaneck, N.J. He learned
so much about photography from the "amateurs" in the
local camera club that at Marquette in the 1950s he was banned
from photog classes on the grounds that he already knew what he
was doing. Convinced his future lay in written reporting, he studied
journalism at the university and photography in outside workshops.
In his junior year, he sold his first photo-story to the progressive
Catholic magazine Jubilee. The project was a week-long
photographic documentary about a family of immigrants, war refuges
from Europe, from the time they stepped on American soil, through
their train journey across the country, to their arrival at their
new home.
"Certain events have a strict narrative," Harbutt said,
"all the events took place in order...I tried to play around
with it."
Harbutt graduated from college during the heyday of the photo-magazines
(namely Life and Looks) and hired on as a writer/photographer
at Jubilee. He still thought of himself primarily as a
writer, until the sweltering day when he was assigned to write
a story about winter in Japan.
"The sweat was dripping off me. I was not experiencing
winter in Japan. I was full of shit. I had never experienced winter
in Japan. (As a staff writer) I was less and less out in the world.
I realized that the only way I could guarantee that I would actually
look at things myself was to be a photographer."
So that's what he did. Soon after, he was invited to join an
international group of writers and artists to witness the Cuban
revolution in 1959. He was 23 years old.
"I got to Havana two days before Castro," he remembered.
"The regular Cuban photographers were doing intelligence
for Castro. I was taking pictures...People my age were saying
this is how we will run education, this is how we'll run this.
They were making up the country as they went along."
But the young photographer's excitement about what he saw happening
in Cuba was not shared by conservative editors stateside. "At
Life, the fix was in," he said. "They were not
interested in anything but their own controlling view. It was
typical Time-Life."
Harbutt determined not to become a slave to narrow-minded editors,
and freelanced his way through stories on Hispanic ghettoes in
New York to his baby daughter's first pair of shoes to Jacqueline
Kennedy's trip to Pakistan. He signed on at Magnum in 1963, and
stayed until 1981, working in Europe, the Middle East and the
U.S.
In 1967, he and several other journalists were fired on as they
covered a rally in Saudi Arabia. Terrified, Harbutt ran into a
mosque. "Stupid," he says now, but he lived. What bothered
him, he wrote later in his book Travelog, is that while
the Israeli photographs he subsequently took were publishable,
they by no means conveyed his "visual and emotional memories"
of what it was like to fear for his life, or what it was like
for a nation to be at war. He began to think of alternative forms
of photography. And he started teaching, to test out his ideas
about what the medium really is, working at the Art Institute
of Chicago, the Rhode Island School of Design and the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology.
His impressionistic observations of life in the Yucatan, included
in the Center show and collected into the book Progreso,
are typical of the way Harbutt has worked in the years since Magnum.
They're full of the odd moments that tell a lot about a person
or place, but probably wouldn't make it over the international
news wire. A man holds a bunch of speckled balloons against a
deteriorating church wall, a woman checks her hair in the mirror
of a shabby hotel room, a line of preschoolers traipse into a
room. As Harbutt explains in an essay in his book Travelog,
"That magic little black box (camera) enables one to leave,
in a small way and for a short while, one's own time and space
and to occupy...another time and space."
Foto/Auto/Bio: The Charles Harbutt Archive continues
through Sunday, January 11, at the UA Center for Creative Photography,
south end of the pedestrian underpass on Speedway, east of Park
Avenue. After that, the archive will be available for inspection
by appointment. Gallery hours are 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through
Friday, noon to 5 p.m. Sundays. The gallery is closed Christmas
Day and New Year's Day. For more information, call 621-7968.
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