This photo started it all. The early 20th century photographer, Edward S. Curtis, has been in and out of my mind for the last few months. It all began when I happened upon this self- portrait of his by accident and as I looked at it, felt an intense familiarity, as if I had possibly studied it as a child, memorizing the details of his expression as only a child's mind can do. Did we indeed have this portrait around when I was young; maybe even a book of his photographs? That would be feasible since photography was my father's profession as well. The portrait interest led to questions, to investigation, to gazing at hundreds of haunting photographs of American Indians. I then discovered that someone I know has an old Curtis print, hidden away, and I now await the next connection whatever it may be. This man's story is not a simple one, and I can only touch the surface of what I have read. His professional life and works are colored with controversy and conflicting opinions. His personal life is fraught with heartbreak, frustration, and loss. His life story is filled with the makings of a good movie. To learn about him and his work is to enter a realm with conflict between the beauty and magic of the images and the controversy of the methods he used to get them. I walk away from every reading feeling as if there is more to his story than has been told. I remain confused as to why he is relatively unknown with most people never recognizing his name.
Edward Curtis was born in Minnesota in 1868, the son of a rural preacher. He would become one of America's first photographers. As a young adolescent, he constructed his own camera with a lens his father brought back from the Civil war. (This part of his story makes me think of my own father who told me he received a Brownie camera for his 5th birthday in 1920 and decided at that moment that he would become a photographer.) At age 19 he moved with his family to Puget Sound in Washington State. His father became ill and died shortly thereafter leaving Edward to became the source of financial support for his mother and two siblings. Even with these heavy responsibilities, he stayed true to his dream and scraped enough money together to buy his first real camera. In 1892, he married his wife, Clara, and opened a successful portrait studio in Seattle. Curtis suffered from a restless spirit, and like many artists, found it difficult to be saddled with the day to day responsibilities of a business and family. He began photographing the local Native Americans who came to Puget Sound to dig for mussels in the tidal flats. One of these portraits was of Princess Angeline, the elderly daughter of Chief Sealth, the Suquamish Indian Chief after whom Seattle is named. In 1899, this mysterious, sepia-toned image was awarded the grand prize at the National Photographic Convention gaining recognition for this young photographer. Shortly thereafter, another career altering event
Photo of Princess Angeline
occurred when Curtis was on one of his many climbs of Mt. Rainer and ran into and provided assistance to a group of lost climbers, one of who happened to be the editor of Field and Stream magazine and famous writer on Plains Indians, Dr. George Bird Grinnell. This chance encounter led to Curtis being selected as the official photographer for the Harriman expedition to Alaska in 1899. Dr. Grinnell then invited Curtis to photograph and live among the Blackfeet and Algonquin Indians with him in Montana. Grinnell taught Curtis the methods required for gathering valid scientific information and he used this knowledge to learn as much as possible about Indian life and lore including religious customs, dance, dress, spirituality, and mythology; many customs which had been off limits to previous outsiders. He felt his complete understanding of these customs to be critical to his success as a photographer. He would later be initiated into the Hopi Dance, perhaps being the only white man to date to experience this ceremony. Word began to pass from tribe to tribe and members would send notice to Curtis that they wanted to be included in his study. On his trip with Grinnell, Curtis witnesses the mysterious and grand event of the Great Sun Dance performed by the Plains Indians. He stands on a bluff, overlooking hundreds of Tepees, and at that moment decides he is determined to dedicate his life to the documentation of the North American Indian. This begins his North American Indian Project which will last the next 30 years.
So beginning in 1901, at age 33, Edward Curtis will spend the next 30 years photographing and documenting Native North American Peoples. He took over 40,000 images of over 80 tribes and made over 10,000 wax cylinder recordings of Indian languages and music. In 1930, The North American Indian Project was finally published in 20 volumes. Now divorced, having been arrested and jailed for nonpayment of alimony and child support, having missed his children's lives, bankrupt, logging over 125 trips by train back and forth across the country, he suffered a complete physical breakdown. Less than 300 copies of the project sold. And there is much more to this story than I have told here.
You will rarely read about Curtis without mention of the controversy surrounding his work today. He began his photographic project during the height of US government efforts to assimilate the Indian population. Most Indians lived in poverty, restricted to reservations with tribal customs being suppressed or even banned. Curtis is criticized for ignoring their current situation and capturing only what is called a white man's version of the American Indian. He showed traditional people in traditional clothing often supplying the props himself and altering photos to remove any reminders of modern life. There is also focus on his personal failures, especially toward his neglected wife who drowned in a rowing accident after their divorce. At age 83, Curtis said if he had picked his own Indian name it would be "the man who never took time to play." He died at age 84, while living with his daughter, and a short obituary mentions he was an Indian historian and photographer. Much of his original work was destroyed or lost.
Photography is art and there is no absolute truth in art. Like life, it is full of deception. And like it or not, sometimes you have to lie in order to tell the truth. The existence of a camera always alters reality. I am sensitive to the concerns raised about his work, but I feel it is a little unfair to call Curtis' work dishonest. The truth lies somewhere between the photo and the mind of the person viewing it. The real dishonesty exists only in the things we choose to ignore or leave unexamined because they offend us in some way. Curtis was in no way a perfect man, but often, when someone creates something special, we expect all aspects of their life to be flawless. Curtis was deeply committed to his project and the people he worked with. A photograph depends on light. there is always a shadow area where light cannot reach, much as the human soul and spirit is not always reached by the eye. Indians call this spirit the Shadow. Curtis somehow went beyond the photograph, beyond the simple image caught by the eye...he was, after all, named by his subjects, who knew him much better than us, as the Shadowcatcher. When I look at his photos, especially his portraits, I am overwhelmed by the truth in them.
Kutenai Duck Hunting
Bears Belly
This photo is a good example of the Orotone process developed by Curtis in 1916. These are glass plate positive photographs with a mysterious luminous quality obtained by printing a reversed image on glass and then backing it with powdered gold and bananna oil.
Red Cloud
Apache Brave
Eagle Catcher - The way his back heel is lifted off the rock, makes him seem to be about to fly away with his eagle. Such a small detail can make such a difference.
Indian Squaw Child
Whiteman Runs Him.
Apache Girl
The Eclipse Dance
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