Robert Frank Book

By: Sarah Greenough & Robert Frank

Looking In

The Americans

Robert Frank’s Sarah Greenough, Robert Frank Pontifex Press | New York

Pontifex Press New York

ROBERT FRANK’S The Americans

Looking In

By: Sarah Greenough & Robert Frank

“Always looking outside, trying to look inside, trying to say something that is true.” ‑Robert Frank

ROBERT FRANK’S The Americans Looking In

By: Sarah Greenough & Robert Frank

INTRODUCTION In 1953, a deeply discouraged Robert Frank returned to New York after six years of restless wanderings. Frustrated that he had been unable to publish his photographs more widely, he wrote to his parents, “This is the last time that I go back to New York and try to reach the top through my personal work.” Instead of abandoning photography, however, Frank applied to the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation for a grant to create a book of photographs of America that would reveal, as he wrote in his proposal, “the kind of civilization born here and spreading elsewhere.” With a prestigious roster of supporters, including the photographer Walker Evans, the photographer-turned-curator Edward Steichen, and the art director Alexey Brodovitch, Frank received a Guggenheim fellowship in the spring of 1955, the first European-born photographer ever to be so honored. After short trips that summer to Detroit and Savannah, he embarked that fall on a transcontinental journey, a 10,000-mile voyage of discovery that took him through more than thirty states in nine months. Once he returned to New York in June 1956, he spent the better part of a year developing more than 767 rolls of film that he had short for the project, reviewing his contact sheets, making more than thousand work prints, refining the selection, and establishing a sequence for the photographs. When his book was published, first in France in 1958 by Robert Delpire as Les Americains and then in the United States in 1959 by Barney Rosset and Grove Press as The Americans, it forever changed the course of twentieth century photography. With brilliant insight and economy, Frank revealed a country that many knew existed but few had acknowledged. He showed a culture deeply riddled by racism, alienation, and isolation, one with little civility and much violence. He depicted a society numbed by a seemingly endless array of consumer goods that promised many choices but offered no real satisfaction, and he revealed a people emasculated by politicians who were fatuous and distant at best, messianic at worst. Yet Frank also discovered a new kind of beauty — in the magical allure of a jukebox glowing in dimly lit bar, the magnetic warmth of sunlight on a brightly polished table or chair, or the aching loneliness of a drive-in movie theater silently projecting fantasies to a field of isolated cars. It was a beauty so commonplace it was hardly seen, so genuine and unspeakably poignant it was rarely admitted. Yet it was just not just his subjects that were so new and foreign, it was also his style. Combining dissonance and harmony, angst and fluidity, his partial, fragmentary images — with their seemingly loose, causal compositions, their often rough, blurred, out-of-focus foregrounds and titled horizons ­— seemed raw and aggressive, yet also immediate even strangely balletic.

Initially excoriated by critics. The Americans was soon passionately embraced by legions of younger photographers, who responded to it’s ruthless honesty, soulful, lament, and unsettling grace. The book’s rising reputation however, never sat comfortably on Frank’s shoulders. The same restlessness that inspired it, the same desire to court both risk and failure, coupled with loathing repetition, propelled him to abandon photography for filmmaking temporarily in the late 1950’s. fascination.

Thanks to the generosity of colleagues at other institutions, we have also mind the rich Walker Evans Archive at the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts and the holdings of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, the New York Public Library, and Syracuse University. Both the catalogue and the exhibition are divided into four sections that address Frank’s early years, his Guggenheim fellowship, The Americans, itself and its impact on his later career. I have written the principal essays in all of these sections and have sought not only to identify the critical advancements in his art that led to The Americans but also to locate the evolution of his ideas in relation to the work of his contemporaries. As Frank would be the first to admit, however, his life, art and especially The Americans benefited enormously from the friendships he formed with other photographers as well as artists, editors, writers, and museum professionals. With scalpel-like incisions, he plucked often simple but profoundly influential ideas from men such as Louis Faurer, Edward Steichen, Gotthard Schuh, Walker Evans, Robert Delpire, and Jack Kerouac, some of whom also worked tirelessly on his behalf. The curators and scholars, Anne Wilkes Tucker, Stuart Alexander, Martin Gasser, Jeff L. Rosenheim, Michel Frizot, and Luc Sante, have written focused analysis of Frank’s relationship with these individuals, often incorporating, into their essays detailed examinations of previously unpublished manuscript materials. Philip Brookman has discussed his own relationship with Frank and their work together on several exhibitions in the last thirty years. In his 1985 video Home Improvements Frank noted that he was “always looking outside, trying to look inside, trying to say something that is true.” Although said thirty years after he embarked on his journey through America, that statement succinctly encapsulates both the position he took in examining 1950’s America and his desire to use his art to speak passionately and truthfully about what he sees and feels. It also expresses the objective of his catalogue and exhibition — to look closely at one of the most important photography books in the history of the medium.

–Sarah Greenough

Mr. & Mrs. Feiertag, Late Afternoon 1951

By: Sarah Greenough & Robert Frank | Pontifex Press | New York

CONTENTS

Resistance Intelligence: Zurich to New York | 1924-1954 Chapter One

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Transforming Destiny into Awareness: The Americans | 1958-1959 Chapter Two

Pg. 13

Blowing Down Bleeker Street: Destroying The Americans | 1960-2008 Chapter Three

Pg. 20

Disordering The Senses: Guggenheim Fellowship | 1955-1957 Chapter Four

Plates

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Pg. 35

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Resistance Intelligence: Zurich to New York

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1924-1954

On November 27th, 1947, just nine months after he had arrived New York, Robert Frank photographed the twenty-first Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Although he had heard about the parade from his newfound friends, the Swiss-born photographer was still learning about the city and its customs.

Since his youth in Zurich, Frank had been drawn to marches and other public displays of civic and national pride, seeing them as telling symbols of a people’s character and beliefs. Yet the Macy’s Parade, like New York itself, was vastly different in both scale and ambition from anything he had ever experienced. Newspapers estimated that more than two million people lined the streets, crowded onto balconies, and peered down from rooftops as the parade made its way down Central Park West and then onto Broadway, before stopping at Macy’s department store on Thirty-Fourth-Street. Positioning himself in Times Square, an area he had come to know well, Frank used his newly acquired Leica camera to record the excited onlookers. He was especially attracted to the wide-eyed children who gazed with both delight and disbelief at the preposterous clowns and sober policemen, the elaborate floats and regimented marching bands, and even a group of Native Americans in ceremonial dress that streamed before them.

But Frank’s attention, as well as that of those around him, was soon drawn skyward to the massive helium balloons that filled New York’s cavernous streets. One in particular caught his eye — a huge depiction of a strongman with bulging muscles and triumphantly upraised arms,

swinging from a trapeze beneath an even bigger globe-shaped balloon. As the sun streaked between the tall buildings, the cables securing strongman to the balloon and even the trapeze itself. were barely visible. Thus it was unclear whether the strongman, through a mysterious feat of strength and will, was somehow holding up the world or was instead about to plummet to the street below.

This figure, transcendent but precarious, redolent of youthful optimism but also riddled by and uncertain fate, succinctly expressed Frank’s own state at the time. Years later, he would adamantly maintain that when he came to America he knew he would not go back to Switzerland. He insisted that he did not want to be part of the “smallness” and “traditional ways” of his native country: “I wanted to get out of Switzerland. I didn’t wan tot build my future there. The country was too closed, too small for me.” In 1947, though, when his future, like that of the strongman, was not so clear, he had not yet made such an emphatic break with his past.

He had secured a solid training in photography in Switzerland, acquiring many skills that he would prove useful in years to come, and he had been taught not to organize his materials deliberately and methodically but to think about his work rigorously and conceptually, as well as pragmatically. Yet he had learned far more than the craft in his native land — he had also discovered his avocation and his aspirations. Exposed to the most important Swiss photographers, editors, and designers of the period, such as Arnold Kubler, Gotthard Schuh, Jakob Tuggener, Frank had been profoundly moved to

see the impact that a group of photographs could have went united in a book. Just as important, he had also observed the power of photography as an effective, even seductive means of communication, and he had come to understand the ways in which it could be used to define issues of both national significance and personal importance.

From 1947 to 1955, when he embarked on his journey, to “record what one naturalized American finds to see the United States, “ his experiences in New York significantly sharpened his vision and intensified his ambition. He had made more important contacts with other photographers such as Walker Evans, Louis Faurer, Andre, Kertesz, Edward Steichen, whose ideas, works, publications, and exhibitions gave him new ways to think about both the creation and the display of his own photography. But he also met painters, poets, designers, and musicians, such as Alexey Brodovitch, William De Kooning, Allen Ginsberg, Franz Kline, Herbert Matter, and many others whose passionate convictions and often dazzlingly innovative work inspired and goaded him to push his own art still further.

In contrast to the structured order he had found in Switzerland, he discovered a new world that prized freedom, action, movement, and above all risk taking, and where, as Frank wrote to his parents in 1947, “only the moment counts.” In New York, he came to understand how chance, contingency, and even the fluid multiplicity of chaos could provide fertile opportunities for his photographs.

–Sarah Greenbough

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Transforming Destiny into Awareness: The Americans 1958-1959

Two days after Grove Press released The Americans on January 15th, 1960, it was reviewed in The New York Times. Only a few years earlier, the critic Gilbert Millstein, had written a glowing appraisal of Kerouac’s On The Road, but his assessment of Frank’s book was far more tempered. Comparing The Americans to Sid Grossman’s recently published Journey to the Cape, Millstein acknowledged Frank’s superior talents, yet he was clearly unsettled by the “implications” of his photographs and their “suggestions of latent violence,” just as he was disturbed

by Frank’s “distaste and distrust for his subjects” and especially his “cold fury.” Kerouac’s introduction, he concluded, was “fine descriptive reading, but rather too optimistic for Frank’s photographs; he sees a different America than Frank does.”

In the years since this first review, The Americans has been discussed extensively by both those who condemn Frank’s cold, critical assessment of the United States at mid-century and those who applaud his piercing visions. Responding to its compelling imagery and sober song, critics more recently have described the book as brilliantly an innovative articulation of a new set of icons of contemporary life, a radically new stylistic idiom, and passionate diatribe against American social and political life in the 1950’s. Yet most have accepted the book as a totality, and inseparable whole that, while composed of many often insightful elements, speaks with collective voice. Although most critics and historians acknowledge that Frank presented the photographs as a sequence, with only a few notable exceptions, they have not read it as a book

with a deliberately established structure, emphatic narrator, and carefully articulated and layered order.

Single photographs, even one or two discrete suite of images, have been repeatedly analyzed, but their connections with one another, the ways in which context amplifies or tempers individual works, and the methods Frank used to join them have often been overlooked.

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that it would engender similar experiences in others. he did this, as he has repeatedly asserted, by establishing a “distinct and intense order.” It was an order that he would of worked hard to establish, and it was one that he has scrupulously preserved.

Although he has often expressed a fear of repeating himself and has, for example, changed the contents and order of his autobiographical book The Lines of My Hand Twice since it was first published in 1972, he has never varied the sequence of photographs in The Americans in the more then seven editions of the books that have been published since its first appearance in France in 1958, nor has he changed the titles of Kerouac’s introduction since the 1959 Grove Press edition. Thus, it is clear that all these elements — order, titles, introductory text, — are central not only to the opinions he wanted to express and his understanding of the vision the book embodies but also its possible meanings.

What, then, is the order of The Americans? How are the photographs linked, and how does this sequence and structure inform the book? Frank himself has not made many comments on these points, believing, as he said in 1987, that when an artist completes a work, “he is finished with it. He should make no explanations.” With his faith in the power of intuitive expression firmly intact, he also added: “Sometimes one cannot explain why one does things.” In one instance, however, he described at length his creative process in constructing The Americans.

–Sarah Greenbough

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Blowing Down Bleeker Street: Destroying The Americans

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1960-2008

In the years since 1958, The Americans has had a curious, often unexpected impact on Robert Frank’s art and life. Like a difficult but brilliant child coming to maturity — one who at first stumbles badly but soon wins a wide circle of supporters — the book has taken on a life of its own. As it has grown on it’s own stature, Frank has negotiated a complex dance with it, at times passionately defending it, at other moments holding it warily at arm’s length, and at still other points angrily rejecting it. Changing decade by decade, his attitude towards The Americans has been inextricably linked with his innate suspicion of success, his abnoreherance of repetition, and his restless desire not only to push his art in new ways but to embrace both risk and failure. At the same time,, it has also been mingled in with — and in his mind, often profoundly tainted by — the rise of the commercial market for fine art photography and the growing acceptance of the medium by art museums. Although he has carefully preserved the order of the eighty-three photographs in The Americans in all subsequent editions, his shifting attitude toward the book and the ways in which he has promoted, dismissed, adapted, and modified it have fundamentally affected the way others have seen and understood it.

In the late 1950’s and the early 1960’s, neither The Americans nor Frank’s work made on his Guggenheim fellowship were well received, especially by the photography press. Edgy, critical, and often opaque at a time when photography was generally understood to be wholesome, simplistic, and patently transparent, the photographs disconcerted

editors even before the book was published. When The U.S Camera Annual published several of the images in late 1957, editor Tom Maloney took the unusual step of printing them on a sheet of paper half the width of the magazine’s page although Maloney stated that they used this unusual format “to suit the pictures” the layout also enabled Frank’s portrait to be seen alongside each image, thus reinforcing the highly subjective, not documentary nature of his work. Nothing that Frank’s work was “hardly the inspirational school of photography, “ Maloney further diluted its impact by reproducing many softer, less critical photographs made on his Guggenheim fellowship that would not be included in The Americans. (Of the thirty-three works published, fifteen were not in the book.) Pageant took an equally cautious approach year when it printed twenty reproductions, only seven of which would be included in The Americans. Using captions that extol, for example “Rural Free Delivery” in Nebraska or “Newly-Weds” in Reno, the editors of Pageant challenged readers: “Can you find your America in this one man’s America?” Even Frank’s friend Gotthard Schuh, editor of the Swiss Camera, confessed that Frank’s new work left him “shocked and haunted....

Never have I seen so over-powering and image of humanity become mass, devoid of individuality, each man hardly distinguishable from his neighbor, hopelessly lost in the air less space.” Predicting that his book was “sure to be unfairly judged,” he added that he feared that “the power of its imagery will be forgotten in the of discussion.”

Schuh was right. Released by Grove Press in January 1960 at the height of the cold war — just months after Fidel Castro assumed power in Cuba and nationalized all agriculture and industry; at the same time when many feared that the controversy over the status of West Berlin would speak military confrontation and a general war; and just weeks before the Soviet Union shot down a United States spy plane and detained its pilot — The Americans was seen by many as a scathing condemnation of the country and its people. With Jingoism running high, critics excoriated the book as “slashing and a bitter attack on some U.S. institutions,” “a wart-covered picture of America,” and a “disturbing” portrayal of “the ugly America.” Frank was personally accused of being “a joy of less man who hates the country of his adoption....a liar, perversely basking in the kind of world and the kind of misery he is perpetually seeking and persistently creating.”

“It’s Christmas day. It’s cold....My camera looks down Bleeker street. I’m listening to the music and I’m looking at the Christmas wrappers blowing in the wind. I’m thinking of Kerouac’s what he said, “being famous is like old newspapers blowing down Bleeker street.” –Robert Frank

saw as its easy stereotypes, another insisted that “Chicago has more valid facts to its personality than haranguing politicians, New York more than candy stores and homosexuals, Las Vegas more than gaming tables and quick weddings,” while a third proposed that the book should have been called “Why I Can’t Stand America.” The New Yorker was almost alone in seeing The Americans as a “beautiful social comment” that exposed “the special quality of American life....With brutal sensitivity,” most saw it “as a sad poem for sick people.” With such negative reviews, sales were scant and by December 1960, when the Grove Press had sold only a little over 1,100 copies, they declared the book out of print. For all his effort, Frank made $817.12 Lost in the vitriol was Frank’s comment published in the U.S. Camera Annual 1958 in which he acknowledged that the book was “personal and, therefore, various facets of American society and life have been ignored.” Yet he continued: “Above all, I know that life for a photographer cannot be a matter of indifference. Opinion often consists of a kind of criticism. But criticism can come out of love.” Further justifying his work, he added: “Its important to see what is invisible to others — perhaps the look of hope or the look of sadness.” Friends rallied to his support. Edna Bennet, cofounder of Gamma, a photographic agency to which Frank once belonged, wrote an article on his work for a 1961 issue of Aperture.

– Sarah Greenough

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Disordering The Senses: Guggenheim Fellowship

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1955-1957

With it’s connotations of youth, freedom, and new beginnings, its suggestions of a search for the meaning of both America and individual existence, the road is a potent symbol in twentieth century culture. So much so that we received his first check from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation in the spring of 1955, he immediately embarked on his journey and The Americans flowed as smoothly and inevitably from that experience as the highway underneath his car. But reality is always messier and sometimes even richer than myth. Although the idea of creating a spontaneous record of his encounter with the country was immensely appealing to Frank, he initially had no understanding of how complex his project would be or even any clear plans for a transcontinental journey. And although he was willing to lay himself open and let the country define itself as he proceeded, he had no conception of how different the country at large was from the world he knew in New York.

Nor did he recognize going into the project that in the wake of the 1953 execution Joseph McCarthy, and the freeze of the cold war, the United States was a deeply suspicious place, wary of foreigners, especially Jewish ones, beset by the fears of communism, and plagued by racism and segregation.

With his methodical Swiss training, Frank tried to prepare himself. He gathered maps and itineraries from the American Automobile Association; collected letters of reference from the Guggenheim Foundation and friends in the press, as well as introductions to representatives in industries around the country; and he accumulated suggestions from fellow photographers of places to visit — Walker Evans was especially helpful with recommendations in the South, while Ben Shultz and Todd Walker proposed locations in Los Angeles, and Wayne Miller ones near San Francisco. The previous year, Frank had identified some of the “symbols”

he wanted to pursue, as he later called them — things he seen everywhere but not looked at or examined — and he established file folders devoted to some of these specific subjects. After viewing the Fourth of July celebrations in Jay, New York, in 1954, Frank selected “Flags” as one of his subjects. That fall, after seeing a rodeo in Manhattan, he added “Cowboys,” and a few weeks later, after attending the “Toy Ball” at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, he included rich socialities (with a nod, to Jaokob Tuggenener’s Ballnachte), along with “juke-boxes,” which were so foreign to his European sensibilities and so expressive of the hypnotic allure of American music. Later in 1954 or early 1955, when he photographed businessmen on the commuter train between New York and Washington, he added the “Congressional” to this group, and in March 1955, after he recorded the centennial celebrations in Hoboken, New Jersey, “politicians” became yet one more subject.

the homes as the locus of peoples lives, Frank decided to focus on the ways Americans used them. In and around Detroit, he photographed both young older Americans driving, sleeping, eating, and joy riding in their cars, even using them as a backdrop when they made love. But he also saw how cars isolated people, often separating them both from their surroundings and from each other, and how when he parked on the grass and underneath trees or when he abandoned in fields, cars appeared to become an organic part of the modern landscape. Yet he drove through Allentown, Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Sandusky, and onto Detroit, he also quickly found several other subjects that proved profitable in the months to come. Trying to make sense of the vast accumulation, Frank knew that just as he photographed he had to get rid of his overwhelming stack.

He saw them but recognized their impact on the ways people interact. Like so many other Europeans in the postwar years,

“The Americans is the voyage of a European in a country that he crosses for the first time. You are on a beach, you dive into the wave.” -Robert Frank After buying a used 1950 Ford business coupe from Schultz, Frank dove into the heart of his project and left New York in late June to photograph in Detroit. As someone who had come to maturity in Europe during the hardships of World War II and he had been amazed by the profusion of cars that he saw in this country in the 1940’s and 1950’s, he knew that the American obsession with them would be central to his story. Perhaps thinking of Tuggener’s Fabrik: Ein Bildepos der Technik (Factory: A Pictorial of Technology,) he may have also assumed that the automotive industry would be a major subject as well. Noting that cars were not merely modes of transportation but had replaced

he was fascinated with American lunch encounters, where strangers sat next to stranger and, in a manner so different from the more social cafe’ society he had known in Paris or even Zurich, never conversed with each other but only stared blankly ahead while joylessly eating. He also began to photograph in five-and-dime and variety stores, where he showed people surrounded and trapped by the burgeoning consumer culture — the signs, cards, newspapers, magazines, and products that promised endless choices but offered no real satisfaction. And in Detroit suburbs, he recorded the lonely beauty of a drive-in movie screen that silently its images against the fading light of day to a field of isolated

“I like a certain disorder; then I can find something in it.

I’m like the crows who pick food out of the garbage. They get the good pieces. “ -Robert Frank Sometimes he put red circular marks on his photographs he considered strongest; occasionally he marked them to indicate how they should be cropped. Ruthlessly eliminating anything he though was weak, banal, too obvious, or even harsh, he gradually reduced the number of work prints.

Next, he worked on the sequence itself. Laying out some of the work prints on the floor or tables and pinning others to the walls, he slowly devised a structure. Like his own Black and White Things, Evan’s American Photographs, and Tuggenener’s Fabrik, his book would be divided into four chapters, each separated by blank pages, most opening with a photograph or flag. By spring 1957, Frank had cut his one thousand work prints in which he more carefully considered cropping. Sometimes he used the full negative, as in Trolley — New Orleans, but more often he presented only a portion of it. For example, he eliminated a distracting figure on the far right in City Fathers — Hoboken, New Jersey; emphasized the crosslike forms behind the conventioneer in Political rally — Chicago and the evangelist in Jehova’s Witness — Los Angeles; tightened the relationship between campaign posters and the bumper pool table in Luncheonette — Butte, Montana; and focused more closely on the lonely young woman in Elevator — Miami Beach and on the scheming politicians in Conventional Hall — Chicago.

Almost immediately, Frank became concerned about the text for the book. With its carefully manicured cadences and its subtle jabs Edward Steichen’s “wooly” sentimentality, Evan’s introduction, which was published in U.S. Camera Annual 1958 was, Frank felt, “all wrong,” too much about the past, even too much of a defense of Evan’s own work

and not expressive of the spirit of Frank’s art. Yet even more alarming were Delpire’s plans to place text opposite the images, which Frank knew would diminish, if not nullify, the power of both photographs and the sequence. In early September, Frank’s friend and filmmaker Emile De Antionio suggested that he ask Kerouac to write the introduction.

Like so many others, De Antonio had read the ecstatic review of On the Road that appeared in the September 5th, 1957, issue of the New York Times. Thought the critic, Gilbert Millstein, hailed the appearance of On the Road as an “historic occasion,” comparable to the publication of Hemingway’s The Sun also Rises, far more important for De Antonio and Frank was his suggestion that Kerouac and Frank shared a similar vision. Kerouac, was, Millstein wrote, the voice of the new Beat Generation that “was born disillusioned: It takes for granted the imminence of war, the barrenness of politics and the hostility of the rest of society.

It is not even impressed with material well-being. It does not know what refuge it is seeking, but is seeking.” A few days later, Frank met Kerouac at a party given by the newspaper editor Lucien Carr and without having ever read On the Road asked him to write the introduction. Kerouac agreed, and by early October he had written a draft of his manuscript.

Yet it proved far too short to Delpire’s purposes. Although Frank knew that Kerouac disliked making revisions, believing, as his editor Malcolm Cowley wrote, that his writing should “come out like toothpaste from a tube and not be changed, and that every word that passed from his typewriter was holy,” he nevertheless asked Kerouac if he could write a few more pages. “If you feel what you wrote is enough,” Frank told Kerouac that fall, “or that there is too

much more to say — fine.” Yet he quickly added, “Not so fine because Delpire will want to put in it just for his own peace of mind anything that he will find.”

Delpire did just that. Although Frank sent Delpire both Evan’s introduction and an expanded version of Kerouac’s, the publisher rejected both texts. When the book was released in late November 1958, all of Frank’s photographs were reproduced on the right--hand pages facing text on the left. Selected and edited by Alain Bosquet, the text where excerpts from writings by Alexis De Tocqueville, Simon De Beauvoir, John Dos Passos, Walt Witman, and Richard Wright, among others, many of which were highly critical of the United States. In addition, after listing facts and figures about the country, Bosquet group the excerpts by topic.

-Sarah Greenough

pg.2 Americans, Canal Street— New Orleans, 1955

pg.4 Americans, New York, 1966

pg.10 Americans, Chattanooga, Tennessee, 1955

pg.9 Americans, Chicago, 1955

pg.11 Americans, Drug store — Detroit, 1955

pg.5 Parade/Valencia, 1952

pg. 12 Americans, Public park — Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1955

pg. 13 Americans, Indianapolis 1966

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pg. 14 Americans, San Francisco, 1956

pg. 15 Americans, Political Rally — Chicago, 1956

pg. 17 Americans, New York City, 1955

pg. 16 Americans, Newburgh — New York, 1955

pg. 16 Americans, Rodeo — New York City, 1954

pg. 17 Tulip/Paris, 1950